Confessions of A Naughty Girl

Cosmopolitans, Castro, A Frontal Lobotomy, and A Whole Lot of Hash Browns

"Scattered, smothered, covered, topped, and just about everything else."

This is what I found myself slurring at 4 am last night, while staring at the "I Want Butt Plug" scrawled on the inside of my forearm in pen, wondering if it was all worth it.

Why do I feel like I continually wonder if it's worth it? Hangover today is quite nasty, despite not really being that drunk last night (or at least, "New Year's Drunk", which has become the new standard of just what I am capable of).

So last night, my friend J and I went to Dark Horse Tavern, aka The Best Place Ever For Drinking And Watching Incredibly Good-Looking Guys All Night Long. Had I known this place was such an aesthetically-pleasing sausagefest, I would have certainly traded in many a weekend night watching "House Hunters" on HGTV and catching up on sleep in favor of going here. I think the last time I saw this many good-looking men in one place was Greek Week 2000 in college.

J and I quickly sat down at the bar, ordered drinks, and hung out as usual. But rather inexplicably, and in a pleasant twist of fate, our Mojo was in full swing. And let me tell you - it's good to know my Mojo still exists, because I sure as f*ck haven't seen it since April 2005.

We spent most of the night talking to incredibly good looking guys, two of whom appeared rather interested in yours truly. I played them both like 8th grade band instruments. Why, you might ask? Because I could. I called one of them "That Ass" all night for reasons that just probably wouldn't make sense to you (although important to note that it was quite funny when I kept asking, "Where's That Ass?" all night, and he would come hither). That Ass had a phone number scrawled on the inside of his arm, one that he claimed was from some college "friend" whose number he didn't have. Without missing a beat, I offered to give him my phone number to add to his forearm collection, pulled out a pen, and wrote "Pen15" in huge letters. Served him right for lying. To his credit, he attempted revenge by scrawling "I Want Butt Plug" on my arm, but it paled in comparison. Sad ending for That Ass - he drank a too much and rubbed up on me rather inappropriately one too many times, thus causing me to turn my attention to his equally-cute, but less drunk friend, MHI.

MHI and I spent most of the night talking and hanging out, and I can proudly say that I didn't lose interest in him once the entire night! We talked about normal, everyday things for quite a bit of time. He was engaging, funny, and cute, and in what I think is sort of adorable and sort of creepy act, even followed me to the bathroom to talk to me so we could chat outside of the group of people we were standing with at the front of the bar. Good thing he found me just as I was embarrassingly walking out of the men's room after a momentary lapse in knowledge where I thought "lasses" on the door meant "men's room". Whoops.

In the meantime, J was hanging out with two guys, one of whom was sort of pathetically amusing, as he was trying to quit smoking and was chewing Nicorette the entire night. His last name was Castro, which I thought was weird. I paused briefly to ponder what it would be like if my last name was "Mussolini" or "Milosevic", and then turned my attention back to MHI.

So, much like any other night I meet someone I like, I am beginning to get sort of excited about this very cute guy, and then somehow, the topic turned towards his brain surgery.

Eek.

Now, I am hardly the expert at suggested bar conversation, but I don't think I'm too far off the mark when I say that your Massive Head Injury (hence, MHI) is an not the best subject to broach when we're just getting to know one another. While I'm sure it's probably a big part of your life, can't we hold off on the details of your frontal lobotomy for a date or two? Shit, if we're going to discuss that, let's just open the floodgates to dead relatives, mass genocide, and old men crying over spilled milk. And yes, maybe that sounds insensitive, but if the guy was trying to work me, which he clearly was, he was not doing such a good job by forcing me put my index finger to his temple so that I could touch the four holes they had drilled into his skull to alleviate the epidermal hematoma after a bad car accident last year. Bottom line on this: touching surgery scars does not good foreplay make.

I tried to be compassionate and empathetic, but my buzz was just getting going and I felt like kind of an asshole. Thankfully (or maybe not), he switched the topic to his passion for engineering and whether or not he believes time travel is possible. I tried my best to keep up - I really did - but at this point I was just wondering whether he was going to ask me for my number, and thinking that if I could just get him back onto a normal topic, like Jager or "CSI", we would probably get along really well.

After all of the hematoma, momentum, and butt plug discussion, he did not ask me for my number. He made some lame excuse about having to drive his friends home, mentioned that he was at the bar a lot and wanted to hang out sometime, hugged and kissed me, and then stupidly walked off. Ouch.

I wandered over to J and company, who were oddly discussing politics - a topic she was clearly trying to veer off of, because if anyone else understands appropriate bar conversational etiquette, it's J. Perhaps debating politics with friends is acceptable, but there's something a little off-putting about debating Roe vs. Wade with total strangers over a couple of cocktails, which might lead to some careless sex at someone's apartment, which could knock you up and force you to discuss the topic at a later time, only this time within the context of having the guy's baby. Like I said, off-putting. At one point, the Nicorette Dictator guy was so frustrated with his lack of oral fixation, he kept pulling the gum out of his mouth, ripping it to little pieces with his fingers, and throwing it back in his mouth. I sincerely hope that J does not go out with this guy. He too was guilty of the overly drunkenness, and I was feeling vicious, so when he asked someone in the group "What are you, some kind of dictator?" I couldn't help but chime in with, "No, Castro, I'm pretty sure you are." Ha. Mussolini 1, Castro 0. Hey, I struck out at the bar, but at least I was still sharp as a tack.

Thus my smart ass ended up at Waffle House with J at 4 am, trying to drown my sorrows in a ginormous pile of hash browns.

I am disappointed to announce that due to scheduling conflicts, the Man Plan will be postponed until a later, undetermined date. This was a difficult decision that was made due to a number of factors, one of which entails some unfinished business at the Dark Horse Tavern. Until then, I am going to hop right back in the saddle.

posted by KA @ 8:30 PM