Tell me 'bout the good old days

First things first. I'm not in favor of censorship. I think the FCC is a load of crap and nobody should burn books, but I had to take off the picture of me ass-up in the toilet. I can't have that shit floating around on the Internet, because someday I'm going to be up for an important job and I can just picture it. I'm sitting in a leather swivel chair across from a balding man with a Sharpie holding my resume and career in his hands, and his assistant will come in, whispering something in his ear, and hand him a paper. He'll look shocked, then appalled, then look at me sternly.

"Is this you?" he'll say, handing over the dreaded picture that has hung over my
head since Josh McGinn's parents went away and I drank too much Bacardi.

I'll nod, having nothing to say for myself, and leave with my tail between my legs. So you see, it's really my life we're talking about here, not just my ass.

The prom last night hosted by 10.5 Sherman was fabulous. We danced, drank, groped, Brian lifted my dress over my head- in short, everything I had hoped for. This morning, though, as I was tiptoe-ing around looking for my stuff, I got a little sentimental. The stench of beer hung heavy and the red party cups were still all over the beirut table. People were sleeping anywhere and everywhere, pizza boxes and empty bottles strewn about, and I suddenly remembered mornings doing the same thing, trying to get sober and dressed for work after a long, drunken, fabulous night.

Which leads me to my first random memory: that time I was leaving for Ocean Breeze and those three dudes were sitting at the kitchen table sleeping, with their heads just sort of down, and I
had no idea who they were. I think Cathy drove them to the Warwick Mall.

:)