My scary attempt at new dating adventures. Part 8,229,109.

The world is such an awesome place when you have work clients that share their great baseball seats and never-ending bar tabs.

Not so awesome is waking up on a Friday morning… and feeling like ass.

The hedgehogs over at one of Cleveland’s major banks shared their fourth-row-behind-the-visitor-dugout Indians tickets to entice us to add another new torture chamber for my work days (read: utilizing their banking system). During the slight rain delay, we shared stories over drafts and buffalo chicken wraps at The Boneyard (Gateway). But I was really excited to finally get in our (wet) seats and see my baby Omar.

And Dellucci when he reached first — wait, did he reach first or did I just stare at his ass while he was at bat? Well, I know definitely Garko Butt was right. there. in. front of me on first base. Helluva Yes.

And Castillo also threw his gum into the seats after leaving the field. I think he was pissed that I was touching up my makeout and not watching him suck. Some guy picked it up in a napkin — I think he intends to sell it on eBay.

And THEN there apparently were open bars everywhere, as I seemed to only have spent $8.00. That was how much it cost to park. When the idea of empty bars in Gateway did not agree with anyone after the 8th inning, it suddenly became a better idea to walk to West 6th. For a Thursday, there (obviously) were no crowds. We hung out for a bit in Dive Bar upon realizing Blind Pig wasn’t open. WTF? Not open? Then we went to Bar Flyy. Now at this point, I’m sure I had enough beers before I even made it to the game, but pissing constantly notwithstanding, I was putting them down fairly easy. And then it was another good idea to take a shot of Jack. WTF again.

So, Bar Flyy was actually fun. They were playing great dance music — of which I knew ALL the words and moves — and I met a couple guys. Yes, Internets, I met and actually SPOKE to men without running away. Ahh, liquid courage. Short on luck though, they both were out-of-towners. I mean, who else would go dancing on a Thursday night in a place that doesn’t accept college IDs? And who meets a guy from Spain on West 6th Street? Seriously.

Then the fun stuff started: some guy tackled me when I walked out of the restroom. And I was wearing a jean skirt. The more fucked up part about it, is that I really fucked up my knee and elbow. I mean, to the point where my elbow feels as though it’s shattered. And there’s a handy bruise to go along with it all. The knee just feels creeky. It could be I am too old to be pretending I am a contestant on “So You Think You Can Dance?” And I would rather be a contestant than that obnoxious female judge with the crazy voice, but whatevs.

After about 20 more beers (surely you jest!), I started talking and walking with Detroit Guy. I walked him to his hotel all the way to the Crown hotel place. These situations never turn out well, especially falling for the “just come up and see how I have been living in a hotel for three weeks” mantra. Immediately upon walking up, I was overcome with an urgent need to leave. Thank you, intuition… and alcoholic sobering. So, I left. And I don’t remember his name. Awesome. At least there was no sex, with another name I had to add to my list with the words “Whatshisface” or as my cell phone likes to call him “.” — stupid, stupid Mel.

And THEN, I made some more asinine decisions by a) asking the “band” outside the hotel for a Newport and b) walking all the way by myself back to Gateway to crash for the night. Just. Bad. And scary. And I am not 21 anymore, I certainly should know better.

God, a peanut butter sandwich sounds tasty about now… I am hungover beyond mention.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.