So, last night, as we (Shelby and I, and our friend Emily) were laying around watching Viva la Bam, I heard a funky-sounding crash coming from outside somewhere. I didn't say anything because I thought that maybe I'd been hearing things again, but I totally would have said something had I realized that a smash-up derby was going on right outside our house.
Our curiosity escalated when we saw the two police cars leave, flanking an ambulance with its lights on. So we bundled up and headed further into the terribleness of our neighborhood to see what the hell was going on. Apparently, according to Andy (one of our neighbors), someone in a truck/SUV was driving down the road, lost control and hit the guardrail directly across from our driveway, causing his tire to fly off, and the vehicle to flip over on its hood and skid a short distance down the road to come to a halt in front of Andy's house.
Everyone was freaked out. I laughed, because I'd never heard of a one-man smash-up derby before.
Sunday 24 January 2010
So, I'm a little late on this, but mid-terms at Brighton High are coming to a close, and everyone is whipped completely out, even the stoners aren't high, okay, not true...but still. Even that annoying kid in my German class that everyone wants to kill ALL the time, isn't being annoying! It's crazy.
Yeah, I'm one of those kids who's brains are still fried, it's Sunday, and I still can't figure out how to walk.
-S
Yeah, I'm one of those kids who's brains are still fried, it's Sunday, and I still can't figure out how to walk.
-S
Saturday 16 January 2010
The Afterhours
You may be asking yourself, "Self, where is the hip-hop-happening afterhours spot in Livingston County?" And yourself will say:
"Sure as hell not the 7/11 at the corner of Grand River and Pleasant Valley!" My self just went through this process.
On my way home to my mom's in Browell (the vast nothingness between Brighton and Howell) from Abby's house in Green Joke (AKA Green Oak Township), I stopped at the aforementioned 7/11 for gas. The first terror occurred when I had to end my Sacrifice Theory-esque jam sesh to get out of the car. Then, when I get inside, there is a dude waiting at the counter, but no attendant. Luckily, the guy was cute, and at least half as sarcastic as I am, so we chatted for a few minutes before the oldest lady I've ever seen waddled up to the counter. The guy ahead of me payed for his gas, and I was next. Finally.
So, I told the lady that I needed $25 on pump three (my usual stakeout here), and she looked at me like I was crazy. Everyone else that works at this gas station knows that pump three is my pump. Has been since the glory days of running in the trumped-up, fast-paced world of the bread business two summers ago. Old lady obviously hadn't been clued in.
She looked out the window, and was like, "Pump three? I don't see anything there." And she continued to peer with beady, old lady eyes.
I was all, "Oh, you're right. I must have gone temporarily braindead when I parked my giant, red, piece of shit car at a different pump that I thought was number three." Old lady took my money and told me to have a good night. I laughed.
Then, some guy in a suit and his gal pal pull up on the other side of the pump from me (at what I'm assuming is pump two - far less superior than pump three). He got out of his car and went to pump gas. Normal. Then, he tries to strike up a conversation with me. Not normal. I'm like, "Dude, you're talking to me at a gas pump at midnight and a quarter. I don't want to talk to you, and for your own safety, you shouldn't want to talk to me either. What if I'm a rapist?" After this, he went inside to pay for his gas. And his gal pal decided to stare at me as I pulled away blasting Medicate in the confines of my giant, red, piece of shit car. Word.
"Sure as hell not the 7/11 at the corner of Grand River and Pleasant Valley!" My self just went through this process.
On my way home to my mom's in Browell (the vast nothingness between Brighton and Howell) from Abby's house in Green Joke (AKA Green Oak Township), I stopped at the aforementioned 7/11 for gas. The first terror occurred when I had to end my Sacrifice Theory-esque jam sesh to get out of the car. Then, when I get inside, there is a dude waiting at the counter, but no attendant. Luckily, the guy was cute, and at least half as sarcastic as I am, so we chatted for a few minutes before the oldest lady I've ever seen waddled up to the counter. The guy ahead of me payed for his gas, and I was next. Finally.
So, I told the lady that I needed $25 on pump three (my usual stakeout here), and she looked at me like I was crazy. Everyone else that works at this gas station knows that pump three is my pump. Has been since the glory days of running in the trumped-up, fast-paced world of the bread business two summers ago. Old lady obviously hadn't been clued in.
She looked out the window, and was like, "Pump three? I don't see anything there." And she continued to peer with beady, old lady eyes.
I was all, "Oh, you're right. I must have gone temporarily braindead when I parked my giant, red, piece of shit car at a different pump that I thought was number three." Old lady took my money and told me to have a good night. I laughed.
Then, some guy in a suit and his gal pal pull up on the other side of the pump from me (at what I'm assuming is pump two - far less superior than pump three). He got out of his car and went to pump gas. Normal. Then, he tries to strike up a conversation with me. Not normal. I'm like, "Dude, you're talking to me at a gas pump at midnight and a quarter. I don't want to talk to you, and for your own safety, you shouldn't want to talk to me either. What if I'm a rapist?" After this, he went inside to pay for his gas. And his gal pal decided to stare at me as I pulled away blasting Medicate in the confines of my giant, red, piece of shit car. Word.
Thursday 14 January 2010
Enter the Peanut!
Say hello to the newest member of Hole In The Road: ME!! I am Abby, but I am called Peanut by half of my friends, Ako by the other half. Anywho, Kari and Shelby (Joo and T-Bag) are my neighbors when they are at their padre's, and pretty much two of my bestest buddies. In fact, I'm at their house right now, writing this failure of a blogpost on Kari's laptop.
So anywho, I am a social reject like Joo and T-Bag. I may look the most normal, but I'm just as strange. Plus, I'm working on looking more like the freak that I really am. Sadly, my headband with the ribbon and the veil that makes me look like I'm going to a funeral broke this morning. I weeped for hours. Not really. But still. I kinda wanna go back to Hot Topic and get a new one and something else, too. I need to be a freak, dammit!
Joo just threatened to give T-Bag a green mustache. My friends are spazzes.
So, yeah. That's pretty much it. T-Bag is being a T-Bag and demanding I hand the computer over to her. But do not despair, the Peanut will return someday! Probably tomorrow.
So anywho, I am a social reject like Joo and T-Bag. I may look the most normal, but I'm just as strange. Plus, I'm working on looking more like the freak that I really am. Sadly, my headband with the ribbon and the veil that makes me look like I'm going to a funeral broke this morning. I weeped for hours. Not really. But still. I kinda wanna go back to Hot Topic and get a new one and something else, too. I need to be a freak, dammit!
Joo just threatened to give T-Bag a green mustache. My friends are spazzes.
So, yeah. That's pretty much it. T-Bag is being a T-Bag and demanding I hand the computer over to her. But do not despair, the Peanut will return someday! Probably tomorrow.
Abandonment
Our poor muffin, we've abandoned you! Happy New Year, just a tad late. It's been crazy around here: blizzards, lost jobs (more, and still). Madonna sitting in a minivan in front of me at the light at Grand River and Challis. No joke. Well, yes joke. The minivan's license plate said "MADONNA," although I don't actually think it was her. What a shame: she's my "Lucky Star." How's that for the pun of the day?
In other, more political news, Starbucks sucks. In Livingston County, choosing your coffee shop of choice is a big matter. Of course, the mainstream caffeine junkies choose Starbucks, who have been brainwashing coffee drinkers since 1971 with their ridiculous high standards and uptight social stature (see also: high cost). The somewhat less mainstreamers who have a taste for medium roast quality seek out Biggby, Coffee Beanery, or Tim Horton's (my preferred choice). The extreme underground coffee drinkers of the county prefer the "mom-and-pop" type shops found downtown. But what happens when frequenters of less mainstream/underground shops find themselves in Starbucks using a gift card their mother got for Christmas (this seems only to happen to the Freaks of Suburbia)?
We'd had Starbucks before, of course (not by choice), but coffee is coffee, no matter how expensive, bitter, and stuffed-shirt-like. So we graciously accepted the gift card, and made our way to Starbucks to revel in the cold weather/warm coffee phenomenon. When we got there, we didn't even know where to place our order (the door is facing the "pick-up" area, which doesn't exist at Tim Horton's), and when we figured it out, we didn't know what to order. The barista was a very sweet lady who helped us out a ton (and also informed us that you have to pay extra to make your latte vegetarian-friendly; what is this world coming to?), but our fellow patrons were not-so-sweet. Much like a Starbucks soy mocha latte. We are used to weird stares: a scene kid and an emo kid in Livingston County is almost unheard of. But nothing compares to the exaggerated gasps of horror that we received in Starbucks. Except the ones from the lady at Great China when we went to pick up our dinner the next week.
After this whole debacle, we still had almost eight dollars left on said gift card, which meant we'd have to go back. This time, the barista was some dorky kid (dorkier than us, imagine that!) who nearly gave me a plastic cut by snatching the gift card from my hand, and the guy who made our coffees was obscenely unfriendly, even though I tried being nice to him. They even forgot the chocolate drizzle on Shelby's vanilla bean frappuccino. The whole demeanor of the place said, loudly and clearly, "We don't take kindly to your type around these parts," like in that one episode of South Park. Except more dramatic-like. Ah, the politics of coffee.
In other, more political news, Starbucks sucks. In Livingston County, choosing your coffee shop of choice is a big matter. Of course, the mainstream caffeine junkies choose Starbucks, who have been brainwashing coffee drinkers since 1971 with their ridiculous high standards and uptight social stature (see also: high cost). The somewhat less mainstreamers who have a taste for medium roast quality seek out Biggby, Coffee Beanery, or Tim Horton's (my preferred choice). The extreme underground coffee drinkers of the county prefer the "mom-and-pop" type shops found downtown. But what happens when frequenters of less mainstream/underground shops find themselves in Starbucks using a gift card their mother got for Christmas (this seems only to happen to the Freaks of Suburbia)?
We'd had Starbucks before, of course (not by choice), but coffee is coffee, no matter how expensive, bitter, and stuffed-shirt-like. So we graciously accepted the gift card, and made our way to Starbucks to revel in the cold weather/warm coffee phenomenon. When we got there, we didn't even know where to place our order (the door is facing the "pick-up" area, which doesn't exist at Tim Horton's), and when we figured it out, we didn't know what to order. The barista was a very sweet lady who helped us out a ton (and also informed us that you have to pay extra to make your latte vegetarian-friendly; what is this world coming to?), but our fellow patrons were not-so-sweet. Much like a Starbucks soy mocha latte. We are used to weird stares: a scene kid and an emo kid in Livingston County is almost unheard of. But nothing compares to the exaggerated gasps of horror that we received in Starbucks. Except the ones from the lady at Great China when we went to pick up our dinner the next week.
After this whole debacle, we still had almost eight dollars left on said gift card, which meant we'd have to go back. This time, the barista was some dorky kid (dorkier than us, imagine that!) who nearly gave me a plastic cut by snatching the gift card from my hand, and the guy who made our coffees was obscenely unfriendly, even though I tried being nice to him. They even forgot the chocolate drizzle on Shelby's vanilla bean frappuccino. The whole demeanor of the place said, loudly and clearly, "We don't take kindly to your type around these parts," like in that one episode of South Park. Except more dramatic-like. Ah, the politics of coffee.
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