Friends, Fears, and Flan

I was visiting some of my best friends in the whole entire universe the other day. We hung out for hours at a coffee shop talking about rigor mortis and poetry, old bones that could either be linked to a decades old murder or someone's thrown out chicken dinner, anthropology, tattoos, and watermelon (see video below for more watermelon adventures from the one and only, Hartbeat).

It was a blast. I made a new friend, drank some amazing coffee (thanks to Houston's Black Hole Coffee House), and basked in the glorious feeling of being cocooned in the cacophony of those who understand me.

After the caffeine had successfully saturated my entire being, we decided to head out for some grub. It made sense to take one car since there were only four people. Our car smells like farts and seven-year-old-boy-spilled-everything, so I delightfully chose to go in our friend's car. That's when she said it.

"Neither of you are scared of cockroaches, are you?"

I started to sweat a little. My heart rate quickened. M'Lady was in the bathroom, unable to make fun of me in this horrendous situation.

"Yes," I said, "I have a horrible problem with cockroaches." Big swallow. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, there are some cockroaches that have nested in my car, but I haven't seen one today."

What the fuck!!!! Cockroaches. In. The. Car. Noooooo! This is not something my fragile, people pleasing mind is capable of handling. I'm supposed to be all, "Nah, it's okay gurl, I ain't scared of no roach."

Instead, instinct kicked in.

"We're not going in your car. I cannot handle that. No."

Of course, I eventually decided I was being a big 'ol wimp pie and acquiesced to riding in the midst of the nest. It really didn't look that bad. The mess was much smaller than our molded out car. I buckled into the front seat, ready to head out.

"Can you please get out of the car," my friend said in a gentle, but shaky voice.

I jumped out faster than one of those rabbit's from Snatch, held onto the edge of the door, shaking with tears forming in my eyes.

SMASH! She bravely destroyed the beast as I began to crumble into hysteria. Luckily, I really needed to change my tampon, so I excused myself to the bathroom. It turns out periods aren't completely useless. All in all, I think I handled myself pretty well.

After washing my hands (if you don't wash your hands after using the bathroom you are a dirty, filthy person), I got back into the car and we headed to a 24 hour Mexican restaurant. I wasn't hungry so I watched my friends eat guacamole burritos while M'Lady brought up the topic of fisting. The waiter came by and asked if we wanted anything else. Tres Leches? Flan? He had me at creamy, caramel custard. One flan for the bunch.

As it arrived on a simple plate, with a simple fork, gleaming in it's sugary goodness, I could not help but proclaim, "That's FLANTASTIC!"

The waiter simply walked away. If he knows what's good for him, he'll use that line on future customers. Who could resist tipping such genius?

Anyway, the night ended with M'Lady twerkin' 'cross the front window of the restaurant, much to the amusement (or disgust) of the proprietor.

THIS POST WAS BROUGHT TO YOU BY FLAN