I had a great opportunity to be a swinging asshole this past weekend. I ran around like I had balls of steel, treating men like pieces of meat - looking good, flirting, ditching, kissing, dancing… kissing someone else, more dancing… kissing one of my girlfriends (awesome). Only, I drank a wee bit too much of the green beer and Jameson and started to cry like a fucking wuss when all was said and done.
Ahh, vacation.
River makes me green with envy...
Regardless, Chicago was fucking awesome. I was so excited to reconnect with my rafting buddies, whom I haven’t seen since July. And make new friends courtesy of shared drinks-from-the-bottles of Jameson. I have a hilarious “could only happen to me” story too. You call it embarrassing; I call it hilarious. After our three-deep trolley entourage took us around the city for the later part of the morning and early afternoon, we set up shop at Uncle Fatty’s in Lincoln Park. Where I meet up with Guy Friend Number One. We chat up, drink up, yet somehow I lose him for a bit while I dance off the car bombs from earlier that morning (meanwhile did I mention I only had about 2 hours of sleep??!!).
Then I look over at the back bar and see Hottie Bartender. Ooh-wee, hottie bartender, hello!
Of course, I flirted with him because, well, he was new. And eventually I was drinking for free (duh). In (drunken) conversation, I told him that I would be taking him out the next day before I went back to Cleveland (and really, God knows what else). And he was going out with me. Pushing the level of aggressiveness, I wrote down my number on a blank tab. He wrote his number on the top. And… switch.
Fast forward a few more (free) drinks, and I find GF Number Two (who is equally as drunk and Irish), and we make out on the dance floor. Right. In. Front. Of. Hottie. Bartender. Who, after I realize what I had just done (stupid, stupid, stupid), walks over and puts a piece of paper in my hand.
Yup. It’s my number. *gut punch*
Hi. I'm Mel. Wanna make out?
I thought it was a brilliant idea returning to him and placing my number BACK on the bar in front of him, telling him he will call me (and again, God knows what else). Yeah, right. Ahem, of course, he didn’t. I pondered calling him anyway. But really, in the end, I was just another drunk bar asshole. And he is just a bartender. A really hot (and I thought nice — damn me!) one at that.
Regardless, I lost my girfriends, both Guy Friends (swapped for another - nice work, Mel), then became really upset and left the bar (but yeah, I remembered the plant where I stashed my coat — wtf?). I then realized I was in Chicago — not home — and unfamiliar with my surroundings, but someone managed to find my friend’s apartment within a block, through massive amounts of sobbing and loneliness (and not-to-mention, seeing previously written about text message). Even I impressed myself. With pathetic-ness, of course.
Not to be completely done with asshattery, we holed up in The Union — dog in the bathroom and all — to drink (and still not eat), and catch up on the day’s antics. And sit through another set of drunken “18-year-olds” making out in the bar.
Seriously. Am I making up for all the years in which I had NO DESIRE for public displays of affection?
Today, it’s good to be a douchbag.
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March 18th, 2009 at 10:26 am
He WAS probably nice, but after the makeup session on the dance floor, what did you really expect?
March 18th, 2009 at 11:39 am
Meeting you in Vegas is starting to scare me! Haha… just kidding~ XXOO
March 21st, 2009 at 8:07 pm
It must be something in the water (i mean beer) in Chicago. I was there a few months ago. Partied like a rock star and spent my last night wasted and crying. Still had a blast though!
March 23rd, 2009 at 12:42 pm
So who was hotter? The bartender or the guy on the dance floor?
April 5th, 2009 at 8:26 am
Hellllz Yeah! Douchbag Mel is alright with me;)
April 7th, 2009 at 9:33 pm
Can you please let me know when you’ll be visiting Africa next, thank you.