It's Monday morning, and holy shit am I feeling overwhelmed. Why I decided to go home right before midterms I will never understand. But truthfully, I probably would have just napped all weekend and fucked around on the interweb if I had stayed in A-town. Such is life. I hate having no motivation.

So let's recap.

I skipped class on Friday to go back to Houston. I would say that the drive was nice, but it wasn't. I got pulled over...again. I think I have a speeding problem. And, apparently, no proof on insurance in my vehicle. But thankfully, the nice po-po let me off with a warning and I cruised the rest of the way at roughly 72.

Three and a half hours later, I made it home.

What was supposed to be the pinnacle of my evening was the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo Cookoff. Hundreds of people set up booths with booze and barbecue, and tens of thousands of their closest friends get invites into their booth for freebies. We had tickets to three booths and so I began the night with an empty stomach and terribly comfortable walking shoes. At about 9pm, the number of patrons had grown to probably around 50,000 and this made the tents very full. So full that nobody could actually get in. There were long lines and cops policing the number of people let in.

And this brings me to the turning point in my evening, and the minimum value on my enjoyment curve:

One particular tent had tremendously long lines, but since we had already partaken of their food and drink, we had nifty arm bracelets that, I guessed, guaranteed us free entry. We entered the tent through a side door (a cop let us in...this will be important in a second). After being inside for a few minutes, I was volunteered to take my brother (who was outside) some passes to get into some booths. So I left out the side door where the aforementioned cop was sitting, handed bubba the passes, and then b-lined back into the side door. Except the cop wouldn't let me in. He told me that I had to wait in line. Note: there were approximately 100 people waiting in line, and the tent was at capacity, so only after 100 people left were all of these schmucks going to be allowed entry. I was not about to be one of those schmucks.

So I argued...with the cop...a lot. He was, however, not at nice as the strapping black man of the law that had pulled me over earlier in the day. This man was not about to be sympathetic to a girl wearing Converse with a bunch of shit in her face. This man may have been sympathetic to a blond with a crop top, but that wasn't me. And I was yelling at him, which could have not been in my favor either.

So I tried to make some calls. This, of course, got me nowhere, seeing as there were thousands of drunk cowboys trying to get their groove on with the thousands of ill-dressed and fakely baked Texan ho-bags. No one could hear a damn thing. After feeling completely helpless...and lost...and confused...and desperate, I did what any girl feeling out of her element would do. I cried. I would like to say that I cried in order to get the sympathy of the booth's owner. I would like to say that I cried in order to make the cop feel guilty for being such a dick. I would like to say these things, but that would be a lie.

I am nearly 24 years old, and I cried because the cop wouldn't let me in to be with my mommy. I am a loser. For real.

The night ended pretty shortly after that. I went home, put on my pj's, and settled in with my dog for a night of snuggly slumber. Since God hates me, however, this was not to be the case. At 12:45 I awoke to my dog vomiting on my sheets next to my head. And she's a dog, so then she began to lick it up. At that point, the slumber party with my dachshund was over. Finito.

On to Saturday.

I had a great lunch with my NASA friend Jeff at a Vietnamese restaurant where, in true Sheri fashion, I would have eaten the bowl if it wouldn't have broken my teeth. This would not have been nearly as embarrassing if Jeff would have eaten all of this meal, but he didn't, so I looked like a heifer. What's new?

After lunch I sped to the shithole that is Galveston, Texas to watch 14 incredibly attractive Canadians contort themselves in ways that I only dream about. Cirque Eloize was no Cirque de Soleil, but we had a box right next to the stage which means that I got to see every striation of muscle flex on the ripped and sweaty bodies of the performers. I now think that it would be really hot to date a circus performer. Not like a trapeze artist or a lion tamer, but any one of these French contortionists. Male or female. Whatever. This is my new goal for 2004.

And that about wraps it up. There was some shopping, and a lot of eating, and some pictures with a man in a frog suit, but those stories aren't nearly as interesting.

I am glad to be back in Austin. And now I have to start and finish my Computer Imaging project that is due tomorrow. Time should pass quickly, as long as I have my dear Bartolemiej, a clown, unicyclist, and singer extraordanaire, to occupy my thoughts and fantasies.

Oh, Bartolemiej...a heavenly name to accompany a heavenly body. ::sigh::

When confronted with her claim that she was "putting a moratorium on awards shows and livejournals," Monica responded with this nugget of wisdom:

well, it will never happen because it's somewhat of a guilty pleasure.
but i guess i was just feeling like... "i think all these people kick
ass, so why the boy toy self torture?"
like with these blogs, we have this amazing opportunity to show the
world how cool we are, then people go and paint the interweb with their
fucked up stories about fucked up people who are bad for them. i
thought this is why we put locks on our journals?
anyway i'm sure this lapse of cynicism will end soon. anyway i'm
eating pasta salad and a noodle just dropped on the floor and i can't
find it.

nevermind. i rolled over it with my chair.

Poor noodle.

She's right, though. I think if we all had the "The Rabbit" we would be less depressed and more satisfied with our love lives. It's all the fun of a relationship and none of the work. "The Rabbit" is my kind of man.