Chelsea is leaving me.
This makes me very saaad.
(ditcher!)
She’s my very best knit friend and just a good friend in general and even though I have other fabulous knit friends that I love, she’s my first and BESTEST knit friend and I don’t want her to leaaaaaaave!
Who ELSE (well, besides Sarah, who rocks too!) is gonna drive 6 hours with me, THROUGH THE NIGHT, to attend a fiber festival?!!?
Who else is going to agree to tresspass with me through an abandoned and asbestos-covered sanitorium at 3am?
Who else is gonna draaaaag my ass to shows by musicians I don’t know but will totally {{heart}} afterwards?!?!!?
{{sniff}}
This weekend, Chels dragged me out to see RJD2

DUDE. GO BUY SOME OF HIS SHIT. It’s TIGHT.
I would have had one of those totally amazing, life-altering, zen-like concert going experiences had it not been for a little thing I would like to consider my newly found anger-management issues.
Maybe it’s because I f’ed up my pill, but look at me the wrong way lately, AND I WILL TRY TO KILL YOU.
(ok, maybe not, but if you try to slip in front of us at the show, when there is NO ROOM for you and your stupid boyfriend, causing MY friend to have to inHALE the ugly blond nest of fuzz you call HAIR, I will dance in such a way as to intentionally trample ALL. OVER. YOU. Passive Agression, anyone?)
There were at least FOUR couples that got on my lastgoddamnednerve that way, either by just being annoying people who think they’ve *JUST* discovered the Digible Planets, or by standing ON ME in an attempt to get closer to the stage, or by talking and talking and talking INCESSANTLY while someone is on stage PERFORMING FOR THEM.
The one, however, that drove me to CODE BLACK* LEVELS OF DANGER, was the drunk-ass girl who was DANCING BEHIND US WITH HER DRINK WAY UP IN THE AIR.
The first time I felt wetness on my shoulder, I didn’t think TOO much of it. Maybe some over-hyped fan sweat on me. It’s a concert. It happens.
Then I felt it trickle down my back.
This is when I sternly signaled to the girl to keep her f’in drink LOW. (HA! ’cause she’s gonna listen! which of course, she DIDN’T)
I started plotting ways to bump her *just* so, to make her drink spill on the white monstrocity she called a top. Realizing that this would likely cause the drink to spill on anyone BUT her, I started scripting out a plan to GRAB the drink from her so I could have proper aim.
Apparently, I wasn’t quick enough, because mid-schemeing, I felt my right foot get DOUSED. Chelsea’s entire right hip and back got soaked. JOY.I thought she just spilled it, Chelsea thinks she THREW it at us.
I stood there — amidst the happy, dancing people — rigid as a board, staring straight ahead with my eyes all narrow and mean, my heart P O U N D I N G. Chelsea just sorta looked at me amused, with a goofy SMIRK and said, ” Oh yeah? Whatchu gonna DO about it?”
She totally saw that I, sweet little NICE GIRL LARA, was on the verge of attempting to kick that girl’s sorry ass to whereever drunk whores go when they die.
Thankfully, I mostly let it go.
Mostly.
And it’s a good thing too, because I can’t kick ANYONE’S ass. The most I will end up being able to do is kick them in the shin, which will HURT, but pleaaase. Hardly an ass-whupping.
She eventually wandered off and left our area, but we DID get to see her again on the way to the coat check. As I walked by her half-passed out self, I WHOLE-HEARTEDLY patted her on the arm and with a grin that could only be described as *slightly* maniacal, shouted at her, “HEY DRUNK WHORE, HOW YA DOIN’!?!?!?“
yeaaaaaah.
issssuuuess.
Awesome show otherwise though.
Later in the weekend, while we were calmly discussing the fact that she bought the wrong detergent for the washing machine, I told my roomate about my wierd, easily-angered funk and the drunk whore incident. She paused for a second and said, “Well don’t get all crazy and kick MY ass! I just though we could save some money!”
*Grey’s Anatomy, anyone?
FYI – I’m feeling much better now, thanks.