Jesus and Friends: Christmas Edition

Drinking Games part 2

Love is one of those elusive wonders people spend a lifetime searching for: people sing campy songs about it, write terrible erotica eluding to it, marry in the hope of maintaing it, and have children to kindle the legacy for love anew. Nowadays, however, the word is used in a frivolous manner. Teenagers and dinosaurs alike claiming to love restaurants, movies, bands, sales, clothing, and television shows.

Keeping this trend for "love overload" in mind, I have created a serious of drinking games that reflect some personal peeves of mine. I am undoubtedly sure that you have dozens, if not thousands of other wonderful examples.

# 1 - I love bacon

I feel as though America has gone through a bacon fixation in the last couple of years. This savory deliciousness has been superimposed on backpacks, shirts, pillows, table clothes, pencil cases, folders, lunch boxes, sex toys, and shiva only knows what else. Whats more the fragrance of bacon has been extracted for use in such beauty products as cologne and nail polish. Maybe its a reflection of over-consumerism? Maybe its a byproduct of the nations obesity epidemic? The point is that people love bacon and they will talk about it. Every time someone does so in a drink setting, pound a shot. 

# 2 - I love chocolate

Nearly everyone loves chocolate. Some people, however, like chocolate more than others. When said persons reaction is akin to an orgasm: "Like omg I LOOOOOVVVEEEE chocolate," then its time to break out a bottle of spirits. Bonus points to look out for - heated discussions about the superiority of European chocolate over American, someone expressing a desire to own a sweets job after watching the movie Chocolat, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, or Julia & Julia, and lastly, an obsession with the dessert challenges on the Food Network.

# 3 - I love being by myself
Everyone has one those days where you have the urge to forgo people. For whatever reason, you've decided to give up friends, men, and all good-tasting food in order to attempt the classic "I'm going to turn my life around" U-turn. Instead of eating chocolate, french fries, pining over Mr. Hotty in the laundry room, and complaining about you're demonic coworkers, no, you've decided to resign yourself to maturity. "I'm going to worker harder," you laugh maniacally, "Diet. Exercise. Live a life of celibacy." And admittedly, for the first several days you do feel like all of these feats are possible; that is until the wafting aroma of vice steps in to weaken you're shaky resolve. During this high period, however, you will say incredibly obnoxious things such as: "I don't need to go out. I enjoy being by myself, napping, and catching up on some sorely missed cat videos" or "I really just want to concentrate on my work (lies, all lies)" or perhaps the worst lie of all "I don't miss men at all. I enjoy the pursuit of other things like work or work or more work." These things are unbearable to tolerate while sober, which is why drinking becomes an absolute necessity. One shot for anything said that sounds like the material above.

# 4 - I love...spending time with you
Sex is an intimately awkward experience for at least one of the party's involved. Is he cumming? Is it in? Is she faking? Boy this is taking a long time, I wonder if he's as bored as I am right now? The one-night stand has made the personal seem impersonal, but people cannot escape the reality that sex is intimate. We feel close to one another when performing the dirty deed and will sometimes let certain affections slip (a total taboo in the FWB/FB world). "I love yo.....uurrrr hair," he or she might nonchalantly slip in; or worse still "I love...being with you" (They aren't fooling anyone). Sometimes they'll even substitute the word "love" for "like." "I really like...this," he or she might grunt pre-climatically. "I like...spending time with you," a heart-stricken FB (or you) might say during the post-orgasmic snuggle. It's bound to happen over the course of a sexually active persons bed hopping days and there is no reason why you shouldn't have some fun with it. Make a mental note of all of the times a partner has danced around the subject of affections while in bed and then equate each of those moments into a shot. Congratulations you have just turned someone's callousness into a plus.

# 5 - I love you, man
"Drunkenness begets drunkenness" as the saying I just made up goes. Imagine you're at a party and that person you said hi to once is there. Normally, the two of you would see each other, acknowledge one another's existence with a guarded glance, and then pretend like nothing of the kind had just occurred. "Jimmy, who the f' is Jimmy," you would loudly proclaim to the friend next you? But uninhibited drunkenness operates with different rules of engagement. Jimmy suddenly becomes your best friend. "I love you man," the two of you slur happily. "Bitch, I love you," says the girl next to you before keeling over on the bar floor (no one notices). And so, why not turn these false confessions into a kickass drinking game? Every time some fool says something like "You're such an amazing friend...no seriously I mean it," "I love you guys," or "I love you bro/dude/man/whatever" pour down a drink.

Jesus and Friends: Issue # 6

I've always wondered why God hates gay people. Besides the whole Leviticus shtick that followers always seem to quote quite vehemently. Well I think I've crafted a pretty good Jesus and Friends explanation to the whole situation.

Jesus and Friends: Issue # 5

I haven't update in awhile due to school and all of its faux teenage angst (me not being a teenager anymore). Anyway here is the 4th edition.

Jesus and Friends: Issue # 4

Drinking Games part 1

If you try hard enough most anything can be turned into a drinking game (movies, song lyrics, and school lectures when you're feeling really daring). My family, predominantly because of our collective alcoholism, has the wonderful ability to reinvent the standard for when drinking is appropriate.

Yesterday "we" (me and my two sisters spouses) we're sitting in a sort of quasi porch area. Out of boredom, we began to throw small pebbles into a hole in the table. One of the spouses (let's call him Jar Jar) said "this could be a fun drinking game." To which I responded, "It could be. There are beers in the fridge." Jar Jar went and got three beers, beginning a very fun and pointless game (and also lowering the bar for when its okay to guzzle down some inebriating goodness). 

I started to think about new situations when it was okay to drink, and after thinking very hard on the matter (5 minutes) I had formulated a rather comprehensive (more than one) list.

# 1 - Long Story Short:

The rule of the game is simple. Every time someone says "long story short," but in no way shortens the length of the conversation DRINK!

# 2 - Find The Token "_____!"

This game will vary from country to country and state to state, but essentially the nature of the game is the same. You live in a community (whether it be black or gay, asian or normal person) that is predominantly the same group or groups of people. Whenever you see someone that disproves this fact DRINK! In this way, drinking will make you less racist.

Jesus and Friends: Issue # 3

With out further ado. Here is the third issue; brought to you exclusively by this blog.

Back To School: Summer Count Down

I have done a lot of interesting things this summer. So lets list the embarrassing highlights shall we?

1. I had an unfortunate encounter with one of my RA's.

2. I learned the hard way that rope swings are not all they're cracked up to be.

3. I discovered that looks could be deceiving, especially among catty gay men.

4. I realized that 21st Birthday's are not always magical.

5. But being 21 is.

6. I found myself engrossed in a fictional relationship.

7. I disappointedly learned that my family home is not haunted.

Jesus and Friends: Issue # 2

Cannot Beat

I just spent the better part of Lara Croft: Cradle of Life trying to beat this game. It's impossible.
Click Here

Jesus and Friends: Issue # 1

I have started a comic. It's in progress, so here's the first one.

My Passport

I don't know what US passports are made of, but they sure can take a pounding. This is the second time around mines been in the washer/dryer.

When I am in the bathroom (hovering over the toilet) and two people are having a conversation.

Interesting Thought?

Contentment is the Enemy of Invention

I have done absolutely nothing since the last time I aired my thoughts into the blogosphere. Yes, I've accomplished things (chilled with friends, gone drinking downtown, worked out, had brunch, and countless other trivialities), but I've completed zero of the tasks I set out for myself this summer. I wanted to work on a novel, and a screenplay, and a thousand other things, but I'm far too happy to do anything. It's funny really. When I was bored out of my mind on the Cape I had a million side projects I invented in order to keep myself busy. Now I'd rather sit back and let laziness overtake me.

A Familiar Face in a Strange New Place

I spy with my little eye Miss Liberty only 10 feet high.

Blurry Vision

I am in downtown Schenectady, waiting for my transfer to Saratoga Springs (I took a weekend trip to Boston) and this random person hands me Clear eyes Redness Relief. I tell him its not mine (thinking he thought I dropped it), but apparently he was aware of that and just thought I needed the eye lubricant. Well that was subtle.

Zenitude

I am taking a zen meditation class. A peculiar social experience where once a week some very crunchy white folks come together and do nothing. The objective is to quite simply look down at the floor while sitting with your legs folded, counting your breaths up to 10 and then restarting from 1. Your not suppose to "force" your breathing, an instruction I found bloody well impossible no matter how many times the facilitator said otherwise.
Although this may seem very relaxing, the reality of the situation is that you become hyper conscious of sounds, especially the ones you contribute to the group meditation. I found myself unable to swallow because every time I made any noise louder than a breath the sound would carry itself throughout the room.
Eventually, a pool of saliva built up in my mouth, forcing me to either swallow or watch the drool drip down to my lap. Every time I did this (swallow that is) the woman next to me would turn at this apparent interruption to her enlightenment and quietly "shush" me. The sound of course was anything but quiet because every noise broke the silence much like a phone call ruins the mood in a movie theater. I found her to be rather hypocritical because I knew for a fact that she was not focused on obtaining "inner peace." Her stomach was growling constantly through the whole ordeal (Jesus lady eat first, it's not a pool). Thankfully, my meditation gave me the time to develop many fat jokes. Fortunately for her, my new found compassion prevented me from word vomiting these clever witticisms. That and the fact that the facilitator (also sitting next to me) scared me to tears.
By the time we reached the walking portion of the meditation, the bottoms of my feet had fallen asleep. In my mind I thought my walk looked like a recently transformed zombie pursuing the flesh of the anorexic shusher running ahead of me. In actuality, I looked more like a depressed teenager that's feet appeared to be fighting the idea of forward motion. One meditator even asked if I was all right when we were putting everything away. To which I of course said yes and then made up some garbage about coming back next week. My conscience is telling me to go. Which I was going to do until I found its off switch...vodka.

The Best Pickup Line Ever

I found this on Facebook. Certified best line ever.

Money money

I officially earned my first 8 dollars today by participating in a psychological survey. A really depressing thought once you factor in my age and economic background.
But screw that thought because I'm 8 dollars richer bitches. I'm having a party and only Washington and Lincoln are invited.

To pee or not to pee

I have an ample amount of time while here on campus, and so, I have decided to share a thoroughly humiliating anecdote.
Not so long ago, I was in Saratoga Springs visiting one of my friends (something I melodramatically chronicled a few posts ago). I was crashing at her house and spent my days meandering through the town while she went off to work. One day I came back in the late afternoon and found that the door was locked. Something I thought her many housemates would prevent from happening at that time of day.
This fact, in itself, was not a big deal. I was quite prepared to wait out the few minutes necessary for someone to come home.
At least I was until sudden bladder issues presented themselves. Too little time to trek back to town and use the restrooms there. Too far away to walk back to campus and use its facilities. I was forced to deal with the reality that I needed to urinate and soon.
I looked around the sparsely wooded yard. Two sides bordered a highway with continuously moving traffic. One side was too close to the neighbors house. The yard itself was relatively secluded, but what if at that moment a housemate decided to come back. I would be there, my fly undone, my wang out, standing in the middle of the garden and peeing on their flower beds. Not exactly houseguest of the year material.
The only area that seemed "private" enough for me to do my business was the small strip of woods behind the shed. It separated the backyard from another property, however, I could see no one out there and my mind had already ruled out all the other possibilities as unacceptable. And so, I navigated through some prickly bushes while edging along the perimeter of the shed.
When I at last reached the back end, I prepared myself mentally to pee. I was going to do this. All I had to do was unzip my fly, stick junior out, and make it rain. I had urinated in public spaces often while intoxicated, but somehow then the thought of peeing in an open space made me feel impure. As if I was on the verge of committing some unwholesome act on the same level as perverts who masturbate in movie theaters. I was going to "turn" a beautiful picture (nature) into something that society deemed dirty. How could I do such a thing? What if a child were watching? Then again, I really did have to pee.
In the end, urge overcame artificially constructed morality. I whipped junior out and, sparing you the details of course, urinated all over the local flora.
Now there's an old debate between the sexes about the proficiency of men and urination that predates the "men leave the toilet seat up" argument. Peeing while standing is perhaps the only thing that a man can do better than a woman. However, as any woman will counter argue (often pointing to the toilet ring as proof) the ability to do so easily does not necessarily equate to "good aim." I do not know who is right in this argument. Though in regard to myself and peeing, I neither have luck nor skill.
As I was urinating behind the shed, a little boy came out to play in the yard. He saw me and made a gasping sound. And like a true idiot, I turned around, junior and all, in the direction of the noise. Unable to stop in midstream, I pissed on the patch of yard right in front of where he was standing.
I was horrified. I felt like I had ruined the world for this young boy. How would he explain this to his parents? Then again, it's not like this was anything new. He, after all, had a junior of his own. Feeling better, I finished my business and walked away without saying a word. He would be fine.

London Bridge...

...comes crashing down. This is the first thought that comes to mind after being rejected for yet another job. This time I even had an interview lined up. I was "this" close to maybe, kind of, sort of having a summer job. Well closer anyway then normal. I am going to aim lower next time. Although I don't know how much lower I can aim from horse shit scooper, which was where I sent out my last application.
In the meantime, I am in the lovely Saratoga Springs, taking a summer class at Skidmore College. I guess that part is pretty enjoyable.

Superhero Pillow Party

I found this picture while on one of my gay facebook groups. Enjoy!

Why don't you window it?

Source: Wanstrom & Assoc

My family (like all innate alcoholics) drank consistently throughout the day yesterday. We started at lunch, continued into brunch, poured red wine during appetizers, and then moved on to white for dinner. By the time dessert hit the table, the six of us (plus the 2 family friends visiting for the weekend) were thoroughly sloshed. Our drunken ramblings included art, how we could fix the world, misremembered celebrities, gay celebrities, and all the other prepared stories people typically set aside for cocktail parties (you know, the usual). It was a fun and vaguely rememberable time.
My father (who in the drinking world would fall under the classification: tank) had had a bit too much to drink. Essentially, he had crossed that hazy line where one second your amiable and funny and the next drunken second your incapable of following the flow of normal conversation. Once he crosses this line he becomes thoroughly ridiculous. He will either: (1) sit there dead as a door nail (2) utter an absurdly interesting truism or (3) display a peculiar sense of humor that defies explanation.
The best way I can explain his humor is as follows: It's like when someone says something unbearably trite, and you laugh, not because the joke is in anyway funny, but because you had another even funnier thought occur to you at the same time. That person tries to understand why your laughing, but your laughter is so overwhelming that you can scarcely breathe, causing them for some peculiar reason to laugh as well.
When my father gets considerably drunk he becomes both the person that says the unfunny pun and the recipient of that laughter a.k.a. he laughs at his own jokes. Last night, I had another wonderful example of this one-on-one humor. My sister was having a conversation with one of our house guests, something to do with the importance of art (I don't really know, it didn't sound riveting enough for me to care). Yet at some point in her conversation she said the phrase, "I simply adore it?" To which my father turned to us, and said, "Why don't you window it?"
At first we didn't really understand, but after several minutes (10 in fact) we realized it was a bad pun building off my sisters use of the word adore. We all laughed. At first because we found the fact that he found the pun funny funny, but then that infectious laughter grew. Parents may embarrass you, but at least they are entertaining.

Berry Surprise

Yesterday, my sister came up to the Cape to get her hair done. She deposited her child (you may remember her mentioned in earlier works as demon spawn) and left me and my mom to babysit.
Everything was going okay. My sister had returned with her Portia haircut and our family friends had arrived for the weekend. I was strolling with my niece in the front yard, and as I turned away, she picked a berry I did not recognize. I saw her swallow it and almost instantaneously my mind wandered to every movie where children try to kill themselves with poisonous berries (The Hunger Games, The Blue Lagoon, etc.). I screamed to my sister that her child just swallowed something possibly poisonous, sending everyone into a panic.

Clip from "The Hunger Games," berry eating scene

I bent down and tried to explain to her, a two year old, why she should spit the berry out: "Now Z that berry may be poisonous. Poisons are substances that are physiologically harmful to your health." Unsurprisingly, that explanation did not convince her to cough up the berry mush sitting on the base of her tongue (who the f' uses physiological in a conversation with a 2 year old?).
And so I jumped to the next logical course of action, while carrying her towards my sister I rammed my fingers down her mouth in an effort to retrieve the poisonous goo. This only caused her to cry. In fact, as I handed her off to my sister, she gave me the biggest "what in the world are you doing" death glare.
My mom, being the green thumb that she is, had me go down to the garden and find the berry. It turned out to be a beach plum. It's not poisonous. More so, its the main ingredient in some edible jams.

Brought to you by Spectacularly Delicious.com

Fruity O's

In regard to cereal, I think I found my soulmate. Brought to you by Trader Joes.

When a Guy asks me to call him

If he's hot:

If he's ugly:

The Effects of Marijuana

A Turn of Events

Scratch the last post, I have been having a fun time. I went out last night and drank so much that I am sure Odin will grant me safe passage into Valhalla. I am leaving tomorrow, but returning in about a week so I can take a summer class (Woot woot). A surprising concession from my parents who apparently would rather not see me, then have to deal with a summer long sulk fest from yours truly. This is of course conditional on me getting a job, something my utter lack of work experience will probably make difficult.

Boredom Strikes Again

I guess boredom is a disease that cannot be resolved with a change of scene. I am in Saratoga Springs, lethargic as a beached whale and hotter than Satans ball sack, and I still find myself wanting something else. I was expecting to see more of my friends, but they (unlike me) secured jobs for the summer and are working. The ones that don't work are taking classes, leaving me with a lot of waiting time in between. 

I have no plans as of yet, which is sad because I thought this trip would be more entertaining. I guess summer fun is for people that are either rich enough to pay for classes or lucky enough to secure short term employment. I wish I had had the foresight to have seen Bill Clinton fucking up my summer plans (see A Brief Introduction to the Craziness that is me). Peace out bitches, theres only so much moping I can take, even from myself.

An Interesting Journey

Honestly, I have to say that I've never been on a trip with such colorful characters.
The first connection from Boston to Springfield was admittedly uneventful. At maximum, the most exciting thing was two music lovers having a nonstop discussion about, you guessed it, music.
The second ride, however, was when things got interesting. Seated in my vicinity (sometimes in front, sometimes behind) was a heart wrenching pair of travelers: a mother and her mentally challenged son. The kid was very sweet, and despite an apparent and understandable inability to pick up on social cues, the boys intrusion was anything but abrasive. He even made me exchange numbers with his mother, making me promise to stay in touch.
As much as I enjoyed they're company, the real story comes from the little snippets of backstory the kid would occasionally let slip. I'm not going to supply any specific details, but suffice to say that the two are having a rough time. The pair were kicked out of their home (it sounds like the landlord/bank/evil entity repossessed most of their property) and now they are making a pilgrimage to Missouri, hoping to crash at a relatives house (Flowers in the Attic, anyone?). The mom appears to have spent most, of, if not all of her money towards this two day bus ride. I obviously don't know the whole story, but my heart goes out to the little boy. I hope he makes it out okay. On a less serious note, I am sure an unscrupulous Hollywood exec would love to buy his life rights when he's older.
When I finally got to albany I had an hour while waiting for the bus that connects to Saratoga Springs. Fortunately, I had some entertainment. An elderly African American women dressed in a flowing pink dress was singing some of Broadway's greatest hits. She was by no means a professional, possibly delusional, and 100% hilarious. I hope my next trip is this exciting!

What to eat

I landed in Boston. I am in the South Station bus terminal, waiting for my connecting ride.
I am really hungry and have three mediocre options to choose from: (1) McDonalds (2) d'angelo sandwich shop (3) Honey Dew Donuts.

Now I could go with the safest option: McDonalds a.k.a. "the golden arch of capitalism." It may be over processed garbage, but it's garbage I know. It's garbage I trust. In many ways, it's like finding a reliable rest stop on a long car ride. Sure I may be able to find one that doesn't smell of antiseptic or has repressed homosexuals staring at my wang as I stand in front of the urinal. On the other hand, the innate racism I have has me fearing change in any capacity. Yes this new rest stop might be better, however, it could be far worse. I might get stabbed. I could bleed out and die. Worse yet, there might be black people there.

The second option appeals to my sense of entitlement. The food is most likely not much better than the diabetes and obesity combo served at McDonalds, but d'angelos sounds nicer. The name is Spanish or possibly even some kind of Italian. It has faux classy option such as lobster rolls, which will most likely give me dysentery. And best of all, I can simply tell my friends the name of the place and their imaginations will conjure up an image that isn't complete shit.
The third eating choice, Honey Dew Donuts, is the epitome of trashiness. I would rather eat a soggy sandwich from the Newsstand, then indulge in one of those lard drenched contraptions. I am sure in the long run my arteries will thank me.
In the end, I decided to go with a quesadilla from d'angelo. The choice certainly fulfilled my inflated sense of self, but lets just say my expectations did not meet reality.

The Kinsey Scale

As you may or may not know, I belong to several gay groups on facebook, and consequently, I see many homoerotic themed pictures on my news feed. Here is a relatively tame one that I just find hilarious.

Life + Procrastination = Television

I booked a 6:30 am flight for tomorrow, so I could make my 10:10 am bus ride to Albany, New York. Nearly 300 miles of travel and at least 3 modes of transportation, my trip to the college town of Saratoga Springs looks like its going to be an all day ordeal. Yippee! (sarcasm: roll eyes).
In light of recent events, this trip is coming at an opportune time. I'll visit some friends, catch up, get drunk, and nurse a long hang over on the trip back. I'm sure my family, particularly my mother, could use a break from my shenanigans.
In the meantime, I am at home sitting on my ass and watching a terrible sitcom. It's strangely depressing, especially since every other commercial is either about creditors or animal abuse. The ASPCA makes some of the saddest commercials in existence.

The Morning After

I woke up this morning. The good news: after consuming a minor amount of alcohol I had no hangover to speak of. The awkward news: I woke up with another man in my bed.
Last night, I insisted, for some strange reason, on bringing someone around for the birthday festivities. He was, and I hate to use stereotypes, a queen. Sadly, not as much fun as I envisioned. We ended up going to this female-hating, man-loving club, much to the dismay of my sister and her friend.
The worst part, and possibly the most awkward, I had to tell my mother that I had someone over to which she responded, "is this simply a one night stand."
On the plus side, there's leftover lobster.

Happy Birthday to me

I am officially 21. I woke up at 1:00 pm today and proceeded to have cheese and sausage for brunch (also known as the breakfast of champions). About the same time, my sister, her demon spawn (toddler of 2), and my sisters british friend came knocking at our door, bringing delicious cupcakes and presents. We (everyone mentioned minus the youngling) are going out tonight. Our destination: Provincetown also known as gay central. I am super excited, as I prepare to lose my bar crawling virginity.

Until the clock strikes 12...

There is less than 5 hours until I reach the age of drunken debauchery. I like to thank many people as I pass this absurd and completely arbitrary milestone. The politicians, campus safety, the police, and all those other wonderful individuals that made sobriety, well, mandatory. More importantly, however, I'd like to give a warm virtual hand of applause to everyone else. Those people who serve underage teenagers alcohol are the true heroes. Keep up the good work.
I am going to enjoy these final pre-21 moments with my parents, eating at a lavish restaurant called Blackfish.

Fathers Birth Update

This just in. As you may or may not know, I am currently in the midsts of celebrating an early fathers day/21st birthday "fathers birth" (sadly the best name combination I could think of). So far the festivities have included watching an awful children's show called Yo Gabba Gabba where otherwise frightening characters sing about the joys of jumping around and not being ugly. Occasionally, the shows pudgy writer comes on with his band so he can relive his glory days in front of toddlers. I hope his paycheck compensates for an utter lack of dignity.
We also went for a pleasant walk on the beach. One that quickly devolved into a discussion about the middle class. Quick quiz: you can tell someones a white liberal when they: (A) use the word privilege (B) name drop the countries they've travelled to (C) talk about how the economy has solely hurt them (D) all of the above. If you picked D you were either (1) there or (2) privy to way too many pretentious conversations.
Yet my favorite part of the day so far is the birthday present I received. A bottle of Chocolate Raspberry Vodka. Now I know you, my imaginary audience, just made a face. It was either one of disgust (because you consider yourself above flavored vodka) appreciation (because your trashy) or joy for a college student that just got free booze. I'm leaning more towards the latter myself. If my niece turns on another episode of Yo Gabba Gabba I know I'm going to need it.

Happy Fathers Birth

Its the day before my birthday. My 21st birthday. A glorious milestone that signifies my right to become legally shitfaced. Some family (My sister, her husband, and their demon child of 2 years old) are here to celebrate an early fathers day/21st birthday hybrid. "Fathers Birth" for short. We are going to eat a cake that I requested, the fathers are opening mediocre presents, and I will then download my gift (Mass Effect 3) from the playstation network. Fun times to be had for sure. It's the best pre-21st birthday birthday ever.

The Sexism of T-shirts

While in the marine store I came across the best tshirt design. Sadly it's only for girls. Adding on to this tragedy, the guys section was filled with a bland assortment of blue. Why do girls have all the fun?