One for the Record Books

You know your blood alcohol content was likely near the .20% range when you wake to a ball of chewed bubble gum firmly planted on your nightstand. Gum you apparently put there at some point during the hours of 2:30 am (give or take a few) and 10:34 am. Because upon the realization you'd a.) gone to bed with a wad of gum in your mouth b.) slept a few hours and been fortunate enough not to choke to death on the wad of gum in your mouth, you'd decided the five feet from your bed to the nearest trash can was an impossible feat.

Saturday was T.'s birthday so we went to dinner and did some shopping. Afterwards we got ready at her place and watched Steve-O get his butt cheeks pierced together on Jackass. Some people decided they were too cool to hang out with us, but it turned out for the better since we had way more fun than we ever imagined. Per C-Sharp's suggestion, we decided to check out a new bar downtown. It didn't look a whole lot different than the old bar it replaced with the addition of some booths and a better dance floor, but it was a different crowd that seemed to attract more people in our age group (25-30).

We arrived way-too-sober, but fret not for there were drinks to be had (8 or 9 of 'em + 3 shots), dancing to be done, lack of skill aside, and boys vying for our attention. It seems the black guys have been into me lately for one approached me as we were standing near the bar. As I stood there, arms crossed, he approached from behind which is never a good thing as I learned from The Game. It caught me off-guard and made me ill-at-ease. He introduced himself, but that was it. There's nothing I detest more than awkward silence. I was too sober to carry on a conversation with him at that point, and he really just failed with his introduction. I'm sure he thought I was a total bitch but I couldn't come up with anything to say to him so he just walked off.

Fast forward to drink 6. T. and I were rather amused by the males on the dance floor. One guy insisted on raising his hands high above his head as if he were taking part in one of those energized sermons where you sing and clap and praise the Lord. Or whatever it is they do. Then there was Scary Scarf Boy who wooed women with his scarf. His red and orange silk scarf possessed the power to seduce women. He managed to invade a group of four girls and danced provactively with one who happened to either be a stripper or knew Carmen Electra's striptease video by heart.

Not quite drunk enough to dance yet, we stood beside the dance floor as innocent bystanders, mocking all the dudes making fools of themselves. All in good fun. And then the second guy to hit on me came up and asked why we weren't dancing -- the standard pick-up line of all-time. Guys should really be more creative in this regard. He was attractive and sort of charming and he was actually older than me (doesn't happen often these days). I talked to him quite a bit but he was really too good-looking for me. I know that may sound crazy, but I prefer to be the more attractive one when it comes to dating. And I instantly don't trust good-looking men, particularly the ones who know they're good-looking. I also felt bad that his friend spent some talking to T. and as we headed to the bar for our next drink, she revealed the guy had bad breath. Gross dude, get a mint. Or take a step back.

The night really didn't get started until we took our first shot and decided to occupy two seats directly beside the dance floor, slowly inching our way towards it. This is the point in the night when we met Wheelchair Guy. He and his buddies had been out on the dance floor all night so it wasn't much of a surprise when he walked up to us and said, "Hey, why aren't you girls dancing?" Again, where's the originality? "Oh, we're waiting for a good song," the standard BS response. "You look like two girls in wheelchairs sitting there," he said. Then, in unison, he motioned with both his arms as if he were spinning the wheels of a wheelchair which became this hilarious dance move for the remainder of the evening. Not only did it get us to get up and dance, but he'd managed to provide an opening for himself. Not that either of us were interested in him in that way, but if that had been the case, he'd successfully opened the lines of communication. Ever since I read The Game, I've found this sort of thing fascinating: they way men pick up women and the interaction between males and females. It also turned out that Wheelchair Guy had a possessive girlfriend at home that called every fifteen minutes to check in on him which was rather comical. We had a good time dancing with Wheelchair Guy and his buddies. That is, until we realized we needed an umbrella to deflect Wheelchair Guy's saliva as he spoke.

After about drink 7 and shot #2, things get a bit fuzzy. I know another guy tried to say hi to me on the dance floor but I just laughed it off and wondered if I happened to look extremely hot i.e., easy or if the guy-to-girl ratio just tipped the scales in my favor. We wound up talking to another group of guys but by that point, I can only imagine what I must've sounded like, slurred speech and all. Drunkity, drunk, drunk. Toward the end, T. was so wasted that she decided it was time for her to go home -- right then and there. I offered to go with her but she pretty much bolted for the door. That's usually my move. I get too drunk, vacate the premises and put myself to bed. So I stayed and hung out with Jason and our new friends and it was somehow decided they would give me a ride home. No clue if I asked or they offered, but I'm willing to bet it wasn't my idea. Fortunately Jason didn't try to invite himself up or anything (not that I would've let him), for he had to give his two friends a ride home. Or maybe that was just his excuse, for I have a feeling I was "that girl." You know, the really hammered one they felt obliged to take care of, but couldn't wait to get rid of. After I got out of the car, they probably reiterated to one another how I was indeed "that girl."