Friday, March 20, 2015

the seven types of bitches you run into at the club.

1 the bitch whose feet are fucking killing her. THANK YOU, BASED GOD, FOR OLD NAVY ACTIVE COMPRESSION PANTS. i decided a long time ago that i would just patiently wait for high-waisted underpants and threadbare cardigans to come in style, and until they do i'm not really gonna try that goddamn hard. i never want to go anywhere or do anything, but it's kind of hard to be a person if you don't. i just want to eat ribs in my jammies and text my vote for that one girl on the voice 137 times, not spend my rent money on tequila and cabs while wearing uncomfortable shoes and pants that dig into my soft meat. which is why i fucking don't anymore. i went to the club this past weekend and, you know what? SHIT AIN'T CHANGED. dudes will still elbow you in the jaw to beat you to the 1/2 inch of empty space at the bar into which they must wedge themselves to order a drink, and ladies are still tiptoeing through the used condoms and discarded needles in too-small fake louboutins. not me, though. fuck a stiletto. i wear crocs and compression stockings because i'm one of those people who is good at learning from the mistakes of others. that's why i wear my pajamas to the disco, because i like to let my shit hang. my discomfort has never been appropriately rewarded. every fish i've ever dragged out of the sea was caught tangled up in a pair of support hose, because my ankles are swollen. BUT MY FEET FEEL FUCKING AMAZING.

2 the bitch who really did come for the food. this is me, at your company party: hovering suspiciously close to the crab dip with my belt unbuckled, nibbling directly from the assorted snack trays while trying to avoid getting locked into an excruciating conversation with someone boring. the nightlife landscape is changing: no longer are you forced to leave the party spot to hit up the tamale cart or dank shawarma hole to soak up all those appletinis you let someone's recently-widowed dad buy for you! never again will you have to eat a bowl of rice, six fig newtons, and half a peanut butter sandwich while doing your makeup trying to fill up your stomach before pouring a bunch of overpriced beers into it! i don't know how it is where you live, but chicago is fucking full of these places all of a sudden, and it's the goddamn best. especially if you're one of those people who like to look occupied so no one in the bar will suspect how lonely and terrible she is in real life. CAN'T TELL THAT THESE FEELINGS ARE SAD IF I'M BUSY EATING THEM CAN YOU, BRO. um, what. anyway, food is good. shit what am i even talking about anymore.

3 the instagram bitch. HOE IT'S DARK IN HERE. PUT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING PHONE AWAY.

4 the zooey deschanel bitch. i do not believe in whimsical humans. bjork? whimsical human. amelie? whimsical fictional human. YOU in a too-small cupcake printed modcloth dress and messy pigtails turning cartwheels in the middle of a disco? ANNOYING REGULAR PERSON WHO HAS WATCHED 500 DAYS OF SUMMER TOO MANY GODDAMN TIMES. you've seen her: the bitch with a live bird in her purse who skips through restaurants and signs for the fed ex delivery with a teeny little adorable heart. or the one with an entire potted plant in her hair doing public cartwheels with her shoes off while hurling confetti at passing cars. the baby voices and the ladybug cupcakes and the getting glitter all over the place: EXHAUSTING. and they're everywhere. k and i were at 3 dots a few months ago and, after approximately 37 banana daiquiris and a bunch of shrimp, i decided i had to pee aka vomit. and the one thing standing between me and the safety and comfort of a tiki-themed bathroom was an asshole with pastel fairy wings affixed to her back. and she was doing this arm-waving dance with her eyes closed that made it nearly impossible to get around her without accidentally getting an eye clawed out. she was whirling and swirling to a beat i couldn't hear; when i went left she swerved left, and when i tried right she pirouetted right. listen, i don't give a fuck if you want to wear pinafores with puppies printed on them. i really don't. but i for real peed a little bit in my one good pair of outside pants because a chick with white people dreads was pretending to be some sort of wood nymph in the middle of a goddamn disco. and i'm mad about it. everything is goddamned terrible.

5 the bitch who throws up. speaking of, i have vomited in so many amazing places! this is the unfortunate byproduct of all of those newfangled hotspots what with all of their complicated craft cocktails and elaborately-styled appetizers: hey bro, how the fuck am i supposed to resist both and plate of deviled eggs and a drink with no fewer than seventeen handpicked, locally sourced ingredients!? I AM ONLY HUMAN, OKAY. so let me get that venison hot dog with the asian pickled slaw on top and three, no i mean four, roman holidays. and yes i will take that shot of patron greg just bought for the table, thank you very much. what was that? you want me to dance real fucking hard and potentially dislocate a hip because this bearded hipster DJ in a librarian sweater just put "murder she wrote" on to be ironical? DON'T MIND IF I DO. nah, i don't need a water, just hand me that half-empty champagne flute i'm not really sure belongs to me. hold up they have ice cream brownie m&m caramel doughnut profiterole snickers cake here!? JAM.

6 the bitch who is spoiling for a fight. i have been in two bar fights in my life. #1 like the champion i am, i ripped my shirt off hulk hogan style over my rippling chest and muscular abs before proceeding to break the jaws of every single motherfucker in the room without so much as smudging my eyeliner. #2 SEE NUMBER ONE.
just kidding, my dude. the first time i wanted to show how tough i was by breaking a bottle of corona on the edge of the bar and threatening to stab this bitch who had just rudely yanked my friend from the adjacent barstool by her ponytail with the jagged remains, but what really happened was i busted that shit, sprayed my friend and only ally in the face with flying shrapnel and lukewarm beer, then opened my bloody hand to find a giant shard of glass embedded squarely in the middle of my palm. horrified by the sight of my life line cut neatly in half and the alcohol-thinned blood pooling rapidly around the wound, i put my head down on the bar while my girl tried to use her car key to dislodge it. the second attempt my homie and i were executing a perfectly synchronized reenactment of the kid and play dance from the first house party movie and i'm not even really sure how things devolved, but one of us might have ended the night trying to catch a cab with a black eye and someone else's shirt on. ahem.

7 the bitch who gave birth to you. hells yeah, baby: KAREN FINALLY GOT A MOTHERFUCKING DIVORCE.

partytime!