TARHEELS ACC CHAMPS!

I'm a Tarheel Born

I'm a Tarheel bred

And when I die

I'll be a Tarheel dead

So rah rah Carolina-lina

Rah rah Carolina-line

Rah rah Carolina-line

GO TO HELL, DOOK!

My Quidditch Nickname.

A busty babe that can kick your ass. Obvi.

SHE-HULK!!!

Don't make her angry. You won't like her when she's angry.

My Favorite Ride!

Lily White Gangsta

Now, the terribly terrible part of the weekend. Saturday night, after all day Quidditching, Sweetheart and I went to the Bronx for his Mami's birthday. We headed home late, taking a cab from the Bronx to 125th on the east side. There, we can catch the M60 bus right over the Triborough Bridge (literally, one stop) and be home. If the cab crosses the bridge, they charge you the toll there and back, and more just to be dicks, making your cab ride jump from $20 something to $40-$50 something. So, the bus is the best option. We are poor.

We were at the bus stop around 2 or 3 in the morning. Sure, it's late. And sure, it's Spanish Harlem... but it's not bad. And the stop is in front of a super well lit 24 hour grocery. And lots of traffic and people. And we have done it many times.

We were in the middle of the block. To our right was an empty corner. To the left was a busy intersection where all the cabs were turning.

Since it was late, the bus wasn't running as frequently. This was terrible. We were exhausted and cold. Then lots of sirens started happening. Police cars were rushing around, but we couldn't see where. I started to feel funny, but just chalked it up to exhaustion.

Then people started gathering at the empty end of the block. I assumed it was an evacuation from a fire. You know, sirens and a sudden mob of people. I almost walked down there to see if it was a fire. I figured it would make me feel better if I confirmed the sirens purpose.

Next, some teenage girls across the street were acting weird. These teen boys right across from us (who I had given the judgemental stink eye because I assumed they were hoodlums) were telling them to 'go' and 'get out of here' and the girls were resisting and rushing to go at the same time. Weird.

We decided we couldn't wait any longer and we should just walk up to the busy intersection to get a cab. Just as we started walking, pops started happening. I thought it was a car backfiring, but it kept happening. 'Oh, this is what gunshots sound like!' I suppose I had only ever heard them from afar during hunting season in North Carolina. It sounds different. Once this clicked in my head, I made the fight or flight decision to run behind the grocery store. A large scary man stopped me an said, 'They are shooting over here. Get in my van.'

The kids across the street (that's right, the hoodlums) were shooting into the crowd of people down the block. The crowd I almost walked into. Right by where we were standing 10 seconds before.

Suddenly my brain had a chance to rationalize the situation. I looked up and saw people running into the traffic of the busy intersection. I froze when I realized my options were to Frogger through traffic, run towards the gunshots, or get into a large scary strangers rape murder van. I stood there and turned in circles for at least forever (probably a few seconds). Finally, Sweetheart pulled me to the van and told me to get in.

Sweetheart later told me he had recognized the man. He always parks there to give people a ride home once they have their groceries. I did not know this. Stranger danger.

I told the man to take us home. I didn't care the cost. We crossed the bridge and got out right off the exit. As I still wasn't sure if he was going to kill us or not, as soon as I got one foot on the ground I had a full out panic attack.

Sweetheart, from the Bronx, tried to tell me it wasn't a big deal and we were safe and he wouldn't let anything happen to me. I gently wailed that I was not ok with that happening, I do not want it to be normal to me, and I will need grabbed and thrown to safety should it ever happen again.

I still feel very weird about the whole ordeal. I mean, really? A gun fight? Fuck NO!

We are safe. We will not be going to that bus stop for a little while. Because it's terrifying.

And my street cred has shot (errr... uhm. yeah.) though the roof. Gangsta, and whatnot.

Quidbitch

Last weekend was the Quidditch World Cup. The Badassilisks, the only community team, played very well. We beat U of Toronto and East Michigan. Texas A&M beat us. Hard. I started two out of the three tournament games on Saturday. Sweetheart and I were nicknamed 'The Enforcers' and 'The Tanks' by the announcers. I played chaser and beater. I even scored!

Take that kids who picked me last in PE class! How many World Cups have you played in? Not counting the 'World I Stayed In My Small Town And Never Miss A High School Football Game Even Though I'm 30 Cup'. Yeah! Suck it.

There was stretching. That's me!

There were magical superfans.

And we looked cute. Really the whole point of the game!

Although there was some sort of 'miscalculation' and we were kicked out of the bracket for the second day (the bracket that at the start of the day we were in), we enjoyed several scrimmages Sunday. And won them all! And our Seeker (what Harry Potter was) was undefeated, catching the Snitch every match! I couldn't be more proud of our little team that could! We surprised everyone and kicked some ass!

NEW YORK CITY BADASSILISKS!!

Tis the Season!

My Trusty Steed

This is a picture of my bicycle. Her name is Swiftwind. We go on adventures. She has a crate on her back. To carry home our treasures. She was a gift from Sweetheart. He knew I would love her. And I do. She's perfect!

Pee-wee: I wouldn't sell my bike for all the money in the world. Not for a hundred million, trillion, billion dollars!
Francis: Then you're crazy!
Pee-wee: I know you are but what am I?
Francis: You're a nerd!
Pee-wee: I know you are but what am I?
Francis: You're an idiot!
Pee-wee: I know you are but what am I?
Pee-Wee, Francis: I know you are but what am I? I know you are but what am I? I know you are but what am I?
Pee-wee: Infinity!
Francis: No, I'm not.
Francis, Pee-Wee: You are! No way! Knock it off! Cut it out!
Francis: Shut up, Pee-wee!
Pee-wee: Why don't you make me.
Francis: You make me!
Pee-wee: Because. I don't make monkeys, I just train 'em.
Francis: Pee-wee listen to reason.
[Pee-Wee cuffs his hand around his ear in a listening motion]
Francis: Pee-wee!
Pee-wee: Sh! I'm listening to reason.
Francis: Pee-wee!
Pee-wee: That's my name, don't wear it out.
Francis: Remember the first time I saw your bike? You came riding past my house and I came running out to tell you how much I liked it even way back then?
Pee-wee: I love that story.
[jumps on bike and pedals away]
Francis: You'll be sorry, Pee-wee Herman!

QUIDDITCH is Real!

I play Quidditch. I am a New York Badassilisk.

We have brooms. Sadly, they don't fly. But we have them. And there are quaffles and bludgers and hoops and capes. I am a beater first, a chaser second. Basically, I can't always catch you, so I knock you down and steal your ball. BOOM!

The snitch is a cross country sprinter, dressed in all gold, with a tennis ball in a tube sock tucked into the back of their pants. The snitch has no rules. They can leave the pitch, steal your bike, and climb a tree. Catching the snitch ends the game. A seeker for each team (Someone that really enjoys running. Like, for fun. Gross.) chases the snitch.

We have our first, and only game before the Quidditch World Cup, today against NYU. I don't really know if we are up to par. I mean, we haven't actually played anyone yet. But I'm excited at the idea of being World Cup Champions!!

And, after searching the entire city, I found an amazing broom. Well see, my first broom has snapped, like, three times. Duct taping it back together has stopped working. So, yeah. I'm really effing excited about a broom!

Suck it! Sweep it? Go team!

LA Face with an Oakland Booty

My butt is big...

And thanks to dancing and playing sports my whole life, stronger than anyone else's booty I know. I can snap pencils with it, bounce quarters off it, and use it to box out anyone in any sport. It looks good in everything from pin-up pencil skirts to urban gurrrl jeans. My boyfriend thinks my apple bottom is awesome. It's perfectly proportioned to my brick house bosom and finishes out my buxom coke bottle figure perfectly. I have a sprig of mistletoe, topped with a delicate pink bow, tattooed on the lower part of my right cheek, inviting you to kiss it.

You know, Nike, I'm still not super excited about your sweatshops, but I appreciate this ad very much!

#599

My sweetheart and I went to the Yankees game last night. He bought me a pink foam finger (I always wanted one) and a baseball keychain with our picture in it. SO CUTE! We had beers, cheesy garlic fries, and steak sandwiches. We yelled, we cursed, we clapped, we took pictures everytime A-Rod took a swing.

Alas, we didn't witness homerun #600. It happend today, at the very next game.

The Yankees lost, but that didn't matter. I still got to leave with my big pink foam finger.