Blown 472
09-30-2005, 12:46 PM
I've never been one for bars for a few reasons. The first one is that the second I start getting a little tipsy, I start getting a little mean. The second reason is that I hate loud, drunk obnoxious people, especially when they're packed into a tiny room. The third is that when I've had a little too much to drink and I'm in a room filled with other drunks, I'm probably going to start flapping my jaw at some poor, unsuspecting stranger.
About three years ago when I was still in college, my friend Amanda convinced me to go and hang out with her and some of her girlfriends from high school. At the time, I was in a passive-aggressive type relationship, so I knew that going out with the girls would definitely piss my ex off.
The choice was simple.
When I go out, I don't ***** it up. I don't own any club wear, and I wouldn't be caught dead in any outfit which shows off tons of skin. Some may say I'm modest or that I'm a prude. I call it being classy. Since I tend to stand out simply because I'm wearing clothes, I tend to get a lot of attention. That night, I had on a pair of dark jeans, heels and a lavender top.
We went to one of the local bars that was and is still known for attracting the mid-twenty to mid-thirty crowd. It's sort of like a "Cheers" type place. When we arrived, the place was jammed with people, and we were barely able to get to the bar.
I see some people I know and start chatting it up while I slam my Whiskey Sour. In the middle of our conversation, I feel someone tapping on my shoulder. I turn around and see this guy standing behind me.
"Hi," he said.
I said, "Hello," and turned back around.
He tapped again.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Fine," I said as I turned back around.
Finally, he got into my face.
"Aren't you going to ask me how I am?" he asked.
"Ok, how are you?"
"Doing better now that you're talking to me," he answered.
"That's nice," I said.
Yadda, yadda, yadda, I tell Don Juan that I have a boyfriend and he turns away and goes back to his friends.
About a minute after he walks away, this little bleach blonde girl comes up to me and says, "If I see you talking to my boyfriend again, I'm going to ****ing kill you."
"Hey, don't be pissed at me. It sounds like you might be having some relationship problems that you need to talk to him about. I mean, if everything was cool, he wouldn't be trying to get with other girls, right?" I asked.
"**** you, bitch," she said.
"I'm just trying to help you out. I feel as though you're directing the anger you have towards him at me," I said.
"Stop trying to placate me with your mumbo jumbo physiological shit," she said.
"I think you mean psychological," I said.
"One more ****ing time, and I swear," she said as she and her posse of twits went back to the bar.
I laughed it off and sat down at one of the tables in the back room with some of the people I had bumped into and the friend with whom I had gone to the bar with.
As we sat there, we watched the girl and her entourage go into the bathroom at least twenty times in a ten minute period. She would glare at me each time she walked past our table. Every time they came out, it seemed as though their faces were getting fatter, but it was just the result of the build up from their makeup.
My glass was dry, so I made my way to the bar to get another drink. As I'm standing there waiting, I realize that I'm starting to get really dizzy, and that maybe I shouldn't even drink the next one.
Against my instinct, I quickly finish it off. I put the glass down on the bar and start tripping my way back to my friends.
On the way, Don Juan stops me.
The girlfriend sees us talking.
She runs over to us and starts screaming.
If I were sober, I would have told her to **** off and been done with it. Since I was almost completely twisted by my standards, I start talking shit. Somehow, the conversation turns to her repeated visits to the bathroom.
She said, "It's none of your ****ing business what I'm doing in there."
I shouted, "You're probably going in there to put Vagisil on that grimy, itchy, yeasty **** of yours!"
It just happened to be one of those perfectly timed moments. As I was screaming my last statement, the jukebox was switching records, and the bar was nearly silent.
Everyone heard me.
Some drunk guy standing next to me started chanting, "Vagisil! Vagisil! Vagisil!"
Within seconds, every last drunk person in that bar was chanting right along with him.
Blondie started to cry and rushed out the door, while Don Juan stood there with a smirk on his face.
Moments later, the bouncer walked up to me and said, "Having a good time, doll?"
"Hell yes!" I said.
"Well, have a good time somewhere else. You're done here."
He grabbed my arm and ushered me outside, where my friend joined me after a few minutes.
"What the ****?" she asked.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your night," I said.
"Naw, it's all right. That was pretty funny," she said.
"I still feel bad."
"Don't. Just promise me that you won't announce the status of my vagina to a room full of crowded people."
"I'll try not to," I said as we made our way to her car.
A few months later, I ended up in that bar with my ex and some of his friends. When I showed the bouncer my ID, he said, "I remember you. You're the Vagisil Girl!"
I had a lot of explaining to do that night.
About three years ago when I was still in college, my friend Amanda convinced me to go and hang out with her and some of her girlfriends from high school. At the time, I was in a passive-aggressive type relationship, so I knew that going out with the girls would definitely piss my ex off.
The choice was simple.
When I go out, I don't ***** it up. I don't own any club wear, and I wouldn't be caught dead in any outfit which shows off tons of skin. Some may say I'm modest or that I'm a prude. I call it being classy. Since I tend to stand out simply because I'm wearing clothes, I tend to get a lot of attention. That night, I had on a pair of dark jeans, heels and a lavender top.
We went to one of the local bars that was and is still known for attracting the mid-twenty to mid-thirty crowd. It's sort of like a "Cheers" type place. When we arrived, the place was jammed with people, and we were barely able to get to the bar.
I see some people I know and start chatting it up while I slam my Whiskey Sour. In the middle of our conversation, I feel someone tapping on my shoulder. I turn around and see this guy standing behind me.
"Hi," he said.
I said, "Hello," and turned back around.
He tapped again.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Fine," I said as I turned back around.
Finally, he got into my face.
"Aren't you going to ask me how I am?" he asked.
"Ok, how are you?"
"Doing better now that you're talking to me," he answered.
"That's nice," I said.
Yadda, yadda, yadda, I tell Don Juan that I have a boyfriend and he turns away and goes back to his friends.
About a minute after he walks away, this little bleach blonde girl comes up to me and says, "If I see you talking to my boyfriend again, I'm going to ****ing kill you."
"Hey, don't be pissed at me. It sounds like you might be having some relationship problems that you need to talk to him about. I mean, if everything was cool, he wouldn't be trying to get with other girls, right?" I asked.
"**** you, bitch," she said.
"I'm just trying to help you out. I feel as though you're directing the anger you have towards him at me," I said.
"Stop trying to placate me with your mumbo jumbo physiological shit," she said.
"I think you mean psychological," I said.
"One more ****ing time, and I swear," she said as she and her posse of twits went back to the bar.
I laughed it off and sat down at one of the tables in the back room with some of the people I had bumped into and the friend with whom I had gone to the bar with.
As we sat there, we watched the girl and her entourage go into the bathroom at least twenty times in a ten minute period. She would glare at me each time she walked past our table. Every time they came out, it seemed as though their faces were getting fatter, but it was just the result of the build up from their makeup.
My glass was dry, so I made my way to the bar to get another drink. As I'm standing there waiting, I realize that I'm starting to get really dizzy, and that maybe I shouldn't even drink the next one.
Against my instinct, I quickly finish it off. I put the glass down on the bar and start tripping my way back to my friends.
On the way, Don Juan stops me.
The girlfriend sees us talking.
She runs over to us and starts screaming.
If I were sober, I would have told her to **** off and been done with it. Since I was almost completely twisted by my standards, I start talking shit. Somehow, the conversation turns to her repeated visits to the bathroom.
She said, "It's none of your ****ing business what I'm doing in there."
I shouted, "You're probably going in there to put Vagisil on that grimy, itchy, yeasty **** of yours!"
It just happened to be one of those perfectly timed moments. As I was screaming my last statement, the jukebox was switching records, and the bar was nearly silent.
Everyone heard me.
Some drunk guy standing next to me started chanting, "Vagisil! Vagisil! Vagisil!"
Within seconds, every last drunk person in that bar was chanting right along with him.
Blondie started to cry and rushed out the door, while Don Juan stood there with a smirk on his face.
Moments later, the bouncer walked up to me and said, "Having a good time, doll?"
"Hell yes!" I said.
"Well, have a good time somewhere else. You're done here."
He grabbed my arm and ushered me outside, where my friend joined me after a few minutes.
"What the ****?" she asked.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your night," I said.
"Naw, it's all right. That was pretty funny," she said.
"I still feel bad."
"Don't. Just promise me that you won't announce the status of my vagina to a room full of crowded people."
"I'll try not to," I said as we made our way to her car.
A few months later, I ended up in that bar with my ex and some of his friends. When I showed the bouncer my ID, he said, "I remember you. You're the Vagisil Girl!"
I had a lot of explaining to do that night.