Be kind, rewind

Working in a health care profession is too tempting to call in your own prescriptions for happy drugs. Although, I found out today that my friend had to fire someone from her clinic for doing such a thing. But that's because the person was stupid. You don't do orders for 40 vicodin tablets because most insurances will only pay for a 30 quantity supply fill. Well, that's your after school special from me this week: How to Manipulate the System for Drugs.

But yeah! Drugs, please! My mouth is a bit sore from the dentist. The trip wasn't all that bad, considering I'm no longer eight years old and require three medical assistants to hold me down and a bite guard to prevent me from chomping off the dentist's fingers. The diagnosis was not awe-inspiring at all. Instead, I have multiple follow up visits that will result in numbing parts of my face/mouth. Oh, and I need to get some wisdom teeth pulled. Mothereffer. I really hope I get some vicodin.

On another close but separate tangent, I would make a really bad drug addict.

So the other half of this horrible, no good, terrible week's recap involves my launch into the past on Sunday. I was catapulted about 15 good years into my past at the engagement party. Met the bride who was my BFF when I was five, because Barbies are friendship builders and she had quite a few. Met the guy after my dad reintroduced us for five seconds, then met him again after his tipsy dad re-reintroduced us. To commemorate the encounter, we had an awkward conversation and our picture taken. At the party, my family ran into the husband of my pre-kindergarten days babysitter. I was the flower girl for their wedding and spent many nights asleep at her place. So of course, we hightailed it to his house for a 15 year reunion. Seeing her teenage kids was an odd experience, especially when I told them that I knew their mom and dad before they were married.

That marks my foray into a time period I'd never think to revisit. Oh, and t-minus 15 minutes until I turn 24. Hooray???

Some time travel please

I'm not looking forward to the following week. Sunday has me at an engagement party where my parents want me polished up so they can start on my own engagement. They've got high hopes for an old world hook-up between me and a friend of the family's son. I wonder if a dowry will be included and how many horses I'm worth. Please say ten.

Thursday is a trip to the dentist, who I abhor. I have nothing against the person, just their profession. My fear of going to the dentist is so bad that I will let you push me down a flight of stairs. I will let you slug me across the face or even gently hit me with a car.

Then my birthday on Saturday. Granted, I'm going to Disneyland, but still, I hate my birthday and hate the fact I'm turning 24. 23 was such a good number, not so much a good year, but a good number. When I hit 30, I think I might cry. Strike that and reverse it, 23 was a good year. I got a job, reconciled with an old friend and made a new one, and went to Europe.

Somebody just hit me with a bat right now and let me sleep till Saturday. Just wake me up so I can strap myself on at Space Mountain.

Comatose Joy

I love my friend Carlos who drags me from one random LA event to the next and if it weren't for him, I would probably become a recluse. Thursday night as I'm driving home, he calls me to go out for a drink, unwind, and just shake off the work day stress. But hanging out with him means I don't leave until after 10 and with the rain that day, I really didn't feel like it. "Come on, there'll be some cool DJs and just stay for one drink. I RSVP'd and can bring in two people for free, you and Phuong." Ugh ugh ugh. Guilt. "Ohhhhhh-kay. I'm just staying for a bit."

Hours later and we don't leave until 2am.

I hate you Diplo.

And by that, I mean, I love you so much I want to kidnap you so you can spin for me on the drop of a hat. Diplo is a DJ god and people can write off spinning as slipping one record on after another but that just means they've never been privy to such a good set. How good? I was ready to blow the place around 1am, jacket on, bag slung over one shoulder when that sweet note of a song came and I stayed rooted and dance till lights out. Then woke up for work 3 hour later. Hate you Diplo that I would do it all over again.

Oh, bought the Coachella tickets. Desert dance party is officially on now. Countdown, please. In the meanwhile, I'm applying for a semi-new job, very convinced that Fleet Foxes is this year's Bon Iver, and speed reading at a book a night. So far, I'm 3 for 4 nights. Not too shabby.