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October 29, 2010
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For the past few summers, there has been a silver Honda Civic parked at a condo across the way from me with a Washington State University sticker placed in the bottom-center of the back window. It's there almost every day until the end of August, and then it's gone, until the end of May. A girl drives it. She's pretty cute. She has hair and everything. It's shoulder-length wavy brown hair, and she usually wraps it up in some kind of swirly bundle on the back of her head. It bobs around and catches my attention when she walks from her car to the front door (of what I'm assuming is her mom's condo, because there's some lady that lives there for the rest of the year). She wears little shorts, and sometimes little shirts. Those things catch my attention too. She must work out.

Sometimes she arrives in her Civic with other girls too. They also wear little shorts, and sometimes little shirts.

Part of me feels dirty and sticky that I sit perched up on my third-story porch looking down at these unassuming girls going about their summer-loving business. But, it's not like I'm hidden up in a tree in the middle of the forest, wearing a full-body camouflage onesie like a hick ninja, waiting patiently to snipe an innocent fawn to butcher, package, and store in a freezer. I'm just cooking one of my 32-ounce discount steaks from Grocery Outlet, and drinking Steel Reserve, when they just happen to show up and strike my fancy. This is my land, and I own it. My land just happens to be a 4' x 6' plywood platform that extends from the side of my condo, vertically wrapped with protective aluminum bars, so that I don't fall off of my land and break my body. I'm sure if they were randomly having one of their naked pillow fights, taking a bubble bath, or engaging in some other typical girl activity, and Kurt Russell randomly walked through their place asking for directions or something, those girls would probably take moment to look.
I took yesterday off from work and decided to play a round of golf and catch up on some chores around the house. I hadn't combed my carpet in several months, which was beginning to look out of sorts, and I've spent well over seven thousand dollars at Ross over the past six months to avoid doing laundry, so my entire garage is filled to the ceiling with dirty apparel that needs to be cleaned. 

I had a single tee-time at 10:15am. Upon checking in, the Pro Shop told me that there were not any other golfers that I could get matched-up with, which I thought was okay. But, when I walked up to the first tee box, I realized that I was going to be mentally-challenged for six hours to not murder five people. There was a group of five Asians in front me, walking. I was a single, riding. Asians walk slower than arm-hair grows, and they take thirty practice swings for every... single... shot. And they yell really scary-sounding things if you ask to pass them. This... this, was a challenge that I almost lost. Here was one of the most infuriating situations in the universe, and I happen to be carrying a sack full of metal rods with sharp weighted heads on the end, that I could hatchet-toss into their face at any moment to remedy the whole thing, and I had to not do that. For six hours. 

So, when I finally made it home three days later, I felt inclined to toss a sour load of clothes in the laundry machine, grab a cool brew, and grill up some animal. 

Off in the near distance I heard a modest set of speakers sounding out one of those pop abortions, Lady Gaga or Rhianna. Sure enough, a silver Civic came screaming through the entrance of my condo complex and was headed my way. I turned to look, and saw several ponytail-topped coeds bobbing to the over-produced 808 drum. With three windows cracked an inch or so, I could smell their generously applied J-Lo perfume from a quarter-mile away. It smells like apple fritters and bad decisions. 

As they exited the vehicle, collectively it was like looking at the smoke monster from LOST, but instead of being filled with terror, lightening flashes, and the sound of gears grinding, it was filled with giggling and casual "oh my god! oh my god! oh my god!"'s, about nothing. I guarantee each of them has a handful of vivid memories that they can't remember, including a guy named Kyle, wearing a pastel pink Abercrombie & Fitch polo with the collar popped-up, a puka shell necklace choking his tanning-bed-orange neck, and a barbed wire armband tattoo wrapped around a dainty twelve-inch bicep.

I had Usher's "My Way" playing through my window so that I could hear it outside while I was grilling, so I was feeling pretty strong at the moment. I whistled down to them while working at my grill, and said, "Nice day we're having, huh ladies?"

The most beat-up looking one responded, "...ummmm, yyyyeah... I guessss", thinking she sounded Kardashian, I thought she looked Car-crash-ian. Then they all giggled amongst themselves, and hustled to gather whatever bagged-up garbage they had in the trunk, hoping to not have to interact with me.

I tried a different angle, "Hey, I've got plenty of meat for all of you ladies, and three bottles of Blueberry Smirnoff. And I'm just about to fire up a fourteen-hour Gossip Girls marathon on Netflix."

A different beat-up looking one responded, "...ummmm, yyyyeah... we're vegenatarian, Smirnoff has too many caloriesss, and we're more Jersey Shore kinda girls... soooooothanksss... but no thanksss. Have fuuuuuun!"

Anger.

"Too bad for you. I could easily microwave up some Soy wieners, and I have a Michelob Ultra 24-pack from Costco. And you being Jersey Shore girls makes more sense now, sorry, I didn't see the "stinky, gummy, nasty whore" tattoos on your foreheads. And by the way, I can get that on Netflix instant-streaming, too. I would suggest that you check yourself before you wreck yourself. But hey, if you ladies change your minds, come on over."

At least I gave it my best shot.

She's gone again for the school year. Congratulations WSU, you've got yourself a winner. Congratulations Kyle, you've got yourself a festering rash and a lotion prescription.

Until next time: If they are bronze and smell like tropical bubble gum, just.. just leave them alone. You don't want any of that.
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