If you've been paying attention, I was a drunk mess a few nights ago, acting like a maniac jonesing for someone to just adore me.. (It's the little things).
I was handing out my phone number to anyone with a phone and those without and pretty much making a fool out of myself in the Dupont Circle area, which lets be real, happens more than it should... probs on a Tri-monthly basis.
But guys... as opposed to being on the uptick out of the trough of bad luck, I slipped further into it.
Saturday night I had plans to go with my friends B, his girlfriend, and Blair down for a good ole time in the Dupont...
We switched plans to Bethesda, and it was on.
I got dressed to the fucking 9s, put on my good panties, and I hit the door. Then I closed the door. Then I turned around to lock the top lock (bottom was already secure) and realized. St. Joseph mother of G*D Damn Jesus H. Christ... as the door slams to it's final place... I dont have my keys.
I also never gave out spares... I have them. I have 4 spare keys chillin' in one of my three beautiful closets... but me being smart didn't pass them around... and I also live in a lovely apartment building with a bundle of amenities EXCEPT for a 24 hour desk staff...
Luckily my phone was in God's pockets... aka my Boobs aka Thank Jesus. So I called a locksmith and my friends and decided to wait in the lobby.
I got bored and started digging through my wristlet where lo and behold, a clippy was found!
It looked very similar to this above.
So there I was armed with a clippy and having broken into a few doors in college (I'm a horrible person) with bobby pins, I went back up stairs and made my attempt... but I needed two... long objects - So being the innovator I am, I bent the clippy back and forth several times and then ripped it apart, while slicing not one. not two. not three. but FOUR fingers in the process... (to be honest typing this post isn't a very pleasant experience. I have 4 bandaids on and every time one of my finger pads hit the keyboard instead of my nails, it stings).
So here I am in a mini skirt, wearing my good panties, splayed out on the floor, locked OUT of my apartment, in an apartment building with no public bathroom, bleeding profusely, and now being a big frickin' baby - balling my freshly lined and mascara'd eyes out from the burning pain now searing through my fingers when, around the corner some russian man walks by, and gets a free ticket to the LoRo show and then refuses to help me with my bleeding fingers by rushing past quickly into his apartment.
So downstairs I trek to the water fountain in the lobby to rinse my fingers and my ego... where some tiny asian woman sits there on her phone with her napkin laden McDonalds bag watching me bleed onto my shirt. When I ask her if she has napkins, she looks at me like I've just vomited all over her as a priest holds up a crucifix, and then she runs into the elevator.
Eventually the locksmith comes, charges me a kidney for his services and asks me to sign a piece of paper, which I profusely bleed all over.
After all that I get to Bethesda, I'm not going to lie. I'm not in the best of moods. I just want to dance my little heart out when lo and behold a guy on my shit list arrives at the bar. A guy on my shit list that I then try to avoid for the rest of the evening.
B's girlfriend brought him up... LoRo... that man is staring at you, pretty intensely.
He stood on the edge of the circle. He watched from afar. He watched from the patio. He watched from the bar.
It was time to leave - mainly because I dont want to deal. And because I just can't deal. And because I just want to dance. AND because I was out of cigars. We hit the Sausagefest at Blackfinn removing ourselves from the Biddyfest/Annoyingfest that was Union Jacks.
And it's going great. And by great I mean I'm still trying to keep my fingers from bleeding. I'm not drunk enough, and there he is. In all his muscled glory. The masseuse (a guys I dated for 2 1/2 months at the beginning of this year exclusively till I found out he was talking consistent smack about me behind my back), or a man who could be his identical twin, but I'm going with masseuse because the as soon as we locked eyes, he bolted out of that bar faster than a shot out of a gun barrel.
It's not like I was going to run up and slap him, and he wasn't with a girl for me to ruin his chances with her, but seriously... I made someone RUN not walk out of a bar.
Exhausted and emotionally devastated due to lack of men wanting a bleeding, mascara dripping chick whining about her damaged fingers, I agreed with the group it was time to go.
So we start walking back by Union Jacks on the way to the car, and I'm not feeling the whole late night anymore, and I'm really not feeling running into anyone. So as we walk by Union Jacks I dive behind cars to hide from the guy on my shit list who's sitting outside smoking... Didn't work. After whistling to get my attention, which I ignored... he called me out on it.
Moral of the night... when you think it's time for the upswing in your life, don't lock yourself out of your apartment in a miniskirt.