she is demanding that i go out. in public. that i have fun. that i drink beer and yell swear words until i physically cannot drink and yell swear words anymore, which will just mean it is time for a gas station burrito and bed. she interprets my inability to commit as a refusal.
"don't turn into one of those girls," she spits at me.
"too late," i spit back.
when i hear through the grapevine that jcrew and bubbles are considering red star or aces, my decision is made for me. not only am i one of those girls, i am also vehemently opposed to having one of those nights. as you know, i've vowed to not return to aces until it it thoroughly deloused and de-d-bagged. and red star -- well, i can still taste the graham cracker chunks i wretched the time i over indulged in key lime martinis. and, frankly, i'm not up for techno remixes of madonna's greatest hits and the spastic interpretive dance it inspires.
"fine," jcrew relents. "we'll go where you want to go."
i want to go to mr. d's.
mr. d's is exactly what i am craving. crowds and cover bands and spandex violations. a place where if i don't wash my hands in the bathroom, i'm the rule, not the exception. an all-inclusive resort-like destination bar for proctorites who have been 86'd from the powerhouse.
a place with its own breathalizer.
first we drink two beers apiece. then we aproach the greatest bar trick invented. it costs a dollar to play.
"what do you think you'll blow?" chuck asks.
"hmm ... maybe point one two," i guess.
he goes first:
and blows .00.
this thing is obviously a little off.
then i go:
i blow .02, while the carnie watches. this thing is definitely off.
back at the table, we're playing "name the signiture power ballad of [fill in the blank with the name of a hairband]." unfortunately we are all looped to the point where someone says "cinderella" and we all stare blankly at the table.
information that would easily conjured in the light of day has become the stuff of a MENSA meeting.
from there, things get foggy.
i know there was a burrito, though. and bed.
now. who wants to drive me to my car?