Disclaimer: Sorry if I am at all repetitive of my earlier post, I didn’t take the time to reread it before writing this one.

First off, I was amused to see that I actually got comments on this post that weren’t essentially telling me I’m going to hell. If anyone who read it and wanted to comment that, but felt to Christian, please, don’t hold back. I’m really just a comment whore.

But moving to the actual topic of such post.

First thing, I was asked to explain miracles. Well, it was a miracle that I was born and that I was born without complications, but if anyone has ever examined the process of “building” a baby, one would realize that it’s probably the biggest miracle of all that more babies aren’t born with complications. The amount of things that could go wrong are enormous. It seems just as likely that we would be born completely deformed and messed up as not. If anyone wants to argue with me the presence of a God, you just have to bring the view how many babies every year are born perfectly healthy. Unfortunately, it’s not these babies that people rave are miracles. It’s the babies that are born with problems, that just fell into the pool of children where something just went wrong, that when they survive and make it to adulthood, that people consider a “miracle.” I would have to say that this particular miracle is arguable by the fact that it is just as likely that something goes wrong, as that it doesn’t. We only recognize it as a miracle because we put more emphasis on one or the other.

Thus, my issue with miracles. Is it a miracle that someone regains sight? Well, what are the chances that they did vs. that they didn’t. If they hadn’t regained sight, would we have considered that a miracle? In any case, it was just the other possibility and for all we know, just as likely. Doctors can give you all the statistics they want. We consider surviving cancer a miracle because its a really good thing, but it’s just as likely that you die from it. No one considers that a miracle, but it’s just as likely.

In any case, it’s like flipping a coin. You can get either heads or tails. If you get heads, is that a miracle? Or getting tails is a miracle? No, it’s just something that happens. Things happen in life, they are just as likely as the event that they don’t happen. Miracles are just fabricated from our point of view.

Now, that’s my argument, solely for the sake of argument.

People like my mother give religion as a pillow, a comfort. She once shared with me that she would have a big problem believing that this is it, so that’s why she believe in God. Because she just can’t keep seeing all the horrible things in the world thinking that this is all there is.

Now, it’s for people like that, that I think religion is perfect for. It’s for those you want something good to believe in, to keep them sane, and safe in their heads, despite if it’s real or not. To me, that’s true faith.

But people will criticize saying that believing in something solely because you don’t want to believe in the alternative isn’t true faith. Well, what makes your faith better? Believing it because you are told to?

A chosen faith is better than a forced faith.

I on the other hand am perfectly alright with the notion that this is it. While this may depress some people, it just makes me want to live life to the absolute fullest. Never miss an adventure or an opportunity, because it just as likely that the world ends that day, that it doesn’t.

It does or it doesn’t. It’s all 50/50 to me.

To me, Religion should be nothing more than a comfort to keep you feeling better, while giving you very basic moral to live by. The 10 commandments? Scratch off the one about believing in other Gods and keeping the Sabbath, and you have a perfect base set of guidelines for life that really aren’t going to change with the ages. 8 solid commandants.

The Commandants about driving are a bunch of bullshit. The Catholic church just got hella bored and scribbled some shit down. I really don’t like the Catholic church. Nothing against catholics, just the church.

But what irks me most is when people take religion to such extremes that they let it play such a large role in other parts of their life. My cousin was with this girl for years, they are still really close, but because she is Mormon, he refuses to marry her. He doesn’t want to convert.

Bull fucking shit. What the hell does religion matter if you love the person. The Mormons have crazy rules (and beliefs) but you know what, that should not be a reason not to marry her. Do her feet smell? Does she hit you? Does she scream in her sleep? Those are better reason to me than “She’s Mormon.”

My dad told me that religion should never get in the way of who I want to be with. This is the same man that demands I marry a white man, but then again, I blame that on his work office. He’s been there waaaay too long.

But to sum it up, once again, Religion is something that should guide your life and help you to be a better person. I don’t care if it’s true or not, that doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care who is right, and who is wrong. If people can be good people, but not let religion decide who the like and don’t like, then they can have their miracles. If people could stop waging war based on the fact that they are right and everyone else is wrong, then I think religion itself could play an even bigger role in the world.

Besides, there are only two sure things in life. Death, and math.

I recently had the pleasure of being taken out to a club in DC. I had never really been “out,” unless you count the excursion that was the strip club, so I was (as one could say) a virgin to the whole experience, which I should be seeing as how I am not yet 21 (which is such a burden). But I find myself craving to go back, not necessarily relive that particular experience because well, let my tell you that there is nothing quite like puking your guts out the side of a nice ass porsche pulled over on 50. Let me tell you, a once in a lifetime experience that I want to remain that way.

See, I like to party which the highrollers, the people who carry wads of money around just in case they didn’t exactly tell their wives where they were actually going that night, and in turn would not be able to charge the bill. And when this is the case, it is imparitive that one look like a club rat at the arm of your sugar daddy, who of course is paying for the entire evening. While this was not the aim of my evening, I have a distinct feeling that by the end of the night, this was the assumption.

After getting picked up on a side street in “out wear” by a sexy porsche, I can only imagine what the people down the street were thinking. Had we been picked up on a corner in our high ass strappy heals, jeans so tight you almost needed plyers to pull up the zipper and thats IF you were lucky enough to manage to button the botton, and shirts that required double stick tape to remain decent, I think it would have been less suspicious.

Our first stop was the Ritz Carlton Martini Bar, which, ID is sooo not required, especially not if you’re the one footing the bill. The servers were like trained dogs. I probably could have had one get on all fours to be my foot rest had I so asked. We ordered strawberries for our Dom Perion champagne, which were promptly sent back due to the fact that the green had not been removed and they were not cut properly into halves. I believe it may be essential to being a highroller that you send at least one thing back during your visit to establish that Diva like superiority. This of course, was none of my doing, seeing as how I am allergic to champagne (”ma’am, I am so sorry.” - The Waiter to me upon our sugardaddy sharing this little tid bit with him).

I neglected to mention who I was accompanied with. Sugardaddy goes without saying, but also along was my new partner in crime, we’ll call her Hotblonde, because she is. Sexy bitch.

So while they sipped their $400 champagne, Sugardaddy ordered me the house martini, called the Fahrenheit. Lots of juices, and probably a couple shots of, I believe they said Rum. Malibu was mentioned too. Hell, like I remember. I don’t even remember drinking the second one. I know, lightweight right? I would pay for those drinks later in the night.

Of course it didn’t help that all I had eaten that day were skittles, and the tuna role appetizer that we got at the Ritz. That might have had something to do with it.

Voss water = high end classy water. Had my share that night, but alas, did me no good. But it was like drinking from a crystal waterfall raining down from the clouds of heaven in the arctic. Alright, maybe not really, but the way they described it on the bottle, it sure seemed like it. I don’t think that water is on the house, either.
Upon leaving the Ritz, we hit up this amazing club, KStreet Lounge - If you’re ever in DC, I’d really hit it up. Great array of music and people, upscale, and well, they let me, and for that, they are totally getting a plug.

Well, the Valet took the porsche to god knows where, but I thought it was cool, because I had never even experienced a valet before. I could really get used to this highroller life. Trained dogs at your beck and call. I’m totally getting a man servant.

Well, after a little swindling by sugardaddy, I was able to get in with a really shifty ID that is actually my old black belt ID that the Old Crazy Koreans screwed up my birthday on, so it actually says I’m 23. I figure if I hang around with Asians, I might be able to get away with it. And seeing as the guy at the door was in fact, Asian, this somehow worked, and we were escorted to our VIP table  (or rather tables) that Sugardaddy paid for for a whopping $500 each.

Now, I was told once you party VIP, you never go back, and oh. my. god. I should never have started out that way, because it was like being the coolest, hottest, and most desirable girl at the club, but just because I was behind the velvet ropes. We had Bouncers (large black men, of course) escorting me and Hotblonde to the bathroom whenever we felt the need. They pushed people out of our way, and made sure no one spilled anything on us. At one point, on the way back, a man leaned in front of me (not on purpose, or even consciously) and the Bouncer, lets call him Big Steve, because he seemed like a Big Steve to me, pushes the guy back into the crowd with a burly “Clear the way!” just so I could walk through. The man of course turned and appologized, but pff, I am so above those lesser middle of the club, crowd dweller.

Hotblonde and I spent a good deal of the night up on the dancing bar behind the VIP section, shaking what our mothers gave us, which in my case, was not as fantastic as Hotblonde, who is not only tall, tan, skinnly, blonde, and hot, she has probably the nicest personality ever. She’s pretty much that girl you want to hate, but just can’t because you lover her so much. Yes, I think I have a girlcrush. But unlike the various men in the club hooting at us and calling us down to the floor, I scored.

I like to consider myself a crowd pleaser, and please we did. She’s such a tease though, gosh. Nothing like a little girl-on-girl kissing to really spark a crowd. Big Steve of course, kept us well out of reach of the ass-grabbers, and tit-touchers. There was none of that.

Sugardaddy had a good time too. He knew one of the club owners (undoubtedly how he got me in) and that owner, Asian, was always hanging out with us in our VIP. I saw him eyeing up Hotblonde, but I wasn’t…too jealous. Not when he asked what I wanted to drink, and Hotblonde answers for me. Hell, I don’t even have to order my own drinks. But he texts my drink order to the bar, then minutes later, over priority to all others ordering drinks, my drink it brought to me. This drink, in retrospect, was probably a bad idea.

Well, eventually, Hotblonde and I go wandering around in the crowd, dancing and really just having a good time. Everyone seemed to want to dance with us (her). At one point, this very tall Asian man starts dancing with us, takes us over to the bar, buys us drinks, and shots. Now, at this point, I’m fucked up beyond what is probably a safe limit, but I’m feeling like I should start dancing on tables. A true sign of drunkeness. And let me just say that that so called “shot” was more like a triple. Soco and lime, while delicious, was not my friend that night. I had to spill some of the drink he bought me (who knows what drink that was) so I could spit half the shot back in. I still managed to drink half of it, which put me over, and resulted in my toilet-tastic end to the evening.

But beyond the drinks, this tall asian, who we will call, Tall Asian, gives us each a card, saying if we ever needed to get in, just to call him. (SCORE.) Then, he takes us back to HIS VIP table. We dance there and really get grooving. Come to find out, he is of course one of the owners of the bar (hence the card). Apparently, the bar is entirely Asian run. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a nail salon upstairs. But also, we were in the VIP suite of the OWNERS.

Now, I may not have much club experience, but I’m pretty sure that is not an easy feat. As Hotblonde later shared with me, It was hella cool that that happened. The doublestick tape shirts were totally worth it.

Of course, Sugardaddy got lonely and had Big Steve come and find us, and escort us back to his VIP table. Where, we continued to have a fantastic time.

Upon leaving, Sugardaddy and Hotblonde made the mistake of putting me in the backseat of this manual porsche. In the middle of DC, I beg them to pull the car over, and I just BARELY make it out of the car, projectile vomiting what I’m assuming were tuna rolls all over the ground in a random DC parking lot. Not only that, the parking lot was occupied by some gangbangers probably chilling to make a drug deal. Well, I hopefully livened up their night, and now the story about the drunk girl puking out of the sexy black porsche is all around their possy. Damnit. Puking so not sexy enough for a porsche.

Well, Sugardaddy managed two tickets on the way home, not sure how he’s explaining that one to his wife, seeing as how his “business meeting in Baltimore” doesn’t add up to him having speeding tickets in DC. And I managed to get sick again, as I mentioned, on the side of 50, and again, for a good portion of the night at Hotblonde’s house.

And it didn’t help the next morning to get a phone call at 8am from my mom wanting to know where the hell I am because she never got my message the day before that plans had changed and I would then be staying at Hotblondes. She was not pleased, and spent the entire day making me pay for it. How you ask? Well, as any loving mother would - exploiting my very obvious hang over by at every opportunity brining up alcohol refrences.

“What’s a 7 letter name for mexican liquor? Oh that’s right! TEQUILA”

Fuck crossword puzzles.

So I took one of my leftover anti-nausea pills from when i was on Percocet, hit the shower, then hit the couch. Slept for probably 4 hours before waking up at 10pm, being awake maybe a half hour, getting bored, then going back to bed for the rest of the night, and most the next day.

It was totally worth it.