I give up.
I was looking for a match made in heaven, but all I got was an unsanitary, irritating and expensive night.
My relationship with the bars has about run its course. Let me take you back to Saturday night when I made the mistake of choosing overpriced cocktails instead of a Redbox DVD and a six-pack of Mike's finest.
You girls who hide behind that whole "I'm badder than you" persona--it's pathetic. I'm not stupid, and I notice you staring at me. You're looking at me for one of two reasons. You dislike something about my appearance, or you're jealous.
To the boys who think they can "buy" their way into my pants, or into any girl's pants, for that matter: grow up. Maybe if you hadn't checked out the bartender's backside mid-conversation or stared at my breasts for the past five minutes, I'd think you were a semi-decent guy--but I noticed otherwise.
I'll give it to you, though, y'all aren't as bad as the hyenas who lurk around the dance floor hunting for an unsuspecting girl to thrust their pelvises into.
Ah, the gems of society. After all, who doesn't love a mind reader? Yes, you nailed it. I've been waiting all night for a sweaty, ill-mannered excuse for a man to dry-hump me to the beat of Taio Cruz's "Break Your Heart." But, what really gets me hot is when you misconstrue my "no" for a "yes"--all 15 of them.
Finally, the transit ride home--if only my stop weren't the last.
I don't care to know about your bun in the oven. Also, if you can't sing sober, you most certainly can't sing drunk.
A word to the wise: nights in are under-appreciated.
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