HI. I'm a little drunk. bare with me.
8:30- I jump in the car, ponytail frizzy, mascara flaking, not wearing my sexiest outfit, or even a flattering outfit- but, I'm ready to GO OUT. The mood has hit and I'm on a mission like Tom Cruise.
8:45- Phone calls are made, as I shamelessly listen to horrific top 20's rap. I also shamelessly sing along to get my "Friday night face" on. The face that says, "Yeah I'm going out I'm wearing my whore best, and I'm ready to have some strangers attempt to get my drunk by buying me shots of tequila and telling me I have shiny hair. I'm feeling funkyy...like Earth Wind and Fire, my chemicals are in tact and this evening is MINE.
9:15- My begging is embaressing, everyone is staying in, or have better plans that don't involve me. My friends are offical failures this evening. This calling shit was as unsuccessful as Pamela Anderson's marriages. It was as unsuccessful as Tyra Banks first single. It was as unsuccessful as That mother f*ckin CarrieAnn Vs. Bruno show. As unsuccessful as clear Pepsi. Remember that?
9:25- I am now officially scanning my cellphone phonebook and rating my potential calls on an Awkwardness level of 1-10. Hm...I haven't talked to her since 8th grade..."Hey, wanna grab a beer and catch me up on your life for the past 10 years, WHATS HAPPENIN'???!!" Or, well we've had one conversation, I'm sure they'd absolutely want to hang out and nurse my pathetic state of non-existant social status.
9:45- My bootycall is busy. Are you fucking joking me? Bootycalls are the safe bet. You're not busy, you're my ass.
10:00- I know the perfect person "Hey.....wanna grab a drink........"
"Suuuure babe. Lets go."
Thank you Jesus, I don't feel like such a social reject. Someone actually wants to spend an evening scoping the scene and drinking draft Easy Street Wheat with me while commenting on the clientele and singing along to Irish pub music.
"Awesome, you're the best.....Mom."
Yeah, my Mom and I went to the pub tonight.
She got hit on more than I did. A lot more. Cause she's a sexy bitch.
I prayed in the pub and said, "Dear God, please show me you exist by having a dashing man engage in lively conversation with me and make me feel like I'm not such an asshole-invisible-reject-loser-undesireable biatch, who's going to dry up like a Sunkist raisin within 30 days...."
God doesn't answer prayers in pubs. Especially while he's arranging cupids for your married hot mom. Who knows, it's Friday, is God off on Fridays?
Oh, and I just found out I missed that whole DELURKING WEEK SHIT. Who sends out the calendars for that sort of thing, can someone put me on the mailing list. For fucks sake.