If Chili Beer is Satan, I think I may have met Beelzebub.

The past few days have been eventful, both internally and externally. Many things are moving, and activity is the order of the day. All things and feelings and situations can be a blessings--both good things and bad things--if they inspire us to move forward. Moving forward I am.

Thursday was full of family and food, and being asked two dozen times, "so what are you doing now?" To which I had to reply, "well, I'm working in a bookstore and I don't really know what I'm going to be doing or when." That always makes you feel successful.* The day ended with a big helping of honesty and intimacy between me and Conrad, albeit hard won.

After I worked at the Stupid Shack on Black Friday, Conrad called to see if I wanted to go meet up with a lot of old friends at a house very close to my own. I picked him up and we were in the company of two glasses of champagne and about twenty people we love within half an hour. It was, quite possibly, the best night I can remember in months, and Conrad said he has been riding the high of it for days now. All told, I probably laughed harder and more than I had in the previous three months combined.

Most people think that their friends are the best. They are simply wrong. My friends, the group that I hung out with Friday night, are indisputably superior to your friends. Firstly, I have known these people since early high school, and at 22, that alone says something about how much we like one another. At this point, many of the group live at different points around the country, and there are still impromptu parties like this one that just happen and turn out to be the best things ever. Secondly, they are the most intelligent, compassionate, hilarious, hip and interesting group of people I have ever heard of. Hemingway and his Expat-Bohemian-artist friends had nothing on us. Thirdly, the chemistry of the group is just incredible. The party was like what a holiday family gathering should be. No pretension, no fake smiles, just genuine camaraderie as soon as I walked in the door. So, I am really sorry that you don't have my friends. Seriously. I wish everybody could have friends like that.

Saturday was spent almost entirely at the trapeze studio, where I dealt with crying kids and bleeding ankles. That night, Jace and I went to Atlanta to see Drive-By Truckers at the Tabernacle. It was the Fucking Rock, and I am now deaf in my right ear. Stupidly, I didn't bring earplugs and Tabernacle, for some reason, doesn't sell them. Let's move into the 21st century, people. Tinnitus is so 1984. Truckers play a great show, and I was sad that Conrad couldn't see it, because he is the only person I am close to who loves them.

Me and Julia are nailing our routine. With a little less than two weeks until show time, I am super-psyched. We finally seem to have moved past our insecurities about the routine and are really in sync (or are we *NSYNC?) I started getting nervous about what the people I care about are going to think about the performance and then I was like, you know what? This is not about performance at all. Performance is what I want to get away from. I mean, I sincerely want people to enjoy the show and take something positive away from it, but it really shouldn't be about doing it for anyone else. I do trapeze for me, because I love it and it makes me feel good. Whether people hate it or want to have my babies after they see me perform, I don't really care. Achievement is its own reward. Pride merely obscures it. Cream?

*I got a call today from a major metro-Atlanta paper. They asked me to come in for an interview next week. Oh, dear Lord, how thankful and pumped I am.

In honor of my friends tonight [this is our hometown], I bring you The Chili Beer Incident. Witness and enjoy. 

Why is this so wonderful? Probably because tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and we all need a little something to relieve the stress of (at least in my case) 2 dozen family members in one room. And what better way to do that than to make fun of others (or oneself, if you're the self-deprecating type.)? Here is some more hilarity for you to enjoy.

Make like the Greeks and frat it up.

Vin Diesel could kick every ninja and pirate's ass ever while porking your mom. Via What We All Want.

Low on funds? Make selling your body easier with a good ad slogan.

As always, Strong Bad is brilliantly stupid.

Nothing like a few terrible songs written by a 14-year old to lift your spirits.

Eat up!

Edit: Go to Google. Type "failure" in the search box, sans quotation marks. Press the "I'm feeling lucky" button. Laugh your ass off.

At 3 p.m, I was still not dressed and happy to be so. I had been lying under a mountain of fluffy covers with my heating pad on my leg, trolling blogs and job listings for about two hours. Life was good. Presently, I got the feeling that I had spent my entire day in bed, though I knew I still had many fruitful hours ahead of me during which I would clean out my closet. But this feeling was uncanny, and I realized suddenly that the reason I felt this way was because through my curtain, it appeared to be completely dark outside. I got up and walked into the living room and over to the loveseat, where Sarge was sitting up on the back, doing what we call "smooshin' the cushion." He was looking out the window, and so I sat down beside him and we both sat there and watched, with our heads on our hands/paws as a deluge came down. The sky was such a complete opaque grey that it seemed impossible that it had ever been or could be clear and blue. It was really extraordinary. The water washed piles of pinestraw and leaves that had been languishing in the gutters away and across the parking lot; it beat the orange leaves off the tree outside my window and plastered them into the mud. As I sat there with Sarge, I literally could not remember a rain so dreary, and so wonderful at the same time. I felt very lucky to be indoors, where it was warm, and dry, and cheery. I was even reminded of one of my favorite quotes by Emily Dickinson, which perfectly describes how I feel about days like today:

"There are winter mornings when the cold without only adds to the warmth within; and the more it snows and the harder it blows, brighter the fires blaze."

Generally, it was perfect. Provisions enough were in the pantry; I had good work to do, and a book to distract me (about dreary, rainy London--so appropriate) should the need arise, a friendly cat to purr in my lap and the promise of working on my trapeze routine with Julia later with the fresh inspiration of Cirque du Soliel in our minds.

Then my phone rang.

I didn't actually hear it--as you may recall, I was at the window watching the rain, which was, at the time, so violently loud that the buzzing and singing of my phone could not be heard. But a few minutes later, as the rain died a bit, I heard the little arpeggio that signals a voicemail, and I went to retrieve it.

It was my manager.

"Hi April, this is Jimmy just calling to see if you were coming in to work today." He sounded like he had a hamster in his mouth and might have been trying out for the part of Tiny Tim in the community play. It was really pathetic and I immediately exploded into an anxious frizzball. I ran around, trying to find my planner. Why, dear readers, would a fairly responsible person like myself just not remember or realize that I was scheduled to work on this occasion?

Because I had a conversation with my manager in which I told him (he, who only has to make a schedule for three fucking people ) the four of fourteen weekly shifts which I, under no circumstances, could work. Week after week, I have the same availability. For a reminder, I made a chart, complete with highlighter, that shows my availability, which I wrote in the "Music Department Log." Here it is.

Sun Mon Tue Wed Thu Fri Sat AM yes yes yes yes yes no no PM yes no yes yes no yes yes

Is that easy to read? I hope so. I designed it with ease-of-use in mind, because my manager is a fucking retard. I called him back. I said, "Hey, it's April. This is getting kind of ridiculous (see entry 11.18), isn't it?" He said, "oh yeah, I saw after I called you that you can't work Monday nights, but can you come in?" So I, because of my need for money and desire to stay in B&N's good graces, went in.

It's really worked out, though! I mean, I never would have had the chance to preview the new Scott Stapp album or help that nice lady find every album in the store with a version of "Over the Rainbow," if I hadn't! So it was all for the best. Plus, I got a chance to experience those 26 mph wind gusts firsthand. Sometimes fate just hands you a fairy tale.