Been Awhile. It's Cause I Hate You.

So I've finally hit winter break, thank Christ. However, rather than writing a narcissistic update of my boring-ass life, I will instead recount a narcissistic story from my boring-ass life.

For my first year of college, I went to San Diego State University. Now, I wasn't raised in good ol' Sandy Eggo, but my best friend from high school, (Fuck, what did I call him? Uhhh...) Vizzo, went with me. There, we met (You thought I was done but here they are more NICKNAMES) Irish and Stalin. Irish, Stalin, and I were hanging out in my dorm, and I think we were passively aware that Vizzo was mysteriously absent. However, the Xbox and booze weren't, so we weren't too bothered by it.

Around midnight, I got a call from Vizzo. After a good length of bitching about the movie theater lying to him about when the movie ended, he stated that the trolleys and buses were no longer running, and that he was stuck roughly five miles away at the shopping center. He went on to say that he had walked a good three miles of the distance back, and was now at the trolley station at Qualcomm Stadium. After Irish, Stalin, and I laughed our goddamn asses off, he requested a taxi, since his phone was dying and didn't want to be alone in the middle of the night walking through San Diego without a phone. I told him I'd call one for him, and hung up the phone.

Now, the three of us in my dorm were all quite buzzed at this point, which plays a part in this next section. I called the taxi service, and told them to dispatch a cab over to Qualcomm. This sounds like it should be a simple task, but the problem was that Irish was repeatedly shouting, "White drivers only! White drivers only!" This both made it hard to concentrate on what I wanted to say, and made convincing the operator of the legitimacy of the call an unnecessarily arduous task. Nonetheless, he said a cab would be dispatched, and that Vizzo should meet him at the bottom of the station. I then relayed this information to Vizzo, and warned him that his driver may be angry at him.

The next forty-five minutes or so were uneventful, as we had simply dropped the issue from our minds, when I got another call from Vizzo. He told me he was outside my dorm. I was surprised it took him so long to get back, and he said he's explain when I got down to get him. We all went down to hear of his tale. Apparently, he couldn't figure out how to get to the bottom of the trolley station, so he ended up trying to watch out for a cab in the whole parking lot. One never showed, however, and he resigned to walking the rest of the way back. He also introduced a term that I still can't quite put together today. He said that a cop approached him and asked him what he was doing sitting on a curb. Rather than saying it was out of sheer misery at the prospect of walking back to school, he said he was just waiting for someone. Then he said that the cop said something like, "Oh, okay. Well, have you seen any yellow-lighting going down? We heard reports of yellow-lighters in the area." Now, if you don't know what yellow-lighting is, join the fucking club. Nobody but that cop does. Seriously, Google that shit. Even Google, knower of all things is like, "The fuck are you talking about?"

After that, the night was pretty uneventful. Stalin gave Vizzo a Jack in the Box cup of beer, because apparently he "deserved" it, and we resumed our normal routine.