When TLC sings, “Stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to,” I feel that this is applicable to my social life. Simply put, I need to not think I’m a young bad bitch– I’m an old bad bitch that’s had her fun. I’m now used to sitting, drinking, talking, and judging other people. I’d rather sip wine and have a great conversation. The days of taking two hours to get ready while trying to flounce around in high heels are done, and I need to tattoo this on my forehead. Due to some shitty fucking life circumstances and my partner in desmadre gone, I’ve become the ultimate hermit. However, I did make an effort a couple of times to put on nice clothes, some lipstick, and pull myself together.
Given my shitty life circumstances I mentioned, my brain decided to purchase a one-way ticket to a mineshaft. I have been the proverbial wet blanket; the sad clown smoking and talking about his “bitch of an ex-wife” in front of the kids at a birthday party. When I am in these places in life, alcohol and I are like Bobby and Whitney (RIP, girl). I also grow a “DO NOT PRESS/SELF DESTRUCT” button that somehow gets pressed anyway. At one recent outing, someone decided it would be a great idea to load me up with free vodka. Free. Vodka. Superman would also consider free vodka comparable to kryptonite. Anywho, I said and did some dumb shit to some random strangers. And just like that, the bouncer shooed me away like a stray cat. At this point, I feel I may need a face transplant before I can go back.
The second time I went out, I was lured out with the promise of a free drink by my gal pal (see how “free” is a theme?) I got semi-fancy, wore some heels, and was armed with the desire to go with the flow. I walked into the venue and felt like I was an alien that crash-landed on earth. Naturally, I drank to make that feeling go away, but not to the point where I made an idiot out of myself. In non-chronological order, here is a list of things that happened that night that re-affirmed I was a senior citizen:
- My friend was doing the Roger Rabbit dance in the middle of the dance floor and kept saying, “Bitch, we’re getting Taco Bell after this.” When you care more about getting food afterward over talking to cute guys, that means you’re old.
- Cute guys were all 23 and under.
- If you go into the middle of the dance floor, someone always has intense “fresh-cut onions” body-odor. Always. Portland doesn’t believe in deodorant.
- Someone ALWAYS farts. The heat created by people dancing doesn’t help this situation.
- I saw a really well-dressed guy at the bar, and just as I was like, “Oh hey boo,” he began to twerk on another guy. My gaydar is mal-functioning.
There is a plus side to this situation. I drank and didn’t pop-off, so that’s great news! I’m not a complete Amanda Bynes mess! I’m just going to own loving wine and chillin: