hahaha, GROSS. i didn’t know johhny bravos were real either. at least we had fun at anti prom!

that we did. I wish we documented the chipotle burrito eating. I would have liked to have had a picture eating a burrito in that dress.

You should add in about how you cried and were a tipped over wedding cake during spring weekend because drunk Emily REALLY wanted to go to that prom.

I also ran up ten flights of stairs for a bag of twizzlers away from my then boyfriend. I should have done that sooner. Twizzlers are obviously better.  And, yes, I did look like a tipped over wedding cake because I was in a layered Betsey Johnson dress and I had been drinking for ~24 hours.

The prom dress fiasco.

From the classic archives:
*In January of 2008, I ordered a prom dress from an online store that shall go unnamed. It was perfect. It was a 1930s reproduction gown and there was champagne colored tulle everywhere (obviously, this is when I thought I was going to the prom lolololol). February. it never showed up, and they listed it as backordered. “I have time.” I said. “It will totally come.” they said. March came. April came. No dress. May came. No fucking dress. “It will totally come.” They said. June came. The 28th was prom, and at this point, I knew I wasn’t going to the fucking prom because my life was in shambles but I wanted this motherfucking dress. Even if I would just lounge around the house in it while eating saltine crackers and watching reruns of the Golden Girls, I was fucking getting this dress.

First week of June, they said. No dress. Second week, they said. No dress. I wasn’t going to fuck around any longer. I ordered a different dress (it was a 1950s reproduction, red, not glamorous. not what I wanted. everyone liked it. I did not.) They said to order a size up, I did. The dress gets here within two days, and it was HUGE. Luckily, I am a master seamstress and tailored my own prom dress the day before “prom.” I took some pictures at pre-prom (it’s a big, stupid deal round these parts and my parents needed me to conform to some sort of tradition). All in all, I really did in that dress was eat a chipotle burrito, some pie, mini golf and then go bowling with Gillian. It was pretty successful. And that’s the prom dress fiasco. 

Retrospectively, sober Emily (not to be confused with Soper, Emily) is fine about not going to the prom, it’s very drunk Emily that you have to be careful around, I think she may have wanted to go to her prom. Sometimes she cries about it, too. I think she had some sad girl fantasy because she was supposed to go with this one guy and in that champagne dress, but it was all ruined by this dickbag and the metaphorical hole.

Emily’s high school emo life was very sad, continued by Emily’s college emo life being sad and mediocre, then pretty kick-ass, then mediocre, and now we’re into Emily’s sort of pathetic life where creepy guys hit on her at the gym, but no one good. Ever. life being eh. 

Here’s a fun and creepy time for me:
Today at work, I was working, obviously. This guy orders banana nut loaf, or something to that extent. He’s all like, “And how are you doing today.”  Emily: “I’m fine. That’ll be 2.25.” So this guy starts fucking flexing his muscles. I’m not even kidding. I didn’t even know that happened in real life. Alright, Johnny Bravo, 2.25. He takes out a quarter and holds it near his chest, trying to get me to come close to him and reach for it. He did this for a good 30 seconds. Great. After I didn’t take that bait and simply stood with my hand open waiting for him to give me the fucking quarter, he decided to start telling me about his workout routine, because that’s what he was doing, ya know, after he ate his banana nut loaf.  While he’s telling me all of this enthralling conversation, I try to signal for a boy, any boy, that I work with to come get me.  I had to say, “Mike, do we need anything brewed?” to distract this guy long enough to give him his change and run away. 

Fin.

I said I was going to remain zen. While trying to remain zen, I typed out the word “remain” as “ramen.” Like the noodle. 

I was so excited because my tee shirt came in the mail today. I ripped open the package, like an excited child, and unfolded the shirt and to my horror… they sent me a men’s large. I ordered a men’s small. I have been looking for a reprint of this tee shirt since the tenth grade when I lost an ebay auction for it. And now I have a men’s large size of it. I could probably fit both myself and my cousin laura into this tee shirt. I am not paying shipping to send it back, and then paying more shipping to have a new sized tee shirt mailed to my house from Los Angeles. 

I’m in a very temperamental state to begin with. My grandmother had a heart procedure today and is now in a frail state. And I’m neurotic anyway, let’s be serious. For reals. I’m totally crazy.  I quote rap songs and talk to myself, and then question myself as to why I’m talking to myself. So this tee shirt deal was just the final blow.

I wrote an angry, and by angry, I mean passive aggressive email, and then revised it, and then revised it again. I hope they just send me a new one. This is like my prom dress fiasco* all over again except worse because I want this more. Duh.