Blah, blah, blah.
Another blah weekend, with a blah grey sky and some blah dank temperature.
As if all this weren't bad enough, I'm totally freaking tired. Some stupid jerk idiot teeangers were having some dumb noisy giggle-filled teenager party last night. Late into the wee, black hours of the morning (or maybe just 1:30, which seems really late to me now that I'm a grown up loser). You know--the kind of parties I used to enjoy when I was a freaking teenager, and my hoots were smaller and higher, and my stomach had nary a stretchmark?
Suck it, teenagers. Take your total disregard for the people around you, the world in general, for any kind of gravitas and GET STUFFED.
Was it the giggling that woke me up, or the sound of flip flops tearing across the pavement. Did it not sound EXACTLY like some kid was running down my driveway? Beside my freaking bedroom window?
Oh what--you children think I don't remember what it's like to be at a teen party? SURE I DO! I can see it all: the room is dark so people can either "hook up" or "make out" or cry in a corner, because yeah, your life of no obligation is so HARD, isn't it, TEENAGE TWIT.
ooop...where was I...
Oh yeah, so while all the kids are in the dark room, and they're drinking their sh*tty cocktails made with all the scrounged booze or whatever quickly-grabbed-and-bought-by-that-friend-who-can-grow-a-beard was procured. You know the cocktails I'm talking about: fuzzy navels. Screwdrivers. Basically anything called SCHNAPPS. These are the drinks made with the dusty bottles from the back of the liquor cabinet that are never missed. Perhaps there's some terrible homemade wine in there as well.
But wait--buddy went to the liquor store and didn't get CARDED. He grabbed a big bottle of purple berry cooler. At first it's good, because it kinda tastes like juice, and juice is good because essentially you're still a FREAKING KID. But berry coolers do not taste good when they come back UP. No, not good at all. In fact, all of these sweet, sweet concoctions all become so terrible when yarked back up, that I'm willing to bet nearly everyone has that one special alcoholic beverage that they still can't even SMELL all these years later because it makes them want to HURK. Sambuca, Peach Schnapps, Rockaberry cooler, Peppermint Schnapps, Drambuie--pick your poison.
So, all the teenagers are there, and some are making out even though they can't feel their own drunk face anymore, so that can't possibly be quality kissing. Some of them are throwing up in the kitchen sink, because Sally is upstairs in the can, and has been there alternately ka-karking and passing out for the past couple of hours. And one of you is sitting on the swing in the back yard crying, because that guy you're in LURV with is inside making out with Brittney, and it's the END OF THE WORLD.
Maybe there's been some skinny dipping, or swimming in underwear (scandalous). Maybe there's been some drunk dancing. Maybe there's been some hand holding with someone who only thinks of you as a friend. There's probably been a lot of laughing. Cackling even. Loud, raucous, obnoxious screaming with laughter.
Oh crap. Your shirt has little holes in it from sitting too close to the flying embers of the bonfire.
F*ck you, teenagers. I was young once.
But now I'm old, and tired from WEEDING MY GARDEN, and FERTILIZING MY PLANTS, and TURNING THE COMPOST, and making lunches and dinners and giving angry children baths, and I need my sleep because one of my kids might--JUST MIGHT want to get up at 6 in the morning.
If I'm lucky.