or, ocean city, md, never ever changes.

i am currently fuschia. it's not pretty.

i got to drive a beat-up bmw convertible full of hot women to the beach. one busted up with her boyfriend, the other her girl. we got a lot of attention from truckers the whole way up, blaring REO speedwagon.

fell asleep in the sun. ow. noted there was a bottle opener screwed to the inside of the bathroom door. sweet. got hammered, got buzzed, got to the boardwalk. were immediately horrified at the sheer smell of free-floating hormones and desperation emitted by 3,000 half-nude 18-year-olds. because old-ass us had accidentally picked SENIOR WEEK 2005 WOOOO! to hit the sand. oops.

after picking a lot of fights ("are you a guy or what?" "well, she's got tits and she's not talking to you, so she must be a girl, kid!"), kicking ass at air hockey, and turning our skeeball tix in for three sets of redneck teeth, please, we retired to the hotel to trash it.

and shauna was happy.

in the morning, i napped in the sand and listened to the only gay dudes within 50 miles (overheard 1 million times: "huhuh. lookit the fags. huhuh.") talk about how their college sorrority had a scavenger hunt, and the big-ticket item was a come-covered pork chop. for some reason, all the girls went right to the gay dudes for a favor. the guy was like, do little straight girls think gay gays are just game for jerking off on meat? what the hell?