Shoot Me
The hardest part about breaking up is having to admit you’re single. The word “single” has become a veritable disease, a form of retardation, an ailment and illness that causes mass paranoia because research has not yet concluded on whether or not it’s a contagion. When someone says they’re single, the first question that comes to mind is, “What’s wrong with him?” Of course, when I say I’m single, the usual response is, “Oh, yeah I figured.” In fact, when I tell people I’m NOT single, I usually end up running away because apparently a lie of that magnitude warrants the stoning and beating of a lifetime.
I hate hitting the clubs, lounges and bars again, it’s fucking depressing. I hate watching all those people smiling, drinking and talking. It’s really frustrating especially because you know it’s waaaay too loud for anyone to be saying anything profound and interesting enough to result in an even remotely meaningful conversation. I always make an attempt to be clever, and some of the wittiest banter I’ve ever conjured up was during club conversation. The result is always the same, a girl screaming into my ear, “What was that?” and me screaming back, “Never mind!”
Last weekend, I was completely shitfaced at yet another one of Manhattan’s ever so obscure lower east side lounges. It totally felt like I was walking into a grade Z transvestite whorehouse in Thailand, not that I’ve ever been to one of those (more than 8 times) and as soon as I got upstairs, the lounge was bumping. It was filled with a very diverse crowd including a handful of attractive chicks who were apparently (God forbid) single. I stumbled over to the bar by myself at one point to order myself another Newcastle, and as I ordered, to my absolute and utter astonishment, some cute chick started talking to me. She looked Irish, a little shorter than me, nice ass and best of all, she was as drunk as a mule. So I did what any drunk guy would do, and I slurred like a champ some sort of nonsensical babble that somehow drew a smile. We were talking for a little while, when through my cloud of intoxication, I noticed that she had a friend standing next to her who looked like she was not having a good time at all. After a while, her friend kept trying to get her to leave with her while glaring at me with angry eyes as if she were Rosie O’ Donnell and I were the pot roast that got away. I felt uncomfortable so I eventually left, but I can’t help but to wonder what was going on in the mind of her friend.
cock·block·er
noun : one who engages in the act of blocking cocks; a male who decides to interrupt another male who is already engaged in the mating call ritual with a female; a man-hating female who believes that the cocks of all males is undeserving of her and all her friends unless it is blessed by the pope; a lesbian.
The hardest part about trying to meet chicks at a club is convincing them that you’re not some sort of pervert. It’s tough, especially because most guys who go to clubs actually are perverts. I mean, it’s obvious to everyone that every single guy in a club wants to get laid, so, guys use different modes and methods to make girls forget this prevalent law of clubbing. The best of course is being funny. No girl laughs maniacally at a knock knock joke and thinks to herself immediately afterwards, “this guy is sooo trying to fuck me.” No, they laugh and wait for the next knock knock joke. So, I’ve come to a couple of conclusions over this weekend.
Conclusion #1: Girls are onto us.
Conclusion #2: My ex-girlfriend is an evil soulless bitch.
Conclusion #3: I’m still bitter.
Conclusion #4: The types of girls I meet at clubs are not the types of girls I want to build lasting relationships with.
Conclusion #5: I need a new knock knock joke book.
-B
Oh, and shutup L unless you want the beating of a lifetime.
I hate hitting the clubs, lounges and bars again, it’s fucking depressing. I hate watching all those people smiling, drinking and talking. It’s really frustrating especially because you know it’s waaaay too loud for anyone to be saying anything profound and interesting enough to result in an even remotely meaningful conversation. I always make an attempt to be clever, and some of the wittiest banter I’ve ever conjured up was during club conversation. The result is always the same, a girl screaming into my ear, “What was that?” and me screaming back, “Never mind!”
Last weekend, I was completely shitfaced at yet another one of Manhattan’s ever so obscure lower east side lounges. It totally felt like I was walking into a grade Z transvestite whorehouse in Thailand, not that I’ve ever been to one of those (more than 8 times) and as soon as I got upstairs, the lounge was bumping. It was filled with a very diverse crowd including a handful of attractive chicks who were apparently (God forbid) single. I stumbled over to the bar by myself at one point to order myself another Newcastle, and as I ordered, to my absolute and utter astonishment, some cute chick started talking to me. She looked Irish, a little shorter than me, nice ass and best of all, she was as drunk as a mule. So I did what any drunk guy would do, and I slurred like a champ some sort of nonsensical babble that somehow drew a smile. We were talking for a little while, when through my cloud of intoxication, I noticed that she had a friend standing next to her who looked like she was not having a good time at all. After a while, her friend kept trying to get her to leave with her while glaring at me with angry eyes as if she were Rosie O’ Donnell and I were the pot roast that got away. I felt uncomfortable so I eventually left, but I can’t help but to wonder what was going on in the mind of her friend.
cock·block·er
noun : one who engages in the act of blocking cocks; a male who decides to interrupt another male who is already engaged in the mating call ritual with a female; a man-hating female who believes that the cocks of all males is undeserving of her and all her friends unless it is blessed by the pope; a lesbian.
The hardest part about trying to meet chicks at a club is convincing them that you’re not some sort of pervert. It’s tough, especially because most guys who go to clubs actually are perverts. I mean, it’s obvious to everyone that every single guy in a club wants to get laid, so, guys use different modes and methods to make girls forget this prevalent law of clubbing. The best of course is being funny. No girl laughs maniacally at a knock knock joke and thinks to herself immediately afterwards, “this guy is sooo trying to fuck me.” No, they laugh and wait for the next knock knock joke. So, I’ve come to a couple of conclusions over this weekend.
Conclusion #1: Girls are onto us.
Conclusion #2: My ex-girlfriend is an evil soulless bitch.
Conclusion #3: I’m still bitter.
Conclusion #4: The types of girls I meet at clubs are not the types of girls I want to build lasting relationships with.
Conclusion #5: I need a new knock knock joke book.
-B
Oh, and shutup L unless you want the beating of a lifetime.
posted by CEO of the World at 9:01 PM
1 Comments:
i've never been one to talk to guys at a bar/lounge/club. i guess i have it set in my mind that guys who pick up girls in bars/lounges/clubs are looking for a certain "type." more of the one-night-stand and not so much the long-committed-relationship type...but that's just my opinion...
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