“You wake up in your bra and your make-up. I’m such a hot mess with you.” -Ashley Tisdale
That says a mouthful right there. B. Brown and I are a hot mess duo of doom. Together we offer a semi-controlled amount of exaggerated fun. Apart we offer mild chaos to everyone that crosses us. We’ve been flying solo for about two months now and I’m not sure which of us takes the cake for number one disaster.
My recent adventure took me to Mr. Black’s with PETA, pretty standard for my bi-weekly outing. The rarity here was that I had not intended to go out, staying in to drink and work. Once I was coaxed out of my hole, I was feeling buzzed to the point I considered turning back. I got it together, put on my retail face and got my ass in the door of the club.
Pre-drinking is economical. I only had to purchase two drinks once we were in the club. Even at the point of stupid drunk I won’t stop, why should I? The bartender decided to contribute to my night by telling me he thought I was cute and doing shots with me. I’m not a shot guy; I know my limits. On a side note, I decided to keep my number from the bartender, considering he was serving in a jock strap. I’m not about to go home with that. My limits were surpassed later when PETA hot boxed me. Why I think I’ve earned my hot mess title: I spent the 12 hours after I got home puking my guts out. I didn’t manage to get myself together until 7:00 p.m. the following day.
B. Brown was pretty good about not drinking for a month or so, but she couldn’t remain boring forever. She has the gift of blacking out, forgetting all of the bad from the night before. The danger in that; you forget what you’ve. Kind of how I forgot I made out with some guy a few weeks ago when I went out with PETA and then gave him my number. I was a tad surprised when he started texting to hang out. One of those, ‘who the hell are you’ moments. B. Brown may rival me for the title of hottest mess mostly because she turns into a hitter. An angry drunk is way scarier than a vomiting drunk, unless you’re sitting near by.
My messes are spread far and wide. Of course my wife could put a claim to the title. Having just finished a healthy “revenge fuck” as she calls it. The guy she was dating decided he wasn’t ready for anything because he wasn’t yet over his ex. Sadly, his ex is over him. She already has a new guy. Perhaps that means he shouldn’t have tattooed her name on his arm (lesson to be learned here). Can someone please kill the ex excuse? It’s easier to just tell someone you don’t want to dip your stick in him or her every night, rather than use this worn out line.
I think the three of us may be toxic for each other, even when we are thousands of miles apart. However, I would rather have incredible messes for friends than the boring stick-up-your-ass people that some of my friends hang around. If nothing else, we make for an interesting read.