Nope, I’m not your Health Teacher here to talk to you about safe sex (remember those unbearably awkward hours?) More like tell you why it’s never a good idea to buy something unless you’re fully committed. You’re thinking “Silly Camilla, What does this have to do with hockey?” It has EVERYTHING to do with hockey. Sit back and enjoy the worst night of this October so far.
Last night was George Mason’s annual super lame Homecoming. It was also the night where the last two undefeated teams played each other; Caps vs. Wings.
Earlier that day, I made the brilliant decision to not go to homecoming. No issue, right? WRONG. Apparently my penny-pinching father thinks if he buys you a $50 dress you’re going to enjoy it god dammit. The conflict emerges.
The ultimatum: Go to homecoming or don’t watch hockey. That, sir, is putting me between a rock and a hard place. Missing hockey (especially an important game like this!) is like taking away [insert addictive illegal substance] from an addict. You just don’t do it. And I really didn’t want to see a bunch of guys grinding awkwardly with their girlfriends.
But to watch my beloved game, I took the most pissed off a shower you’ve ever seen somebody take and put my makeup on so darn pissed you would’ve thunk someone was holding a gun to my head! All the while yelling I would walk all the way home (a mile in 5 inch platforms, brilliant I tell you) if he made me go.
After I dressed and sulked in the bathroom for a few minutes, I had the genius ideas that confronting my dad when more pissed than a bull ready to charge was a good idea. God, I love logic.
I then proceeded to say (more like roar), I quote, “How long do I have to go to the fucking dance before I can come home!?” Apparently the F-bomb doesn’t get you anywhere when trying to reason. Who knew? So then my dad told me the pleasant news, I wasn’t going to be able to watch hockey regardless.
And being the levelheaded 15-year-old I am, I went in my room and decided lobbing my Anne Klein’s at my wall was going to solve everything. No, it wasn’t. As I learned when a nickel sized crater appeared where the heel of my shoe made contact with the wall.
I said all that because, unfortunately, I can’t write about this game. Because I didn’t watch it and was to busy glaring at the illegal NHL feeds that wouldn’t load and let me watch the game. But thursday I’ll be ready to get this show on the road!
Moral of the story: Don’t throw you’re shoes at the wall. It doesn’t solve anything and only makes you read Spackling directions.