A Fourth of July adventure.

My Fourth of July story began on the third of July. I came over to Richard's house at eight PM, after seeing Toy Story 3 with my family. For the record, that movie made me cry. Twice. And assure my mom that I'd never leave ever again. And when I stopped by home I hugged all my old toys and promised to play with them more.

Anyway, we decided to go to Leela's, but first stopped off at the pharmacy, where I shoplifted a french manicure kit, for me, and a foundation brush, for Richard. Once we arrived at Leela's we bought coffee and had a very long conversation, covering the usual topics - immortal youth, reincarnation, and vast, incomprehensible wealth. The moral of the conversation was, we needed to kidnap a sorta-toddler named Brooke Greenberg, who possibly holds the genetic code that could lead to immortality, as a result of a condition that is estimated to occur in 1 out of 6 and a half billion (in other words, it's the only condition of its kind in the world). Wiki her, it's fascinating shit.

Also, I am a total creep for being obsessed with this sorta-toddler.

We returned to his house at about two in the morning, where I began to give myself a french manicure. Slowly, the house filled with acrylic fumes, and we became rather disoriented, laughing at nothing, even at the nail varnish ruining his roommate's table. I realized, once the task was completed, that I could not take my contacts out, and thus had to pry the nails off. On the bright side, no money was wasted.

I woke up at noon the next day, and realized the dress I'd brought was complete sheer, and my underwear was a little too hilarious that day. I made the decision to go commando on the Fourth of July. My part of the war effort. We returned to Leela's to eat, and to see if there was anything cool going on downtown. The only interesting thing was a wheelchair race, but we did not stick around for it. I still wish I'd seen it.

Richard called our friend Garrett, and we agreed that we really wanted to set off fireworks and see shit explode. Unfortunately, fireworks are illegal in the state of Colorado.

Thus, we decided to go to Wyoming.

"It's a wonderful day for a hate crime." Garrett sighed.

We left at seven, and got about halfway there before a torrential downpour forced us to pull over at a Taco Bell rest stop to wait it out. While there, Garrett made the greatest reference and the most insensitive yet incredible joke:

"That lady's hair looks like that teacher's who died in the Challenger explosion."

The three of us proceeded to crack our shit up.

The rain ended, and we continued to Wyoming. We arrived in Cheyenne, and set out to get our hands on some explosives.

We cracked up again when we realized that our group was two gay guys and a girl with no underwear, and we were in the county where Matthew Shepard was murdered.

"This is going to end so well."

We bought $50 worth of fireworks at a wonderful store named, I kid you not, Pyro City. Richard picked up the directions to a nearby shooting site, and we were off.

While waiting in line for our site, Garrett and I talked about basically everything you really, really, really shouldn't around drunk rednecks carrying explosives: the true race of Jesus, fucking John Kennedy in the hole in his head, that episode of Nip/Tuck where Rosie O'Donnell gets fucked on a tiger pelt, me getting an abortion and having a party for it, how Lincoln probably had a little top hat for his penis, and, finally, the politicians we would bang (I chose Rahm Emanuel; Garrett chose Nancy Pelosi).

"You guys are gonna get fucking murdered," Richard muttered, before yelling, "FOR THE RECORD, I AM A REGISTERED REPUBLICAN!"

Finally, we arrived at our shooting site; that is, a small part of the field with a numbered box from which we were to shoot fireworks.

"I'll light them," Garrett said, "I'm Mexican, I am a faster runner than you white people, from all that fence-hopping."

Richard and I agreed.


We continued to set off fireworks and ran from the ensuing flames as they came kind of toward us, reveling in this moment of complete and total wimpery in the red, sweaty face of redneck misogyny. Finally, it got too cold, especially for me, so we returned to the car, still with several illegal fireworks that we eventually brought back to Colorado.

Before we left, we stopped off at a gas station to get coffee, and found that it was the town hotspot for Pagan teenagers and fat people. We stood outside - me smoking, Garrett eating an Almond Joy, and Richard eating an ice cream sandwich - and made fun of the townies. Hey, when you're from Colorado, it is a rare occasion to be more worldly than others.

A few hours later, I am here, sitting on Richard's couch, listening to Lady Gaga. Comes with the territory of being a certified faghag. Happy Fourth of July, everyone! And please do not be too offended at the horrible, wrong, sick jokes that I have recounted here! I'm merely an equal opportunity humorist!

FIC: Misha's Day Out

Fandom: RPF/RPS
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Misha Collins/OC (brief hookup)
A/N: Based off true stories, true stories combined with other true stories, and untrue stories. It's worth nothing that I wrote this drunk at four in the morning. It is also worth noting that I do not condone driving while intoxicated. Enjoy!

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Yet more of my sexy adventures! I guess there's nothing else all that notable about my life.

This weekend had, until last night, been quite boring. At one point, my friends and I were reduced to riding up and down the elevators while I wore a pink wig. Though it was quite funny how no one acknowledged it, up until Saturday night we were all bored to shit. Thus, my GBF Richard and I decided to go clubbing, in the hopes that we'd derive some excitement from it. We went to the Church, because he wanted to see the spot where I'd had sex with Pablo Juan Polo. Given the notoriety it has achieved, I'm hoping it will soon be a Denver landmark, gracing the pages of inane tourist magazines. Perhaps they will put up a plaque.

Anyway, as I was getting dressed, I had to make a decision. I'd left my flats at home, and keep forgetting to pick them up. So, my choices were Converse, and my patent-leather pumps. The most recent three times I have worn these shoes, I have gotten laid. I call them my Fuck Me Pumps. The decision was not really shoes, and more along the lines of "Do I want to have sex tonight?"

I went with the Fuck Me Pumps.

We had to walk through the 16th Street Mall to get to the Church. I realized I was quite hungry, and it is unwise to go clubbing on an empty stomach. We went to Taco Bell, because it was there and still open. It was at Taco Bell that Richard snapped this ever-classy photo of me eating a quesadilla:

On the way to the Church, which was several blocks away, I received a good 6 honks of approval. After pumping my fist in the air and yelling, "CONFIDENCE!" I realized that perhaps I was slightly more sluttily dressed than I'd realized. In retrospect, a front-zip tube top mini dress is about as slutty as it gets. But I got it for $15, so...worth it.

We finally got there, and were mildly horrified to discover that it was Latin night. And I don't mean Daddy Yankee, I mean salsa. In every room, there were roughly four couples dancing traditional salsa, very impressively, I might add; and about 40 people standing by the walls, waiting for them to play hip-hop or something mildly danceable for the rest of us. Richard and I were probably among 10 white people in the whole club.

After a little while, they started playing a few hip-hop songs between salsa, and everyone, including us, flooded the dance floor. It was a lot of fun, as we'd decided to represent the Gringos as Gringos should be represented: dancing terribly compared to the other people. A couple hours later, I remembered why I usually wear my Converse to clubs - heels fucking hurt. We left about 45 minutes before the club closed; as soon as we got outside, I took off the heels and walked barefoot to our next destination, Leela's. It's a 24-hour coffee shop, that has chai tea that will make you come in your pants. It is located about five blocks from everything downtown, so I go there every couple of weeks, usually when I'm stuck. Unfortunately, the light rail, my main form of transportation, doesn't run between 2 AM and 4:30 AM, so if I'm caught in the middle of these times, Leela's is the place to go.

Leela's, however, between these times is also a hotspot for drunks, homeless people, and all unholy manner of degenerates. Whether or not this is a good thing depends on your mood; I was in the mood for adventure. So, this was a very good thing.

We'd been there for a half hour when a group of about 8 punks rolled in, all obviously drunk and high. Being that I have a memorial tattoo on my chest for Lux Interior, one of the godfathers of punk, I knew they were gonna talk to me. I just had to wait.

They did, indeed. They were a nice bunch; lively, loud, kinda immature (but that is very fun on occasion.) Over the course of the next hour, there was a ketchup fight, talks about music, and chess with a homeless guy. It was fun, not gonna lie; not the least because one of them, a cute, nice fellow with a mohawk named Mason, had his arm around me frequently. However, shortly after the chess session, one of the drunker ones, Chris, threw his gum at a(nother) drunk party girl, whose sister proceeded to freak the fuck out. Richard, a pre-Law student, talked them down, while the group, myself included, gtfo'd. Richard had already told me his friend Garrett was picking him up for some sexy time. I found out later Garrett showed up shortly after we ran, so thankfully Richard did not have to spend too long with the angry drunk girls, who were apparently threatening to call the cops.

There were two cars, one belonging to a girl named Anya, and one belonging to a girl named Lauren. We drove to Sid's apartment, where he discovered his roommates were home, so we relocated to the top of this stairwell, where they all appeared to hang out; at least, if the box of Chex already there was anything to go by. We sat in a cluster here, and eventually I started making out with Mason. It is worth noting that I had not been wearing my Fuck Me Pumps for at least two hours, carrying them around instead - this is the extent of their power. If they're even in the vicinity, I am gonna get some ass.

Eventually, he pulled down the top of my dress, and the others subsequently decided to move lower down the stairwell. It was at that point that I got rid of the underwear, excited for some sex.

But then, the unthinkable happened: Mason pulled down his pants, and it was small. Really, really small. When it was flaccid, it was as long as my fist; when erect, it was maybe five inches, and the width of two pencils. I had never seen such a small dick in my life.

Unfortunately, when your underwear's off and your boobs are hanging out, it's not like you can say, " thank you. Do they still have weed down there?" So I had to take one for the team.

As we were "fucking", I was participating in the conversation further downstairs, mostly out of boredom:

ME: I love Wu-Tang Clan! *sexsexsex* That's what she said! *sexsexsex* Did you know that there are 700,000 arrests made per year for pot-related offenses, most of them minor possession? *sexsexsex* Waffles are good!

Mason, however, really did not want to stop. He'd come, get hard again, we'd have sex, he'd come, get hard again, we'd have sex. This happened four times. Admittedly, he was quite a skilled fingerer, so I was hoping we could just keep doing that. He was in art school, and in my experience, artists, musicians, and gamers are quite good at fingering. But, tonight, he was pretty determined to have sex.

In a less-than-graceful moment, as I was giving him a blow job, for whatever reason I puked just a little on his dick. This confused me, as I have sucked far, far bigger dicks in my life and had no problem. I silently declared a vendetta on Taco Bell, and cleaned up as fast as I could without him noticing. He didn't, thankfully.

Finally, mercifully, Lauren, who was giving Mason a ride, yelled that it was time to go. We stopped, and got dressed, and kissed goodbye, the taste of vomit still on my teeth. I needed a cigarette ASAP to get rid of that. I walked downstairs to see how Anya, who said she'd give me a ride, was doing - she was passed out, and it didn't look fitful in the least. I proceeded to grab my Fuck Me Pumps and bolt out the door of the apartment, taking roll call of my possessions, hoping I would catch Lauren and Mason. I did, and she agreed to give me a ride to the light rail station.

When we got there, I was hoping to put my shoes on until I got back to my dorm; but as we pulled up, the train I needed to be on did too. I said a quick thanks and, once again, bolted, jumping over curbs and running through two other tracks. I made it, and staggered onto the train. I then realized I had dirty feet, rugburn on my knees from the carpeted stairs, a really short dress, cheap patent leather shoes in my hand, and a mix of ketchup, vomit, come, and sweat in my hair. I presumed I'd be arrested for prostitution within two stops.

One of the light rail ticket-checkers, indeed, walked up to me. They don't fuck around on the light rail, these guys actually have many of the abilities of cops; for example, ability to arrest people obviously breaking minor laws, like smoking pot, disorderly conduct, and prostitution. I knew I had to play this shit cool.

ME: *shows bus pass with very guilty look on face, akin to that Taco Bell face*
TICKET CHECKER: Are you, uh...okay?
ME, SUDDENLY DECIDING THIS IS A PERFECT GOLDEN GIRLS REFERENCE MOMENT: Why, officer, your sweet words could charm the morning dew right off the honeysuckle.
TICKET CHECKER: *nods, backs away slowly*

Alright, not exactly "cool", but I didn't get arrested! And that's something!

I arrived back at my dorm at around 5:45 AM, and padded down the two blocks, hoping no one would see me, and not too many people did. I got inside and got ready to take a shower (at long last). As I set down my Fuck Me Pumps, I promised myself I would only use their powers for good.

If I hit five hookups with these shoes, I need to start a prison-esque tally. Scrawl it into the wall with a scowl on my face after I come home from another ill-advised fuck, maybe play the harmonica for a bit.