Bottom’s Up! Here’s to Drunk Shaving and Blogging.

Currently, I’m curled up on the couch, bingeing on an entire gallon bag of grapes (I’m sure I’ll have many regrets later), tossing back a few chocolate chips in between, waiting on the Ex-I’m-Fucking to come over in response to my totally sober 2:00am loneliness/booty call, worried about how I’m going to break a fifty to give him gas money for doing my dishes/fucking me. Ha. If only my customers knew. If only they knew how much we had in common.

Thursday — sober — I managed to yell at two customers about STDs after being asked repeatedly for sex. I ridiculed the fuck out of some eighteen-year-olds on their cell phones at the rail. I managed to ruin my own shot at dances with bitchy sarcasm at yet another guy asking me what my “real” name is. 

“What’s your real name?”
“Aw, man. Why did you have to ask me that? Why couldn’t you ask me, like, what my favorite animal is, or what my favorite color is, or what I ate for breakfast?”
“Uh, why? What’s your real name?”
“Who gives a shit what my real name is? Does it matter? I don’t care what your real name is. I’ll call you whatever the fuck you want to be called.”
“Woah. I was just asking. You’re kinda mean.”
“I’m not mean, I just…why do you care?”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what: you want a private dance?” I knew, by then, what the answer would be, and figured it was time to leave, rather than carry on shoving my foot further in my mouth.
“Um. No. You’re mean.”

Welp. Not a shining moment, surely. I know I should have just bit my tongue, given him my fake “real name” and moved on. Or been more flirty or bargained over it. But when I hear the same shit, over and over, I can’t help but be a bit of an asshole sometimes. It flew out of my mouth this time, without my permission, the words taking on an attitude of their own. 

After that guy, I decided I needed to start drinking. I rarely do, and when I do, I maybe have three drinks through the course of the night. Three drinks is my usual consumption for an entire week, because I just don’t like drinking that much. Or I’m scared of it; both of my parents are alcoholics, and few people actually have a healthy relationship with alcohol as a recreational substance (I have most of a degree in Chemical Dependency Counseling, okay?).

I felt like dancing and being silly; I was clearly not doing so well on interpersonal connections. I requested some Beastie Boys from our DJ, and hopped on stage, having real fun. A twenty-four-year-old announced that it was his birthday, and I asked him if he liked the Beastie Boys/the music I chose. He said…he said he didn’t like “oldies.” What?! Since when…what the fuck? When did the Beastie Boys become OLDIES?

Our club sits in an area prone to flooding after extreme weather, and this spring didn’t want to be the exception. The water creeped closer and closer to the club throughout the night, with girls reporting back on water levels after their breaks. 1:30, and finally the club called it: the water was too close, and everyone needed to leave, stat. Now. Before we all ended up having a really fucked up sleepover in which some of us die over the lack of cigarettes or food, okay? After the parking lot was cleared of customers, the girls managed to get out before the water rose too far. 

I learned, as we were leaving, that several dancers had been questioned by the FBI about a Latino couple that frequents the club. They were shown photos, and the dancers easily recognized — I recognized, from a verbal description — the couple. The couple was wanted for a few murders. This being the Midwest — a nice, pleasant Midwestern town with a low crime rate — I was shocked. Murderers? In our club? Of course. Of course there are. Of course there are people who like and do weird shit, like there always is, and murder is no exception. Humph. 


Okay, look. I’m going to be honest, here…I’m drunk already. It’s now 5:30pm, and I had a shit day within 10 minutes of waking, so perhaps my blogging just isn’t top-notch. Maybe my vocabulary is a little…dimmer. Forgive me.

Drinking…drinking just isn’t me. Not at all. But goddamn it. The Ex-I’m-Fucking ran off in a hurry three hours after we fell asleep this morning, and I fell back to sleep to a scary nightmare in which my dog died a horrible, icy death. I woke up to a long-time friend un-friending me on Facebook because she’s a pregnant, hormonal mess of bullshit (pregnant chicks are the fucking worst), and then a law firm calling me over a debt I had no idea existed. The law firm lady was a bitch to me, despite my actively asking for details on how to pay and clear the debt. I’d been awake for ten minutes this morning, and was already in tears. 

I called the Ex-I’m-Fucking last night because I was lonely. Really, really lonely, and feeling disconnected from any other humans. And if sex was the only way to get some sort of human interaction that wasn’t at work, I was willing to take it. I paid him to come out because I needed a fucking friend, someone to interact with, even though we mostly just use each other for sex, I wanted a person to touch and to touch me. Even he darted off after a post-orgasm nap. I didn’t come, and I didn’t care. For a second, there, someone was holding me

I was supposed to run today, and running helps me deal with anxiety I have about the small stuff.

But I didn’t feel like it. 

Goddamnit, bottom’s up.

Because I have to work tonight to pay Uncle Sam in less than two weeks, and I’m really not going to survive the night unless I’m sloppy-ass, giggling, warm-in-my-tummy drunk.


~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on June 5, 2013.

One Response to “Bottom’s Up! Here’s to Drunk Shaving and Blogging.”

  1. You remind me of myself back in the old days when I did this. Good luck – it’s a tough gig. Keep on smiling for dollars :)

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