Tag Archives: nightlife

Part 1 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

I hate anonymity, but I’ve been participating in it recently, occasionally giving the boys that I write about pseudonyms so that their ex’s or girl that they flirted with one night over a pitcher of beer and a soccer game, don’t get offended.  I guess me giving them bullshit names, is my way of not cock-blocking my friends.  But come on girls, stop getting pissed at guys just because they have a story that doesn’t include you.  It’s embarrassing.  So because I’m annoyed right now that I have to practice restraint, I am going to give my friend the pseudonym “fat face” for this entry.  Generally, I would call him “My Love,” a name we’ve been calling each other since 2003, but he pissed me off, so he’s not getting the nice nickname today.

I’d like to note that Fat Face is not at all fat.  He’s actually quite good-looking and I like picking out ties for him because he has a good fashion sense and when he’s feeling especially sweet, he’ll even let me pick out his outfit.

Him and I always have a lot of fun together.  Whether I’m making him play Monopoly with me, or we’re hoping fences and jumping into high school pools at 3:00 in the morning, we always have a great time.  We have been hanging out a lot because at the moment we’re both single(ish), we live in the same city, have a self-destructive personal life and put up with each other’s obnoxious tendencies, so I’d say he’s my partner in crime.  He’s also one of my best friends.

When we were teenagers, we had a whole group of friends who would rally together and participate in these slightly illegal, yet harmless activities such as spray painting city light bulbs, climbing on roofs and planning underground Beta fish fight clubs.  The rest of the “crew” have gone on to have fully functioning adult lives, and Fat Face and I are the two who still blow bubbles and giggle at the word vagina.  I’m sure our inability to settle down is due to our deep inner discontent, but this is something we choose to ignore for the most part when we’re together.  We just have too much damn fun to bother with gross discussions of the true reasons of why we push everyone away.

This screenshot perfectly sums up our friendship:

IMG_0130That is a very brief explanation of our most recent history, maybe I’ll get into our more advanced history some other time, but for now, we’re talking about what he did to piss me off, and the sinful events that took place after.  While on the phone with him the other night, he said something that was probably true, but I was not trying to hear it right then.  It was something along the lines of me always getting myself into ridiculous situations because I “welcome” them.  He went on to just dig himself into a hole, including statements such as, “I’m entertained by them though!”  I basically took it to mean that he doesn’t take me, or my life seriously.

“Fat Face.  Fat Face.  Stop talking.  I’m hanging up on you.”

“No!  No!  Don’t hang up.  Please!”

“Yes, I’m going.  You’re making me mad.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Whatever.  Bye.”

Of course, we were kind of laughing, even as we were yelling at each other.  He knows me well enough to know that I just needed a night to settle down and that by tomorrow I’d only be 60% mad at him, so he let me go.  I was planning on a low-key night, it was 10:00pm and I was sitting at a Starbucks instead of a bar.  After Fat Face ambushed me with that however, I felt I deserved a cocktail to unwind from the mental uneasiness he so graciously offered.  I brought my book to a nearby bar, sat in my spot and ordered a Beefeater martini with two olives.

20 pages and 20 ounces of gin later, and I was humoring this guy next to me, pretending to listen as he discussed something relating to baseball I think, and something relating to his dog, which I definitely didn’t give a shit about.  This went on for about a half hour, but once he busted out the iPhone to show me pictures of his damn dog that I didn’t ask about, I gave myself a Caitlin pep talk.  It went something like this:

Why the fuck are you talking to this guy?  You know you’re just humoring him because you’re bored and pissed at Fat Face.

After my pep talk, I decided to actually look at the guy whose time I was currently wasting.  He was a child.  This kid must have been freshly 21.  Okay, now things were getting interesting, I thought.  Fat Face is always getting himself involved with little girls who still take bathroom mirror selfies, and the kid I was talking to was their male counterpart.

Once I discovered the irony, I was eating it up.  I began to actually make eye-contact, asked him what his dumb dog’s name is and even went as far as to inquire about what it feels like to have been born in the ’90s.  In hindsight, it was obviously my way of lashing out at Fat Face’s statement.  You think I “welcome” my ridiculous situations?  Well watch this!

Just call me Ms. Maturity.

The child and I got up to go outside, and he was carrying a fucking duffel bag.  Immediately after that hilarious discovery, which I of course called him out on, I found out that he doesn’t have a car.  Even better.  Here I am, a 27-year-old professional, (sort of) about to make a bad decision with a kid who carries around a duffel bag, has no car and wears pink button up shirts.  “So does that mean I’m taking you home?” I asked.

“Yes.”  Oh God.

To be continued…

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The Small Town Freak Show

Some advice before I dive into my anecdotal account of last night that included front handsprings, cripple karaoke and a 42-year-old wearing no underwear:  Tread softly with your words, my friends.  Caitlin Rule:  Once you say something out loud, it makes it real, whether you fight it or not.  Relationships are a good example.  You may have thoughts that are trying their best to surface, but once you admit OUT LOUD that your boyfriend/girlfriend is not the one, it’s now real.  It’s doomed.  So be wise with your words.

I sat here for a solid ten minutes, trying to figure out the most concise way to describe Micah (the commando 42-year-old).  Unfortunately, the phrase “town drunk” kept invading my thoughts.  Not because I deemed him with that title, but just because I had heard someone else describe him as such in the past, so now, because of my rule, that’s the first thing I think of when attempting to describe him.  However, I am going to wash him of this title in this entry because I think, when you remove the blinders, that Micah is fantastic.

I was at a local bar, having a martini to try to ease my anxiety over how to get my phone up and running again.  I had my laptop out, a couple of cords… apparently I had to do some kind of “master reset” which included backing up files and blah blah blah.  I’m not huge on the technological front, so this was absolutely a chore for me.  Cut to:  A middle-aged man of about 6’1″ and 290 lbs. sporting a visor, basketball shorts and a long chin beard approaches.

Me:  “What’s up, Micah?  Haven’t seen you around lately.”

He and I are acquainted through the relatively small town of Safety Harbor in which we live.  Most of the locals who are regulars at any type of watering hole, all seem to be at least acquainted.  We’ve shared beer and conversation a couple of times in the past, and it’s always a great time.  Frivolous, boring small talk does not exist in Micah world.  I dare say that our conversations sometimes take an inappropriate route, considering how well we do NOT know each other, but I live off of these types of encounters.  Let’s just say that in the past, instead of the first few minutes of verbal exchange being about how business is and what a rainy summer it’s been, we have immediately gone into discussions of hooking up with people with three nipples and strippers on speed dial.

The first time I had a real conversation with him, he disclosed some honesty, and that was the moment that I knew I liked him.  Honesty is a rarer quality than we think.  Just because you don’t lie, doesn’t mean that you’re honest.  About five months ago:

Micah: I love your hair, man.  It’s always crazy.

Me: Thank you.  That makes me feel good.

Micah:  (Without breaking eye contact) I could tell you right now, what every girl in this bar’s body looks like.

Me: (laughing)

Micah: But I have no idea what your body looks like because I’m always looking at your hair.

And that’s when I knew he was a cool dude.  Honesty.  Some girl’s would have taken offense to his overtly sexist statement, but I loved his candor and that’s where Micah lives.  In a permanent state of candor.

Last night, when he asked me what I was doing (this was because of all of the forms of technology I had before me, along with an abiding scowl), I didn’t bore him with my story of how my phone wasn’t working, I simply said, “Just trying to deal with my first world problems.”  This sparked a discussion about the difference of the worlds, that I can most easily summarize as such:

Getting arms and legs hacked off by angry Somalians. + Having perpetual bad breath. = Third World problems

Having trouble catching a chicken in your backyard + only having vodka as an available alcohol choice = Second World problems

My BlackBerry not having service for a whole day = First World problems.

That was the beginning of our conversation, Caitlin and Micah theories on World Economic Division.  It grew from there.  Out of nowhere, he shared with me, and the other bar patrons that he was not wearing any panties.  Yes, he used the word “panties.”  I hate that word, but found it hilarious that he would describe his XXL plaid boxers (this is a guess) as “panties.”  A couple of drinks later, and now we’re doing acrobatics in the bar’s patio.

As much as I consider myself a Professional Drinker, I suck at taking shots.  I don’t particularly like them because I actually like the taste of alcohol and want to enjoy my drink, and also, I just can’t open my throat the way that Professional Shot-takers can.  Micah, making fun of me about this, led to the bar talking about what other things you can open your throat for… and somehow this led to Micah discussing his desire to start a Safety Harbor freak show and what role each of us would play in it.  Quickly, this became a one on one conversation, as the others couldn’t keep up with our weirdness.  I was wracking my brain for any quirky things that I can do, (since sword swallowing wouldn’t be my talent) and remembered that I can walk on my hands for a really long time!

Micah: Do it!

Me: I can’t when I’ve been drinking!  It throws my equilibrium off.

Micah: Walk on your goddamn hands!

Me: No!

Micah: I’ll do a front handspring if you walk on your hands.

Me: Then I’m definitely not.  That sounds like a disaster.

Micah: (Pulling his pants up and moving patio furniture out of the way) I’m doing it.

Me: No!

Micah: This is going to hurt.

Me:  Okay!  Okay!  I’ll walk on my hands if you don’t attempt a front handspring.  You’re going to break your entire body.

Micah: It’s happenin’ baby.

Me:  All right, all right I’m doing it!

I kick up into a handstand, and with numerous drinks flowing through my veins, I managed to walk on my hands for a solid ten seconds.  Impressive, considering my state… but it still ended with me on the ground.  You’d think that would be embarrassing, but it wasn’t at all.  Thinking back, it would have been embarrassing had I not let loose and tried.

I thought that my sacrifice would stop my 290 lbs. friend from attempting a front handspring on the concrete patio.  Nope.  He goes for it.  Lands flat on his ass.  Does this deter him?  Nope.  Again.  And again.  Three front handsprings, all ending on his tailbone.  I’m sure he was sore today.  Back inside, we told the others what they had just missed out on.  This got a forty-something year old lady to bust out with her talent; a full split on both sides.  Impressive.

I found myself feeling like an excited little kid again, eager to think up a new trick that I could try.  At one point, Micah looked at me and said, “You’re glad you did it.”  Referring to the handstand.  I didn’t want to admit it to him, but he was right.  I really was.  It was fun.  For the first time in quite a while, I was having unguarded fun out at a bar.

We then made our way to another bar across the street where there was a crippled guy singing shit karaoke.  Although I didn’t recognize any of the songs, I assumed them to be Pantera or Anthrax or some other abhorrent psuedo rock band, Micah knew the words to EVERY song.  And he was singing along, LOUD.  It was hilarious.  He did not give a fuck.  Then, some chick got on stage, and sang a song that I recognized.  I found myself loudly singing along as well… and I never sing.  Our singalong definitely turned some heads, but we didn’t care.  How did this guy that I barely know, get me to let loose again?  His whole “don’t take life too seriously” attitude, reminded me of an illustration in Breakfast of Champions of a tombstone.  The name simply says, “SOMEBODY.”  Instead of a birth and death date, it says “sometime to sometime” and then for the headstone quote it reads, “He tried.”  I wanted to share this with Micah, so I quickly drew it out for him.  He studied it for a short moment, then took the pen out of my hand and made his own edits.

He inserted “kept” and added an i-n-g, making the headstone quote now read, “He kept trying.”  Leave it to a true badass to one up Kurt Vonnegut.  So there you have it, words of the wise from my fellow barfly.  Just keep trying.

As I’ve stated before, in I Dare You, Smartphone Hater and My Rulesgive everyone the time of day.  People who are a little rough around the edges, are usually the most interesting.  And if they make you slightly uncomfortable, before you judge, take a look at yourself, and maybe you’re the one who just needs to let loose a little bit and get on the Small Town Freak Show train.  My assignment to you, go do a cart-wheel or something and fail, but have fun.

I knew that by the end of writing this blog entry, that I’d figure out how to more accurately describe Micah.  He is a non-fiction antihero.  He’s just a dude who is unapologetically himself, living in a small, sleepy town, trying to wake everyone the fuck up.

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I Dare You

Laying low at a bar.  What else is new.  I was reading Maxim at a high top in the shadowed area of the Chic-a-Boom Room, a cool spot located in Dunedin, Florida.  Two guys walked by, and a few seconds later, one of them comes back around.

“My friend told me to turn left for the bathroom, but I had to turn right to tell you how pretty you are.”

I literally laughed out loud.  I fucking love cheesy pick-up lines.  I think they’re so much fun.  My favorite…

(Picture a boy acting like he’s in a deep discussion with another friend, then turns to you…)  “Hey.  Do you know how much a Polar Bear weighs?”


“Enough to break the ice.  (Offers out his hand)… “My name is Mikey.”

I fell for that one.  I thought it was hilarious and that boy got a genuine laugh.  Anyway!  Although I was one hundred percent flattered and entertained by the lame, “turn left/turn right” pick up line, I didn’t, at first, take him seriously as a human being at all.  Because of my curse, to my not so surprise, I discovered that he was the musician playing at the bar that night.  OF COURSE.  But that’s irrelevant.

Side note:  I understand that it’s incorrect to start a sentence with a conjunction, and I understand that I just did it twice, but sometimes it’s just necessary for effect.  Side note #2: I will admit that I just spent a solid two and a half minutes trying to decide if I should use “effect” or “affect” with that last sentence, but gave up and went with the most popular.

Back to the story.  Later, I was sitting at the bar, next to a fellow solo female bar patron.  She bought me a shot, which was incredibly sweet and “female bonding” of her.  Once I took my nose out of my magazine, and started being at least mildly social, I quickly realized that she was friends with the musician.  The one with the cheesy pick-up line.  Boy, do they have some history!  I loved their chemistry and weird relationship, which was put out on display for me as the night and conversation progressed between the three of us.  While I’d love to digress, and tell you about their doomed romance, instead, I’ll get to my point.

The point of this random musing is that this night, reminded me that EVERYONE, even the guy with the terrible pick-up line has something to offer if you just listen.  I believe his name was Jeremy?  Maybe?  So Jeremy, the guy who I originally didn’t take seriously as a human being, ended up saying something which I found to be relatively profound.  To paraphrase his drunken theory… he basically said that all it takes to save a relationship, or maintain a long-term relationship, is twenty minutes of undivided attention a day.  Whatever relationship in your life that is lacking, whether it’s a romantic relationship, a close friendship, a familial relationship… whatever.  Put aside twenty minutes of your day, to give that person all of yourself.  Leave your cell phone, your to-do list, the television remote and your insincerity, and listen.  Listen and talk with that person for a solid twenty minutes.  That’s all it takes, and it will take you far.

Jeremy seemed to relate this to a marriage.  He definitely is not married, but the way he was talking, I’m assuming that he was at one point.  Sadly, I think he made this “twenty-minute self-help” discovery too late.  I related this advice to my relationship with my Mother.  My Mom is a beautiful human, and if everyone had a little bit more of her in them, the world would be a better place.  I truly believe that.  However, she can be absolutely annoying at times, and for me, difficult to talk to and find common ground with.  But after contemplating Jeremy’s theory, I decided that if I simply take twenty minutes of my day, and put aside my differences with my mom and embrace her quirks, I think it could make a world of difference.  It could build our relationship, make it stronger and be overall beneficial for both of us.

So I dare all of you, to be still.  Be still, for only twenty minutes a day with the person in your life that you love, and care enough about to save a relationship with.    Advice from the drunken free-spirit musician at the bar.  To add to this….

Caitlin rule:  Give EVERYONE the time of day.  They may just surprise you.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 10

This is how pathetic I was last night… a prostitute had to help me get a cab.  Rewind, and let me start with what I do remember.

I went with a couple of people from work to the restaurant across the street where we always receive an endless flow of free booze and food.  To our pleasant surprise, it turned out to be one of the manager’s birthday who is a friend.  The champagne is opened.  More drinks and good conversation brings us to the next bar where I dance by myself like an asshole to the terrible live band playing bad 90’s hits.  Now there are six of us.

Next memory: skipping down Hollywood Boulevard arm and arm with Will, the birthday boy, like we’re in the fucking Wizard of Oz.  Who knows, we may have skipped right over Judy Garland’s star.

Next memory: strip club.  Now there are two of us.  Don’t know how that happened.  It’s only myself and Will, who I have never hung out with outside of visiting each others bar, watching high-end strippers bounce their ass up and down in a way that makes it look like it’s independent from the rest of their body.  I shyly threw some ones on the stage, looking like one of those timid kids at the petting zoo who is scared that the goat is going to bite her if she gets too close.

Next memory: standing on the sidewalk at God knows what-o’-clock, and now there is one.  I’m by myself in the middle of the night on a side street that is just off of Hollywood and Vine (an intersection you don’t want to find yourself alone at) with no purse and no car and wearing Will’s jacket.  Until this moment, I was having a great time.

Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street

Obviously, my purse has my cell phone and all of my money and wallet in it.  When I could not find my car, a random woman who was also outside came to my rescue.  I barely remember her face, but I remember she made the executive decision that I needed a cab.  I don’t think I was using words at this point.  She called me a cab, and waited with me.  I really hope I was able to mumble a sincere thank you.

I now believe that everything happens for a reason, because THANK GOD we went to that strip club.  Inside of Will’s jacket pocket that I was wearing, there was $80 worth of ones.  This was the lifeline that got me home.  Don’t remember how I got into my house, because I didn’t have my keys.  Maybe I should check my windows to make sure that I didn’t fuck up at my break-in.  Woke up in the morning still in my clothes, look around me and see a bunch of one dollar bills strewn over my bed, I remember that I have no phone, car or wallet, and I literally started laughing out loud.  This was going to be a fun day.

I manage to get out of bed, and come up with a plan to get my life back together.  I grab the ones, and my little black address book, assuming I’ll need some numbers in a little bit, and walk my still drunk ass the 1.3 miles to the subway station.  I arrived back at my bar and found a co-worker who had Will’s number.  I was hoping that he would be able to provide me with either my purse or some answers.  Both if I was really lucky, but I was not betting on that.  We tried getting in touch with him, but no response.  I put some Bailey’s in my coffee to try to nurse the hang-over, and it definitely temporarily helped.  It’s disturbing how well I can function with a hangover.  Too much practice.

After hanging out for a couple of hours with some of the bar regulars, telling my story to everyone, I had them ALL interested in what the hell happened last night.  We needed clues.  We needed Will.  I didn’t even remember the names of the places we were at to try to call the establishments to see if they found my purse.  FINALLY he calls back with news.  He has my purse!  I am SO lucky.  I honestly thought it was gone for good.  I run over to his hotel bar to collect my things, and begin to exist as a real human being again.

Will had all the answers.  God bless him.  And how this guy ended up with my hot mess on his birthday… poor thing.

At the bar with the lame live music, Will and I apparently picked up some big dude that ended up being a weirdo, so that’s when everyone else left, leaving us with the giant, who we ditched by telling him we were taking a smoke break.  Will and I then went to the strip club, and after, I said I was driving home.  Like a kind gentleman, he talked me out of that ridiculous idea, and we apparently went back to the hotel he manages and the place where the night began, to chill for a bit and sober up.  He told me that we stumbled out to the back patio where we laid down for a bit while our cells rejuvenated, and huddled up together, trying to keep ourselves warm with the two jackets that we turned into makeshift blankets.  As he’s telling me this, I’m vaguely remembering laying with him and thinking it was oddly comfortable, but then it just goes black again.  We were such a pathetic scene, that the night watch guy brought us a big down comforter, and we were able to fall asleep for what I’m guessing was a couple of hours.

Now here is where things took a wrong turn.  Will says that I woke up, got up without saying anything, so he assumed I was going to the bathroom, and then I just never came back.  Leaving my purse and jacket behind and his jacket on.  I must have walked to where I thought my car was, forgetting that I had valeted that day, and this is where I meet the kind stranger who called me the cab.  Will was laughing his ass off when I told him that part, and I was like, “I can’t figure out what her deal was.  She must not have been homeless because she had a cell phone, but she was definitely just on the streets.”  He told me she was a prostitute.  Duh.

Living the dream, my friends.  One drink at a time.

P.S. I did all of this in heels and without throwing up.

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Love in the Time of Amenorrhea

We all know how much I despise discussing my menstrual cycle, but it is necessary to preface this entry with stating that I have not had my period in eight months.  This disorder is called, “Amenorrhea” and is common in girls my age.  It can be caused by many things, stress being one of them, which is the cause in my case.  I have not been taking care of myself, so my body is pissed off at me, and lashing out by not allowing me my period.  This may sound like a gift, but I promise it’s not, it’s really unhealthy.  Keeping all of that in mind, now let me move on to the story which correlates with this information.

My best friend Lance is in town visiting.  Since I left Florida over a year ago, I have only seen him one other time, when I went home for a wedding.  This has been hard on me because Lance is my better half.  I’m going to full on embrace the cheesiness and go as far as saying that he completes me.  I like myself when we’re together, we can talk about everything, and we always have so much fun.

He’s staying with some other friends of ours, but I decided to kidnap him for the night, bring him out with me and then have him crash at my place.  Best idea I’ve ever had.  We knock on the door of the wannabe speakeasy that I discussed in Confessions Vol. 8, and Adam, the door guy who I befriended during my last visit, opens the peek hole.  “I smell hair,” I say reluctantly, rolling my eyes at the ridiculous password.  “Do you?”  he says back, granting us access, and so the night begins.

Inside, there were two other patrons, a karaoke host, the door guy and the bartender.  That’s it.  So of course, because I’m with Lance, the two of us make it a great time. We kick off with our awful rendition of “Lola” by the Kinks.  One thing leads to another, and we’re pretty much best friends with the three staff members.  We were all buying each other shots, dancing, hooting and hollering and just having what was essentially our own private party.  Right about now, is when I don’t remember a good two hours of the night.  Lance filled me in a bit, and from the sounds of it, I was having a grand ole’ time.  We decided that the party was not over when the bar closed, so myself, Lance and the bartender, whose name I believe is Brian, decided to walk to a 24 hour Korean BBQ restaurant.

I proceeded to throw-up in the bathroom, which just needed to happen, and then continued with my evening.  Lance and Brian were making fun of me the whole night for it, but it didn’t bother me.  It was funny, and I owned it.

Caitlin Rule:  If you throw-up, own up.  It’s way more embarrassing to try to deny it when everyone knows it happened.

Lance and I began rapping a song that our friend made-up, with lyrics that say, “Bitch you better suck my dick / Now put your pussy in the air and get fucked.”  I think it’s hilarious, and hopefully everyone else in the restaurant did too… because we were loud.  I remember there being a whole fish, eyeball and all in front of me, so being the mature adult that I am, I plucked the eyeball out and put it in Lance’s soup.  Throughout all of this, Brian and I are exchanging physical flirtation.  Gently holding hands under the table… touching my leg… and so on, but thinking back, I have NO idea why, because I was a HOT MESS.  I’m pretty sure my hair looked like I had just been skydiving, and there may or may not have been a piece of vomit on my face… and I’m also pretty sure that Brian was sober.  Why in God’s name a very cool, sober guy with no agenda would want to be within ten feet of me that night, let alone hold my hand, is beyond me, but I’m not going to complain.

From there, we drove up to the Griffith Observatory, which is on top of Mount Hollywood, and has one of the best views of the city.  I flung my heels off and ran to the ledge, where I was met with a view that never gets old.  The city lights against the night sky.

Me and my heels at 4:00 in the morning, against the back drop of Los Angeles.

Sorry the picture is dark, but that’s why it’s the best look-out point, because it’s the Observatory, so there are no lights.

The three of us sat up there and talked, and this is when I finally started sobering up.  Lance disappeared to the other side for a while, so Brian and I had some one-on-one time, during such, I realized that he’s probably the most genuine guy I’ve met in Los Angeles.  He radiated this humbleness that is so rare out here because everyone has an agenda.  I can’t hate, because I’m the same way, we’re all out here for something.  Everything in LA is so fast-paced, that even human interactions are rushed.  But not this night… this night felt real.

The industrial sized sprinklers came on, and after our pretty bonding session, I grabbed Brian’s hand and we ran together through the sprinklers.  Surprisingly, he didn’t object or hesitate at all, and completely went with it.  Without even thinking, I turned around, dripping in reclaimed water, and kissed him.  Again, he went with it.  It only lasted for a second, but became one of my favorite kisses ever because of the innocence behind it.

Lance and I then ran through the sprinklers together, as Brian sat on the sidewalk, waiting with my heels and anklet ready for me.  Perfect way to end the night, running through sprinklers with your best friend just before the dawn.  We drove Brian home, and part of me wants to seek him out again, but the other part of me wants never to see him again, because I don’t know if it will ever be as perfect.

Lance and I passed out on my bed, and the next day, I got my period.  I don’t think this can be brushed off as a coincidence.  Being with Lance again made me remember who I am.  Being with him and a stranger, letting the night take us all for a ride made me feel alive and all of my stress was alleviated, even if only for a short time.  So maybe the cure for Amenorrhea is simply a single dose of love.

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Bitch Be Cool

Here was my weekend:

Was witness to a big black man naked, and crying in the women’s restroom.  I’m one of the manager’s at a popular pub in Hollywood (not as cool as it sounds) and this dude walks in and is TOTALLY NORMAL.  An hour later,  this giant black man is now fully naked, sitting on the toilet in the women’s bathroom with his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth and crying.  What. the. fuck.  Turns out he was on bath salts.

Already drunk in Silverlake, so of course my friend and I decide to get another drink somewhere.  Duh.  We walk up the road to Thirsty Crow.  Line.  Lame.  Keep walking, and go into the next bar we see.  Mexican drag queen show inside.  Yes please!  It happened, and it was brilliant.  Top three sketchiest bars I’ve ever been to.  You know when you mix mexican mafia, drag, alcohol, karaoke and cowboys, that something fantastic is going to go down.

Made-out with a hot Serbian on top of a mountain.

Turned drunk-driving into a sport.  I do not condone this at all!  But with that being said… me and my new favorite girl friend bared our souls to one another over cheap, pink champagne and daiquiris at my place, then decided to drive down Vermont Avenue, in the heart of Koreatown at 1:00am and “see what happens.”  We ended up at a hilarious Korean BBQ place that had no English menu and Korean punk rockers inside.  Fuck yes.  I have no idea what we ordered, we basically said, “bring it on,” to the server who spoke broken English.  I’m a vegetarian, but cheat every three months or so and eat meat, and this was definitely worth the cheat.  I have no idea what animals were on the plates, all I know is that Spam was definitely included.  If I’m going to cheat, I might as well embrace it and go 100% disgusting.

Flat tire.

Waiting in line for the one person restroom at a hookah lounge, and the female of the couple who were obviously on a first or second date sitting next to us, comes up with her hand over her mouth.  Uh oh.  She looks helplessly in my direction when she realizes that she won’t make it into the bathroom.  I give her a helpless look back, and BARF.  All over her hands and arms… got a little on my shoes, but you know, I couldn’t even be mad.  I just went with it.  Poor thing was wearing a white dress too.  Of course, the person in the bathroom was her date, so I just gave him a pat on the back (literally) and said, “Sorry man, but you got to take your girl home.”  I wonder if they’ll ever see each other again.

So, in honor of drunk bitches (including myself), I leave you with a playlist.  This is what you put on when a group of you are at that perfect fun drunk, but there’s that one girl who is just too drunk and being an obnoxious buzz kill.  I know you know the type.  So you raise your glass to her, put this playlist on, and quietly say to her, “bitch be cool.”

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 2

Foot job?  Footjob?  Foot-job?  I’ll go with, “foot job.”

I have a friend, well, an old friend now, since the events I am about to confess took place.   For the sake of anonymity, I will call him TW.  TW has a foot fetish.  He is very candid about this fetish, and has no qualms with openly discussing it with strangers or at the dinner table.  Somehow, because of his charm and sense of humor I suppose, no one is disturbed by this fetish or his recounts of correlating events (musicians can get away with anything).  I even participated in the lighthearted discussions, and on the night of December 23, 2010, at a Christmas party, all in good faith, I asked him how in the hell a foot job is done.  This my friends, was the first mistake of a very long night.

I went to the party with a girl who we will call, H.  Most of the time I am straight, but occasionally I stray and H was one of these victims.  At the time, her and I had neither acted on, nor spoke of any feelings between us, but as much as she may dispute this, we knew what was on each others minds.

Like many eventful nights, this one started with alcohol.  A few drinks in, and I ask TW the question that should have been accompanied by loud thunder and a lightning strike to foreshadow my approaching onslaught.  Obviously excited by my curiosity, TW brings me into the bathroom to perform a demonstration.  We were accompanied by H, and TW’s girlfriend, a free-spirit who is clearly damaged, like most beautiful girls are, but more lovable than anything else.  As the two girls giggle off to the side, TW sits me onto the toilet, gets down on his knees and extends his forearm with his hand fisted.  Yes, his forearm was a simulation of a penis.  Before my brain had caught up to what the hell was going on, he had already flung my shoes off and started his demo.  While this probably sounds like odd behavior, TW and I have known each other since we were fifteen, and our entire circle of friends are very close and very… candid with one another.  So my feet being cupped around TW’s pretend dick, was not as unforeseen as one may imagine.

I always assumed that a foot job would be done with one foot, rubbing it against the man’s body.  Nope.  To my surprise, during a foot job you use both feet, and cup them around the penis, simulating the shape of a vagina… I guess.  Talk about a foot cramp.  It was an enlightening demonstration, slightly embarrassing because of my gross dancer’s feet, but I figured he, of all people, would embrace such characteristics, and we all headed out of the bathroom.  What started as a night of innocent holiday fun however, did not end as such.

Skipping ahead to now several drinks later, H and I are in the bathroom, (classy, I know) mauling each other for a second time that night.  First base led to second base which led to a fucking knock on the door and TW’s voice.  Of course.  A man to ruin the mood.  He guessed what was going on,  “Come on girls… let me in.”

We laughed, quickly assembled ourselves and opened the door.  What was said is very foggy, but I know we were all mostly laughing… joking… then left the bathroom.  TW and his girlfriend obviously thought that they could witness some girl on girl action, but H and I were not interested in including anyone else in our affairs.  A couple more drinks after that, and it was time to leave.  TW offered to drive H and I back to my house because I had no business getting behind the wheel.  Accepting his offer was my second big mistake of a very long night.

H and I are in the backseat, completely unaware of our route.  The car stops, we exit, only to find that we are not at all at my house.  We are at TW’s girlfriend’s house, who we will now call, Sibyl.  Being the drunk retards that we were, H and I entered the house despite our internal creepy meters flashing red.  We discover that Sibyl’s room is a mattress on a floor, and a record player.  That’s it.  It screams sex pad… but we went in.  Third big mistake.  Next thing I remember is being on top of H mauling again, and then realizing that TW and Sibyl were only a foot away from us in the same bed, acting out their mutual lust for each other.  I knew it was time for an inner pep talk,

“Concentrate.  Just think sober for a second, Caitlin.  Think sober.” I thought to myself.

I did truly care for this girl and I did not want anyone taking advantage of her, including myself, so I backed off and whispered in her ear, “Do you want to go?”

She replied with a yes, so I helped her up and we told TW we were leaving.

“Oh yeah?  How are you getting home?”

Fuck!  Being the drunk retards that we were, we forgot that he drove us!  This is when things got uncomfortable.  TW was my friend, so I was completely taken off guard by his shortness and blatant disregard for my feelings.  If I was some bimbo he picked up at a bar, his behavior would be more understandable, but we had history.  His passive aggressive refusal to drive us back pissed me off, but finding my inner “girl power” proved to be difficult because the kind of confrontation it would have required to call him out on being such a douche bag, was not something I was prepared for.  Like I said, he was an old friend of mine and creating tension between us was not something I took lightly.  So what did I do?  I held her hand and called my 911, my best friend, Lance to pick us up.

No answer.  We sat back down.  While I was absolutely drunk, H was much more.  TW and Sibyl crawled over to her and together, with the grace of friggen Vicomte de Valmont, they started to undress her.  H, being almost catatonic, could not defend herself, and I had no idea if she wanted to be saved, or if it was even my place to “save her.”  But I did.  Somehow I was able to successfully switch the attention over to Sibyl, (do not ask how I managed this) whose shirt was now off, and TW and H were rubbing her breasts as if they were petting a cute puppy or on ecstasy or something.  Sibyl giggled and put her hands over her face as I sat there feeling like I was watching The Garden of Earthly Delights come to life.  Clearly, TW and Sibyl were looking for some kind of foursome, but I had no interest in such activities and was not willing to further corrupt H.

One pee break later, where Sibyl and I shared a toilet seat (why?), and two more grope-fests after that, I witnessed the foot job.  H and I were on the bed with our foreheads practically sewn together because we wanted our body language to clearly display our unwillingness to participate in “group activities.”  I heard some suspicious sounds, and an odd shape out of the corner of my eye, but I did not want to look.  I then felt H’s leg moving…  Oh no.  I took a deep breath and looked.  TW was lied out with his erect penis for all to see, and propping himself up on his elbows as he watched topless Sibyl give him a foot job and as he used H’s foot as a “helper.”  Not until the next day did I realize the severity of what he had done.  It was not okay and one of the reasons he is no longer a friend of mine. I quickly pulled her leg away and scolded her for letting it happen.  She was in no state to reason, and I was in no state to problem-solve.

Back to the foot job. The top half of Sibyl’s body was hanging off of the mattress as she moaned and moved her cupped feet up and down.  My thoughts were on the extensive amount of muscular exertion it took for her to perform such an act.  There is no position to be in other than awkwardly facing each other from several feet away, her legs spread making a diamond shape, and using abdominal muscles, inner and outer thigh muscles and gluteal muscles in order to move both legs, the heaviest part of your body, up and down.  It looked like she was doing a pilates exercise.

H and I continued to smash our foreheads together, pretending like we weren’t waiting anxiously for his climactic moment so that we could get the hell out of there…  and finally.

They walk out of the room to clean-up I imagine, and this ordinary action ended up being the most hilarious part of the night.  Sibyl was walking on the outer-part of her feet, as one might do if walking bare-foot on hot pavement.  Witnessing this hysterical attempt at not tracking boy juice through the room almost made the traumatizing events leading up to it worth it.

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