.. this is our decision to live fast and die young.

Blah. Apparently after Dave's Prom I was very angry. Irate, even. Luckily only this blog and a glass I smashed in my apartment felt my wrath. I thought I had fun? Alcohol is a tricky substance. I woke up and I had 15 numbers left in my phone.. for some reason I left the Pizza Hut that delivers and Liberty Cabs. Even belligerent me knows what is important in life.

(P.S. Sorry, Hilary Clinton! I don't really think you are a dykeass who can't get over Bill gettin' blown. A sober me would never even say "dykeass".)

I hate insincerity. Especially when I am doing quite possibly the most sincere thing I've been waiting to do for two years. You don't know how many times that dollar has burned a hole in my pocket. How many times I've hesitated to feed it into a vending machine. Rather than getting some fatty candy bar that will only stick to my thighs, I have stuck with my heart. Not appreciated. Some people's priorities will always be scanning a crowd for the next summer face to appear and disappear in their lives.

So my brother and I have this weird thing that when we are intoxicated in a semi-unfamiliar place we will walk home abruptly in a slight stuper and/or rage. After countless times of me escaping from Allentown or further, my brother confessed he had the same problem. We racked our brains and tried to figure out why we do what we do. Usually I am the panicky "I gotta get outta here" walker. Nick is more of the quiet snake that slips away. And after many nights of wearing out shoes on Buffalo's unforgiving pavement I realized where I learned this habit. Where we learned this habit. My dad. My earliest memory of my dad being outrageous is a wild one. A yellow school bus pulls up out in front of our childhood home. Grown men are hanging out the windows chanting "tony! tony! tony! tony!" My dad rushes into the house, grabs a thirty pack of beer and doesn't say a word as he joins the chanting men on the rowdy school bus. Hours later we get a frantic phone call. My dad is lost at the Bill's game and the bus cannot find him. (I'm sure he couldn't find the bus either.) Fast forward two hours later and we receive a slurred phone call from my dad who walked 20 miles down Southwestern in search of our home from the Stadium.

Sometimes, you just gotta walk.