We have a winner! Liz Suburbia, who is incidentally also a friend of Fistfight At The Arthouse (no bias here, I swear), submitted this peculiar gem. She wins the stack of CD’s that are sitting on the table next to the couch in my living room. Thanks for playing, posers, and here’s her story;
My most eventful Halloween memory took place in 2005. I was invited to a big party in my hometown, about an hour north of where I was going to school. At the time I had a big mohawk going on, so I decided to go as Zombie Brody Dalle (Sing Sing Death House era), meaning I dressed up like I usually did, only with zombie makeup and a fake lip ring. I ended up pulling into the the Alexandria city limits a little early, and so decided to swing by the home of a good friend. We’d gone to high school together but I didn’t realize he lived in the (crime-ridden, run-down) neighborhood right by the school. We shot the shit and watched a few episodes of Clone High, and he introduced me to his mom- I was a little nervous that she wouldn’t want me around with the way I looked (most of my friends’ parents didn’t), but she welcomed me with open arms and petted the shaved part of my head for the rest of the visit. She claims she knew from the moment we met that I’d marry her son one day, but at the time I had no idea, heh. Anyway, I bid John later and went to the party: full of people I didn’t know, all of them drunk. I was still straight-edge at the time but had fun, considering. At the end of the night I got about 3 miles out of town before I realized I had no gas in the car and had left my wallet at school. D’oh. Called up the friend who had invited me as his guest to the party; he took pity on me and let me crash at his place, and gave me ten bucks to get back the next day. I woke up facedown on his living room floor, boots still on, makeup smeared all over the rug, mohawk collapsing, his dad standing over me dropping cigarette ash on me and asking “And what the fuck are you supposed to be?”
Not quite as funny as the time I pissed my cat costume at an animatronic Freddy Kruger (I was 6), but that one is less of a “story” and more of a “hey, I pissed my cat costume at an animatronic Freddy Kruger. I was 6.”
Stay tuned for more stuff goin’ on here. If I can stop drinking coffee and eating chicken wings long enough to write anything, that is.