I recently found myself with a few days to myself. Dollar had to leave town to visit an ill family member and I was left to entertain myself. What better way to entertain myself than to say hello to Wall Street?
I accepted Wall Street’s invitation to his friend’s birthday party. We met at his apartment and had a few drinks before making our way over to the party. I didn’t even have my drink made before getting riled up. Earlier in the evening when I was on the train a girl had commented on my pants. She didn’t think I could hear her over my iPod, when she started ranting about the destructed state of my jeans. I ever so politely mentioned to her that it was extremely inappropriate for someone who looks like they crawled out of a shower drain to be giving fashion advice. I mentioned this to Wall Street while several of his friends were gathered around. Little Bitch, as I refer to him, is one of Wall Street’s buddies. He is the type of person that likes to come off as an ass. He added to my story, “She was right.” If you know anything about me then you know I had to say something. I snapped, “That was overly bitchy, don’t ya think?” I then finished my drink and made my way towards the makeshift bar. Little Bitch avoided me the rest of the evening, which was fine with me. Though I did enjoy the expression of shock on his face after our conversation.
The evening picked up from there. I made friends with some girl, had a guy try and take me home, had a hand shoved down my pants, kissed Wall Street (or so he claims) and finally started drunk texting on my phone. I’m usually very good about not touching my phone when I’ve been drinking, but something got into me.
One thing I rarely mention to people is that I did the love thing once. Three years ago I was in a long-term relationship with the only guy I’ve never been able to give a nickname. Jerome and I ended when I flipped out and pushed him away and now I get trashed and think about it. I picked up my phone and the texts began. For some reason I was very focused on the fact that he was completely over me but I was stuck on him. He feeds the fire by saying that he isn’t over me but we shouldn’t be together. I don’t know if he intentionally does it or not, but it gets me all worked up. In my blurry state all I want to hear is that he wanted me back. I don’t care if it’s a lie. I know he lives 2000 miles away and I may never even see him again, but come on, lie to me! I’ve realized the only way for me to prevent this sadistic form of self-torture is to delete his number from my phone. I can still always email him, how many times have I drunk im-ed someone? Well, a few times, but still it is far less likely to happen.
The next day I went about things pretending that I hadn’t done what I remembered. When my roomie asked for details about the evening I was very vague giving a distorted diet version of the evenings events. I figure I don’t need the reminder that I should know better by now.