florida, florida, wasn't far enough. . .

Dear Various Cheerleaders of Maine:

I do not care how many stunts you nailed, or how many flips you didn't flop. There was one team who sported glittering, silver underpants and they automatically owned that competition.

Seriously.

I'm still trying to figure out how I even went. How I spent an actual Saturday at the civic center, listening to snippets of Grease and 'this is why I'm hot' in every single routine.

I suppose I can attritube it to Casey, and my lack of a life. Although, I could call up that a (luckily) former twenty-five year old co-worker who gave me his number before leaving, informing me I had one week until he hauled his flabby ass to Texas. And then I'd suck on some lead, perhaps puncture my skin in various ways, because I'd rather throw myself out of the highest window onto thousands of sharpened nails than be a red neck's booty call.

Maybe I should start wearing a ring, just so these people can just leave me the fuck alone. . .