Business and I went out for what was meant to be a simple happy hour of cheap drinks and people watching. Beginning at Classic Boxers we poked fun at the less than stellar crowd before making the decision to control our musical destiny and hit up Boiler Room for their jukebox. I was also pissed because the incredibly hot bartender was only serving his douche bag friends, fifteen minutes to get a drink is bullshit.
But, back to Boiler Room and their fancy jukebox. The great thing is you can control it from your phone, except for when a gaggle of gays pick ten Kylie Minogue songs as “play next” in a row. It put a damper on the night, until the beer buzz kicked in and my and Business’ mouths started running wild. As a former picked on kid I’ve earned my right to say mean things, that are true, about other people. And most of the time I don’t do it to their faces, so no one is the wiser and no feelings are hurt.
This crowd though; words can barely describe the hipster messes that crawled into the city from the depths of Brooklyn. I have Brooklyn Pride, I mean, if you found me dead and naked on the street the one thing you’d know is how to find your way back to Brooklyn (that’s a tattoo reference for those who I’ve yet to flash). The bad plaid shirts, out of control beards, and the beanies, oh my hell the beanies. Cut your hair, take a shower and wear some clothing that fit damn it!
Eventually defeat was admitted, only hearing one of my six songs, back home to end the night – or so I thought. Late Night and I began to converse. And it sort of devolved into a debate on me using him as a sex object and not giving him a chance.
I put up a bit of a fight, citing my birthday and the disaster it was, but he made a compelling argument as to why he knows nothing about me, I’ve mentally blocked him out since day one. I hate when someone else makes a valid point that doesn’t work in my favor. It’s true, I was the crazy one that went from zero to like in ten seconds flat and expected to be entertained and amused without providing any information as to who I am or what I like. I did try to play my favorite card, “What’s my first name?” Much to my dismay, Late Night actually knew, I don’t believe I ever told him. He either has done some homework or he’s nosy like me and noticed it on a piece of mail.
Through my drunken haze I knew the right decision was to make my way down to his apartment for more misplaced comments and filthy interactions. I still like Late Night, and perhaps I’ve made him out to be a bigger jerk than he actually is, considering I think everyone is evil, it’s not difficult for me to think this way. Then again, all I know about dating is that I’ve learned nothing in the last decade.
As I left this morning, I grabbed his Magic 8 Ball, asking, “Is this going to blow up in my face?” It wasn’t much of a surprise when the response came, “All signs point to yes.” The saga continues…