The bar we ended up going to was one of those typical Wrigley bars. You know, flashy with nothing but college boys who aren’t actually college boys – more like thirty five year olds who wish they were still in college. Maybe they think they are, I don’t know.
So yeah, we ended up going to – I think it was called Barry’s Grill and Pub, or something. And I’m done for the night. You know me, I don’t last long on these outings anymore. Like, do I really need to get so drunk that I throw up and black out into my own puke? I don’t think so.
Everyone else, of course, is going perfectly strong. Like they don’t have to go to work the next morning. Seriously, who goes out on a Sunday night? I don’t know what they were thinking when they made the Facebook event.
Actually, I’m surprised so many showed up. I guess a lot of people really love Sylvia and her birthday shin-digs.
So like I said we’re at this bar, all these people are here for Sylvia. The normal regular patrons are all pissed that we’ve taken over. They’re the thirty five year olds I mentioned earlier. Most of them hate us – but this one guy – oh and he was so cute too – this one guy decides to just come on over and talk to me.
Yeah, come and talk to me.
The lame-o-la of the party.
Of course, I had on my black dress. You know, the one that shows off the tattoos on my back. Maybe he thought I was frivolous or something because of that.
So he comes up, just out of the blue, like ‘hey hey you wanna drink? I’m paying. I can pay. Yeah.’
And I’m just sooo not having it. Who talks like that? Come on dude, really? And plus, take a body signals class or something.
But, I’m way to polite, you know me, and I say, “Sure. Thanks.”
SO STUPID! I know! My gosh, but hey, it’s a free drink right?
So he buys me whatever the hell he’s drinking and sits down next to me.
Have I mentioned to you how much I absolutely hate bar stools? No? Let me explain. There’s no freedom in a bar stool. And I’m talking especially the ones that are bolted to the floor. Like, I can’t be wise enough in my decisions as to where I should sit. No freedom of choice. No freedom of movement too. Cause this guy is a big guy – I mean tall, not fat – so he has long-ass legs and these bar stools are nice and packed closely together so now he’s got his knobby-ass knees rubbing up against my thighs and all I can do is sigh.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing with such weirdo tattoos?” He says, smirking into his glass before he takes a drink.
I could have spit on him I was so mad.
Instead, I smile, “I’m a big fan of submarines and world war two. Did you know that German U-boots didn’t spend a whole lot of time underwater? Yeah, they would dive to either attack or evade, though there is some research that says they’d have gone back and forth with a few hours below the surface and a few hours above. Not to mention that their lives were crap. Guys on the American subs, some of them had panini machines and whatnot. But the Germans barely had enough water to drink. Cause, you know, you can’t actually drink distilled water so you gotta bring your own.”
I’m greeted from this with an incredibly beautiful blank stare. So I took my own sip of the slop he bought me. “Ew, what are you drinking? A martini? Dear God, I’m gonna go get a beer.” And then before I hop happily off the bar stool I gave him one of those Cheshire grins everyone talks about, “Have a good rest of the night.”
I’ve never felt more proud.
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