Male BFF: “Where do you want to go for drinks tomorrow night? Something low-key like Barcade, or something more involved like dancing at a gay bar where you’ll be fondled by beautiful gay men and I will have an experience in the men’s room that leaves me questioning some very fundamental things about myself?
Me: “Any place I can get drunk and find a dude or two to make out with, but that is also magically not crowded/won’t have a wait on a Saturday night.”
(If y’all ever have the chance, being horny, lazy, AND socially anxious is, like, the BEST.)
Followup email: “Also, if I’m going to get fondled, I think I’d prefer hetero. I’m not sure I could convince a gay man to put his hand up my dress. But hey, dare to dream.”
I think My Default Bar wins—they offer bacon-y cheese pretzels, froofy cocktails, and cake. Throw a unicorn* and some books in that joint and I’ll be set for life.
*Please don’t really throw unicorns. They’ll fuck you up. Little known fact: Unicorns are actually total assholes.
I just heard “Livin’ on a Prayer” on my Internet radio at work, and even though actually dancing on my desk is frowned upon, there was some serious gyrating and hair tossing in my head, and my desk chair got the ride of its life.
“I’m not choosing. I’m not choosing Jake. I’m not choosing Fitz. I choose ME. I’m choosing Olivia. And right now, Olivia is dancing. I’m dancing, I’m free! Now, you can dance with me, or you can get off my dance floor. I’m fine dancing alone.”
— Olivia Pope
I choose me, you guys. 2014 has been a mental shitstorm for me, and I’m done. Onward. I hope to make 2015 my dance floor, and I hope y’all enjoy the show.
I wish you a safe and happy evening, and a wonderful new year. Cheers!
This probably doesn’t help my friends’ perceptions of me as an uptight, convent-raised prude. But I’m pretty sure I couldn’t get up on stage at the symphony and shake my ass around, Mix-a-Lot notwithstanding.
I guess it would be a great story: “OMG, Becky, remember that time we rolled up on stage at the orchestra and pseudo-twerked our flat, rhythmless asses for the amusement of a one-hit wonder from the ’90s?* Totes YOLO, amirite? Totes.”
Ugh. You’re at the SYMPHONY, not a goddamn bachelorette party at the Jersey shore. (Also, that girl DEFINITELY Cabbage Patched. Oh, honey…)
I think I’m just bitter that I ain’t gotta motor in the backa my Honda. His anaconda wouldn’t want none.
* “Put ‘Em on the Glass” was not a HIT. How dare you?
Sorry, no, you can’t fuck me once you’ve used the word “thingy.” It’s in the Smug bylaws — paragraph 6, subsection B, clause 3. Right after “Your Smug will stop everything and dance when she hears ‘Rump Shaker.'”
Sorry, my hands are tied. (Ahem. This is also in the bylaws.)
A guy who can dance isn’t really at the top of my priorities list, but man, watching Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing all these years later, you can tell that man could flip every switch on a girl’s body on the dance floor and then fuck her senseless when they got home.