There are a lot of things I am not. Subtle? Not my strongest suit.
Graceful? If you think the lovechild of a rhino and a one-legged duck is graceful, then I’m your girl.
Fortunately for me (and all of you), I am a lot of things. One of which is fun. I love to have fun. I mean, I know most people THINK they like to have fun and are, in fact, having fun. But seriously, they’re not. If they’re not with me, they’re not really having fun.
Also, if you were wondering, modesty is not on the list of my character traits. I don’t really care. I’m self-aware.
And I’m a fucking good time.
Drunk or sober, people. But when I’m drunk, you’re way more likely to see my ass or crotch. Which is not only more fun, but also CLASSY.
I’ve decided that people should seriously hire me out for their birthday parties. I like to celebrate birthdays. Mostly my own, but I’ll celebrate yours, too.
Like it’s my own.
Long story short (too late!), I was celebrating my friend’s 30th birthday last year. We went out for a super scrumptious dinner, where I likely (meaning I did) drank too much wine, nibbled my food and offended at least one person at the dinner by talking about vaginas or hard-core drugs.
For the record, I don’t actually do hardcore drugs.
I just like to talk about doing them.
Which, in my book, is probably very annoying to people who actually do dabble in hard-core drugs. Then again, a hit on a crack pipe probably would help some people who are trapped in conversations with me. My laugh might be contagious, but it will also haunt your soul.
Back to the story. I’m drunk. It’s my friend’s birthday. And by drunk, I mean, I’m REAL drunk. Like, stupid drunk.
Like I thought it was a good idea to pose in “pin-up” style pictures standing on a booth in a short dress. Seeing these pictures the next day, I realized I really looked like I just had some major gas and possibly a neurological disorder.
I then proceeded to get ridiculously mad at most of the other partygoers, telling my friend they weren’t celebrating “enough.”
I mean, I literally told her, “Why are people not more excited for your birthday? I HATE these fucking people.”
After the THREE AM bar we were at closed, we decided to cab it over to my friend’s favorite dive karaoke bar Alice’s Lounge. In the cab I managed to mount my friend (whose birthday it was not), at one point sitting and wrapping my legs around her shoulders.
Seriously, there are pictures.
And no, I will not be posting them up here. You see very strange parts of my inner thigh that are not meant for the human eye.
At the late-late bar I proceeded to drown myself in even more Captain and Diet. If I couldn’t feel any pain before, at this point I would have been considered clinically dead.
There was this girl at the bar who kept glaring at me. Let’s call her Stupid Ass Bitch. Honestly, I remember this very distinctly and even have backup from my friends. Stupid Ass Bitch was staring at me with a puss on her face. She was also wearing jean short overalls. Granted, the overalls didn’t offend me as much as the puss on her face did.
Honey, it’s four in the morning, you’re at a karaoke bar, you’re wearing jean overalls … this night is NOT going to get any better for you. GO HOME. STOP RUINING MY NIGHT WITH YOUR SNOTTY ASS FACE.
I’m seriously not one for confrontation. In my drunken stupor, I thought the best way to counter Stupid Ass Bitch was by unbuttoning my dress right in front of her as I stared at her creepily.
Although this did not resolve the situation, it did leave my friends with some lasting memories of my cleavage and creepy face.
Moral of the Story:
Invite me to your birthday party.