2003-08-10 @ 12:45 a.m.
I'm finally back from Santo Domingo, and I'm currently buzzed (the outcome of consuming a "virgin" pina colada which seemed to have had it's cherry popped without my knowing). I was half-plastered for a week. Dominicans don't know the meaning of the words "no" and "alcohol" when uttered together in one sentence. Anyway, I'm back, and I'm alive. Joanna's attempt at being "Nostradumbass" failed miserably (a few entries ago she prophesied my death in a horrible plane crash on my way to, or on my way back from Santo Domingo). Anyway, my week-long getaway at the Bavaro Princess was an O.K. experience. Not the best, but it was O.K.
After sleeping for about an hour, I arise promptly at 4 am. The plane leaves for Santo Domingo at 7 am, but airports are bastards (at least MIA is), so you have to arrive a few hours beforehand. Nothing really happened, except for the fact that my party almost boarded the wrong plane. During this time I learned that my younger cousin (currently 10) has a severe cursing problem (when a kid tells a chair to go suck on bull tesicles and fuck a soggy pizza crust, you know there's a problem). At around 12 we arrive at the resort (I'm skipping a lot here, but nothing really happened). Everything seems to be going alright, except for one thing...THEY DON'T HAVE OUR ROOMS! They didn't have quite a few people's rooms, in fact. The stoopid hotel wanted to send us elsewhere, but we refused to go. In the end, at about 4 pm, we finally got our rooms. By this time, half the adults I was with were drunk, just full-blown drunk, and I learned that Dominicans don't think twice about filling a glass to the rim with an alcoholic beverage, I later learned they don't think twice about putting that very glass into the hands of a child, either. I walked around a great deal this day. The pool was nice, but I didn't like the beach a whole lot. Too many waves.
I awake to a familiar feeling. "Oh my god", I utter to myself, in half-sleep. The people around me are roused by my incoherent mutterings. "What's wrong?", asks my boyfriend, groggily, rubbing his eyes, staring up from a mass of blankets arranged messily about him on his bed. "I just got my fucking period", I reply, a satirical tone in my voice, and I fall back asleep. I didn't go in the pool for obvious reasons, so I lounged about, read, listened to the "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" soundtrack, and I people-watched. People-watching is fun. Immediately I noticed "Guy Pierce Look-alike". He had to have been in his late 20's or early 30's, but he was hot. Oh, was he hot. Then I noticed "Scary, Yet Oddly Cute, French Boy With the Tacky, Clunky, Gold Chain Hanging 'Round His Neck". I watched some more people, but those were the only two who really stood out.
No pool/beach for me today, either. My period had me on "hyperbitch mode". I took a snap at anything, I was ready and willing for confrontation. I felt like a frosty penis; cold and hard. Today my hatred toward small children was renewed. One smiled at me. I feel highly uncomfortable around small children as it is, just their presence, it's just...and...um...I just don't feel right, then one goes and smiles at me. Maybe it was the fact that I was a frosty penis, but I was repulsed by it, repulsed by a happy toddler. I'm sick.
"Hyperbitchiness" still intact, but I decided to go into the pool. It was nice, I guess, the pool calmed me. The only thing that really bothered me was the fact that there were lots of leaves, twigs, and other such plant material floating about in the water. Today was the first time I ever really got "drunk". That night I learned that my little cousin is the god of corny jokes. He came up with an extremely bad one on this night. I called him a "lazy ass", and in response he says, "My ass is so lazy, it doesn't even crap when I want it to". All I could do was laugh...
I awoke to, what my friend "Twiggy" calls, a mini-hangover. My head was throbbing, and I felt like crap, just crap. On the plus side, I had an amazing dream. I dreamt I was on the beach, and I came across Brian Molko. He was just sitting here, tanned, lying half-naked on the sand, looking like the sex god he is. I approached him, called him "Mr. Molko", and asked him for an autograph. The rest of my dream consisted of a conversation between "Mr. Molko" and myself. I kept my eyes peeled for anything 'Brian Molko' that day. During "lunch" I saw this incredibly angsty-looking boy. He had a chopped, bobby hairdo, the kind Brian Molko sports in the "Taste in Men" video. He was adorable. I wanted to hug him. I named him "Jonah", for some reason. "Scary French Boy with the Gold Chain" became "Cute French Boy Who Used to Wear the Gold Chain". He stared at me while I was in the pool. I felt watched. It was an odd feeling.
"Jonah" walked past me during "breakfast". He was wearing pink swimming trunks, and a Justin Timberlake shirt with the "Justified" album cover on it. The shirt made me want to hug him even more. It seemed so out-of-place on him, it made him even cuter. My boyfriend was the first to point this out. Later that day my friend, "Twiggy", got a henna tattoo done on his inner thigh. At first he refused to show it to me, but I coaxed him into letting me catch a peek. It reads "whore" in block letters. Simple, but gets the message across.
Being the selfish brat that I am, I couldn't let "Twiggy" be the only person in my party with a henna tattoo, so I got one done, too. A butterfly on my left wrist. Pretty. I did some more people-watching while I waited for my temporary tattoo's ink to dry. This time I noticed "really hot boy". I didn't get creative while naming him, but this seemed to fit. This guy was amazing. He looked a lot like my boyfriend, too. The "Cute French Boy Who Used to Wear the Gold Chain" became the "Scary French Boy Who Began to Wear the Gold Chain Again, And Was Now Playing Chicken With the Little Boy On the Other Side of the Pool".
My last day in Santo Domingo. After sitting around for a few hours while I watched "Girl, Interrupted" and "Made" (some MTV show), a bus finally came to take my party to the airport. We finally boarded the plane, and it was basically a free-for-all. Everyone was sitting wherever they pleased. I got very angry, and I began to complain, very loudly, about a man who was sitting in the seat my mother was supposed to be seated in. I later felt rather guilty when I realized he didn't have a left hand. I swear. It wasn't there. That was low of me. Then, while the plane's passing through a cloud, lightning begins to flash. I commenced to "freak the hell out", but I later realize that the "lightning" was merely some flashing light out on the plane's wing. At night, from above, Miami looks beautiful. A massive potpourri of lights. Gorgeous from afar, but get too close, and you'll be in for a disappointment. The plane finally touched down, and we were stuck with the Immigrations Officer from hell. The Immigration Nazi sent myself, my mother, and my aunt and uncle into Customs for some reason, claiming he found a "problem" with our passports. Turns out he's an inexperienced newbie, and there was no "problem" after all. Stoopid pasty-faced bastard with bad hair and bushy eyebrows...stoopid Immigration Nazi. Basically, the four of us were way behind the rest of the group, and we find that there are no people remaining in Immigration. We go to the baggage claim and find that our baggage isn't there, so we assume that the rest of our party went ahead and took our suitcases along with theirs. We assumed correctly, however, they forgot my uncle's baggage, so we had to wait for an hour or so for his bags to be "found". A taxi ride later, and I'm at my aunt's house. It's almost 12 am by now, and my aunt's friend then drives my parents and myself over to my house. HOME! Now I'm here, writing about my trip, realizing I've left an incredible deal out, but not really minding because I already made this entry too long.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
I left many things out, but I want to mention some of them.
I forgot when a lot of things happened, Monday to Thursday is basically a big blur for me, but here goes nothing.
My boyfriend was hit on by some scary European guy in a Speedo.
The scary European guy in the Speedo realized my boyfriend wasn't "into" him, so he moved on to "Twiggy", who wasn't "into" him, either.
I finished reading "Cujo" by Stephen King, which I was forced to read for school.
I take back all that I've said about Stephen King being a good-for-nothing author. I now hold some respect for him as a writer.
The waiters didn't laugh at my horrible spanish (sorry Kathy).
...I don't know what else to write, but I might add more later.
Listening to: The tap-tap-tapping of my keyboard...
everything © Claudia (2003-2008)