I make fun of people. A lot. Like pretty much all the time. If I’m not making fun of you while speaking to your face, then I’m definitely making fun of you in my mind. I stay far, far away from people claiming to have E.S.P. in fear they’ll incite a mob of people who will burn me at the stake for being a hateful monster. By the way, I also stay away from people with V.D., but for totally different reasons.
I’m convinced my internal monologue should have its own TV show. Honey Boo Boo ain’t got nothing on me! I’m absolutely hysterical (and modest). I also would probably not have a job or likely any friends BUT it would be pretty amazing. I could get my own perfume (who doesn’t love the smell of rum, sweat and semen?), possibly some sort of app (magically tells you where the closest piece of cheese is), the possibilities are endless!
I think about some really weird shit. Like, REALLY weird shit, people.
But as much fun as I make of other people, I’m probably even better at making fun of myself. I don’t take myself too seriously, although I’m pretty serious about that.
I traveled to Nashville in November for a Bears/Titans game with some single friends of mine. We had a fucking phenomenal time. I almost died of alcohol poisoning, but it was SO worth it. I’m going to keep you in suspense, as I’ll be saving some of those stories for my Drunk postings.
On Saturday, we woke up and decided to have some brunch to start off our day. For those of you not familiar with the term brunch, it’s Latin for the phrase “binge drink while eating breakfast.” But hey, it’s considered classy if quiche is involved right?
The restaurant was having a two-for-one deal on beverages until 3 p.m.and I instantly knew this was going to be my new favorite place. At least until 2:59. We were sitting at a table overlooking the restaurant. During one of my cursory glances around the room, a gent sitting one level below caught my eye, smiled and waved. I instantly giggled, turned away blushing but managed to give a slight hand convulsion that could be construed as a wave. That or he thought I was attempting to walk like an egyptian while getting electrocuted. I’m so smooth.
About 10 minutes later he was at the head of our table and, like a completely normal person (they exist!!!), he introduced himself and asked if he could buy us a round of shots. It was only about 1 p.m. I liked this guy already. I could feel my underwear taking itself off my body. Thank God I was wearing a skirt. My underwear knew it was free to jump and plunge to uncertain death. After the Fireball shot burned a hole in my esophogus, he made his way over to me to butter me up.
In the interim, some of his Chicago fireman friends had joined us as well. One of them in particular seemed REALLY smart:
Muscles: Whaddaya drinking? Are dose mimosOs?
Less Muscular But Equally Dumb Friend: Whad is a mimosO?
Muscles: You know. Champagne. Lemonade.
Well, my fireman was a complete gentleman. He was absolutely hilarious. He was confident without being cocky. He was forthcoming about his life and upfront about the fact he liked me. My bra took a cue from my now-puddled-at-my-feet panties and started to unhook itself. Damn it bra, we need to make this guy think I have breasts, not low hanging pancakes! I reached back to keep that fucker in check. In due time, bra, in due time.
My friends and I were leaving to go to another bar, and he was planning to take a quick disco nap back at his hotel, so we exchanged phone numbers.
My single girlfriends and I continued to drink throughout the day. Things got hazy by the end of the night. And by hazy I mean lights out. I disappeared for awhile and was apparently hanging out with some new friends who I luckily took a picture of with my phone. Let’s just say these two new girlfriends were not likely of the heterosexual persuasion. Their clothing was reminiscent of 1982. They most definitely were around for the Nixon Administration. I can only assume my time spent in their company was both classy and quiet.
The next day I woke up (fully clothed) and saw that I had about 5 missed texts from my fireman trying to meet up. I also had pictures of myself back at my friends’ apartment with my Bears Mexican wrestling mask on. I looked liked I might have a bit of Down Syndrome. I also looked like I really liked lemons. Because I was still drunk, I opted to text my fireman back stating something to the effect of:“Sorry I was incommunicado. I got pretty drunk last night.” Then I proceeded to send him a picture of myself in the mask.
Seriously, my eyes are half mast. I think you might even see some drool pooling in my lower lip. I was grasping lemons as if they were going to somehow turn into limoncello on their own. You think the picture is scratch-n-sniff as a whiff of stale beer accompanied the sight. This was NOT a picture to send to ANYBODY. Let alone a potential suitor.
I sometimes wish I was a little more normal.
Then I make a really funny joke in my head (about you) and then I’m happy that I’m not in the least bit normal at all.