As I’m sure you all know, Thursday night is college night when it comes to drinking. And in a town of 25,000 alcoholics between the age of 18-24, it is taken very seriously.
Earlier in the week when I was ridiculously upset, all my girls said we would all go out Thursday night. What that really means is: We’re all gonna get dressed up, drink excessively, hit on lots of people, probably all get enraged around the same time, take that anger out on innocent bystanders, eat pizza and stumble home. At least that’s pretty much the norm if we ever deem a night out as “Vag Fest.”
I had already deemed it a night for tits, so I picked out a ridiculously low, dressy, black shirt from Express, threw on my going out jeans, tweed heels and shoved a giant feather clip in my hair. We pre-gamed on wine and Grey Goose at the neighbors and caught the bus early, as usual. I picked a bar that we never go to because of it’s lack of Frat-Tards and Sorostitutes, but also for its particularly strong potential of it becoming a sausage fest of older, a little less douchey Greenvillians. Not to mention, it was 50 cent can night.
The six of us stood around drinking, they with beer, me with liquor, admiring that while the bar was packed, there might be 10 other girls there. However, these guys were only a little less douchey than the usual repertoire of trash I encounter. I was deep in conversation with my friend D, who I hadn’t hung out with for over a year, when I turned around and saw him standing there. I didn’t expect to find him there, this place didn’t seem like his kind of bar. But there’s cheap beer, I think that automatically makes it his kind of bar. I stopped D and told her I’d be right back. I teetered on my heels as I ran up to him, punched him in the arm and said, “Thanks for returning my text message.” He gave me a 5 minute diatribe about how he was in class, doing extra credit and his phone died. I rolled my eyes. Baseball Player has always been full of excuses.
By this point, all of my friends had noticed who I was talking to and started pointing and whispering to each other. They all hate him and if the mere mention of his name falls out of my mouth, I know I’m in for it. So for me to have left them standing there to go talk to the enemy only meant I was about to hear it. I moved him out of sight and we kept talking. He knows they hate him and it really bothers him, mainly because he knows it meant I was talking shit, but he’s done very shady things. When a group of people finally walked away, we were in the girl’s line sight again and I could tell they were still bitching about it. I told BP “one sec” and ran up to them and yelled at them to stop talking shit and that I had been friends with him again for quite some time, I just never admitted it.
He pounded 50 cent beers, while I sloshed overpriced, weak cosmos on him. I returned to the friends and the night carried on. I found him again when we went outside an hour or so later; he was wasted. Half of the girls had already decided to call it a night, while D and my neighbor decided to stick it out. A girl stood behind us in a women’s pseudo dress version of a man’s work shirt. She wore it with no pants. Nothing makes me and my girls happier than to verbally assault girls’ horribly slutty choices in a dress. D was the first to go to tell her to put pants on. Her comeback “This is from H&M.” Neighbor went next. She got a little angrier saying “This is from H&M and you’re just angry cause you couldn’t pull this off.” Then we all got flicked off. She walked away right when it was my turn to go drop some knowledge on her that although we don’t have H&M here, that doesn’t necessarily make her chic and she undoubtedly paid ten dollars for a poorly constructed shirt. And that she probably didn’t even understand that H&M is a fast fashion store that just rips of designer styles before they themselves can put them in stores. Shit.
I found Baseball Player leaning heavily upon the bar ledge taking back more beer. He looked bad. I walked up to him and said, “As a friend, I’m telling you, you should probably stop drinking. You look horrible.” He brushed it aside and tried to feel me up. I slapped him away. I told him he should probably go home and just kept saying, “No, I need to get black out.” “You are fucking blacked out!”
We moved to the middle of the outside bar and he began telling me he couldn’t leave until ______ got there. She ended up being this girl that he “fell hard for.” Then the yelling began, on his part. He started telling me that it didn’t matter, she was just going to fuck him over and that he always gets fucked over and that it’s not fair. On and on. I had to yell back just to try to get him to calm down. There we were yelling in the middle of the bar, while this girl of interest stood three feet behind him. I kept telling him to stop yelling, which he would retort, “I’m not yelling at you!” “No, but you’re yelling and we look like a pathetic couple fighting a bar, so stop.”
Neighbor had already left and D was wandering around to stay out of the battle. Thirty minutes later, BP finally seemed to have gotten enough of his insecurities out, or blacked out more, and I told him to stop talking to me and go talk to this girl. I punched him in the arm one last time for good measure and found D and left. We were sufficiently buzzed and walking back to the main part of downtown in search of drunk munchies.
We ended up at a delicious gyro place. We devoured pitas filled with lamb as she divulged all the reasons she and her boyfriend broke up. Half way through her story, I look up to see this old ass guy and his friends looking down my shirt. Enter drunk rage sesh two: “Excuse me, what are you doing? You’re fucking old. Like really fucking old. Why are you here?” Out came the excuses from his late forty something mouth. D joined in, we just kept yelling as they tried to hit on more girls that were hardly twenty years old. “You’re creepily old. Why are you here and why are you living in Greenville?” One came and sat with us and told us to play along. “Oh, we’ll play along jackass cause there’s two cops standing right there. Fuck off, grandpa.”
We left and passed a guy leaning against the brick wall of a now very empty club. D stopped and said, I know him, I’ve bought off of him before. He slouched all of his weight into the wall, his eyes hung heavy, his face washed out, and he played with the buttons on his phone. D reminded him how she knew him and wanted to see if he could help her out again. I stood there disinterested and staring at the drunks coming out of the hot dog place. He kept saying, “If I get this for you, we gotta sleep together.” D ignored him. Finally, after the tenth time of him saying it, I jumped in and said she’s my girlfriend. He demanded proof and wanted us to kiss. Fine. “No, make out.” This isn’t a free show man. Then he got angry and said, “Sherlock, do you think I was born yesterday?” “I don’t care when you were fucking born.” D told him to fuck off and we ran to the bus.
When we got back to my house, I threw her some clothes and we were just about to go to bed, when I felt my head to take off my feather. The one I had kept fumbling with all night, the one that BP was confused by for a moment. It was no where to be found. I started looking on the floor and in my pile of clothes. No where to be found. I started panicking and yelling to D how important it was I found it. We ran through the dark house searching the stairs and landings. We looked in my purse, on my desk, on the floor. I couldn’t find it. I freaked out. I said we had to go wait for the last bus to see if it was on there. I threw her a jacket and we ran up to the bus stop. It was almost 3:30, the last bus would come soon. It didn’t show. we looked in the grass, the street, the porch, everywhere. No where to be found. We came inside and looked again. I said, we have to go back downtown. I grabbed my keys, I wasn’t too drunk, but shouldn’t have been driving.
We drove down the dark, empty streets of downtown searching for it. We looked on the sidewalks and in the bus stop cover. We drove slowly along the roads as I whined about being able to replace it, but it wouldn’t be the same. (Doorman had bought it for me while we were in NYC at this bar I had been dying to go to. It was a bar that served bacon flavored vodka, showed midget porn and had free pony rides. If that’s not heaven, I don’t know what is. The Bartender was wearing one and I asked where she got it, she said she made them and busted out a bag of ten or so. Doorman said to pick whichever one I wanted and he’d buy it. I wear it all the time now and love it.) We gave up and drove home. I was devastated. I even texted Doorman to tell him at 4 am how upset I was about it. D and I went to bed and she said, “Don’t worry, when you wake up, you’ll know exactly where it is.”
I woke up at 9 tired and hungover. D was still sleeping. I was on Facebook reading this ridiculous message I had written BP when we had gotten home because he wouldn’t listen to me when I was yelling at him. For some reason I thought my advice would be better served in a message. D’s alarm went off and she wasn’t flinching. I looked over at her and there in the middle of my bed, between the cloud of smoke and smell of liquor, laid my feather. I screamed and grabbed it. D rolled over and just started laughing.
