Drunken Diaries, Entry #2: WTF

Entry #2: August 1-August 2

Wtfwtf. All the guys that hit on me tonight have been to jail, or so I’m told by the birthday buddy that went bar hopping with us tonight. He’s from the town we’re at the bars in so he knows the dirt. Do I look like jail bait?—wait, don’t answer that. I mean really. Here’s the thing: do not ask me to buy your beer and then say I have pretty eyes. It’s the other way around if you even want to have a chance. Also, shouldn’t it be the other way around. I’m not necessarily old fashioned, but damn. Buy me a drink, you asshole. Then, wtf. Dude comes up to ask me to dance and then some girl comes to talk to him as he sits at the table. And not just to say hi, no, no. This girl has a few minute conversation with him and I’m just sipping away on my cocktail. WTF, girl? I know the routine—come around to explain some emergency or make me jealous—but doesn’t that happen when the guy is the one who doesn’t initiate the dance? You don’t need to save him, he asked me you ass-hat. Naturally, I want to know what the fuck that is so I say, “What the hell was that?” Seriously, the dude buries his head in his hands after finishing his Corona (with no lime might I add. That should have been a sign!). he says he can’t shake her. I think it’s weird. Coincidentally, the lights came up for last call while she was talking to him. Apparently that cleared up the any blurriness from my booze goggles and I realized I probably didn’t want to dance with him in the first place. I’m then informed as we’re leaving that he’s loaded, but he’s been to jail only once. OMG, do we have a winner? No. Shit. I guess I got to go back and try again. Damn, and I actually took the time to do my hair and put on makeup—and I fucking hate makeup. Am I in desperate for a man? By all means, no! Am I wanting to get laid? Well, that wouldn’t be terrible. Do I like to get asked to dance or have a drink bought for me? Well, hell yes I do. The way to my heart is through vodka and just a little bit of hip swinging. Shit, I usually don’t do dancing, but something about the liquor makes my ass move like a cyclone… or a psycho. I guess it depends on how much I’ve had.
Oh no. In all this, I’ve nearly forgotten that I have to work tomorrow—tomorrow is a Sunday. Fuck me! Not that I use that day to stop and contemplate the presence of the Lord or whatever. But no, I use that day as a day of rest. I make myself a good breakfast and chill out. I don’t even work out or clean on Sunday mornings. That’s saying something from the neat-freak workout junkie. I make pancakes and sit on my ass in bed. Hell, I guess I could still do that tomorrow. I don’t have to be at the water park until noon or so. Yeah, what a job, huh? Go to a water park to tan and swim while pausing for about 10 minutes to play a duck in a puppet show. That doesn’t mean that I like working on Sundays. I hope there are cute boys there. And when I say boys, I mean the ones my age. I don’t need any more of this 16 year-old lifeguard bull shit. You still have baby fat and the girls that played on my softball team this year want you. I can’t compete with that. I’m like the ultimate 15 year-old with tattoos and piercings you can’t get until you’re at least 18. show me the 20 somethings please! And no radio personalities. Apparently they don’t know how to charm someone via text message. P.S. doing so by asking for suggestions on how to get rid of an erection before bed is not the way to score a date. Loser.
Oh, want to know what sound a catfish makes? Wait, of course you do. What a stupid question. Meow-gurgle.
Goodnight!