(705): God help me. So drunk guy tells me his friend likes me* and wants to dance... I say sure if he wants to come ask me I will dance. No, dude is 'too shy' and won't come ask**. End up dancing w/ drunk dude who is currently sporting a pretty wicked asscrack. I'm in hell.
(705): Oh and now drunk dude has requested I sing "18 and Life" by Skid Row. I can't even make this shit up.
My milkshake totally brings all the drunks to the fucking yard.
*having never previously met, spoken or seen me.
**I'm expected to go ask him. Apparently I'm in grade seven.
Showing posts with label drunk posting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drunk posting. Show all posts
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Saturday, November 19, 2011
I'm gonna let you in on a little something.
It's probably thoroughly un-progressive of me to say this, but I have a confession.
I kind of want to be the Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
Go ahead. Laugh.
I would.
It's true, though.
I want to be a muse. I want to inspire someone to live life to their fullest.
I'd like to be that crazy, quirky, fascinating girl who breathes life into someone who has otherwise lost all interest. Destroyer of the Cynical.
I'd like to be the object of undying affection, fascination, adoration.
I'd like to be the person who changes someone's whole outlook on life.
I'd like to choose who would be that person. Which is where the fantasy falls apart, I guess.
Meh.
I've had a couple glasses of wine tonight.
I kind of want to be the Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
Go ahead. Laugh.
I would.
It's true, though.
I want to be a muse. I want to inspire someone to live life to their fullest.
I'd like to be that crazy, quirky, fascinating girl who breathes life into someone who has otherwise lost all interest. Destroyer of the Cynical.
I'd like to be the object of undying affection, fascination, adoration.
I'd like to be the person who changes someone's whole outlook on life.
I'd like to choose who would be that person. Which is where the fantasy falls apart, I guess.
Meh.
I've had a couple glasses of wine tonight.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
It’s 3:15 am, my time.
Andie is a little buzzed tonight, a bizarre combination of rye and Tim Hortons Coffee. Oh Tim, if you weren't a corpse, probably no more than bones at this time, I would make sweet sweet love to you. A little buzzed and very cold.
The baseball banquet was more fun than expected, dinner surpassing dessert in the yum category, chicken covered in all manner of seasoning, and broiled potatoes with a tangy lemon suggestion. There was dancing and door prizes. I'm the proud owner of a glass cutting board and insulated wine bottle. Being a woman's league, there was not an eligible male in sight, with the possible exception of the DJ, and both K and I commented on his gawkish cuteness, but neither bothered to investigate further. Oh, the road not taken.
We coffee, and convinced by my good friend Danno, we are guided to the entrance to the very pit of hell, but in P-tang, they call it Yorkies. There are bars that girls drag their boyfriends to, and this is a bar that guys drag their girlfriend too. Or in our case, their very understanding female friends. or as K put it, their awesome understanding female friends. As I then said, their 'going above and beyond the call of duty awesome understanding female friends' *looks pointedly at Danno*
For a bribe of two rounds, we keep him company. The band is alright, but I've heard better. They can handle Stevie Ray, which is admirable, but then proceed to eff up something as simple as Third Eye Blind. "might have been a request" I surmise. A man who smells of onions .... yes, ONIONS.... says he heard a rumour we could dance ("it would be awesome, if we could dance... "it's been running through my head all day). Dan gets the kiss of death (the kiss of death is chaste, given to the foreheadal area) and I say 'Never again."
Sit in Timmies parking lot, Bob has joined us. It's cold but conversation is plentiful, even for almost 2 am. Watching police pulling over errant drivers, I'm glad my car is at home. It gets colder, coversation dies down, as the caffiene rushes rush off. We part ways.
At home, I have two messages, both from sam, one is the boy, one is the girl. My cat is being nocturnal and chasing imaginary ghosts, perhaps evil spirits dragged from the bar called Yorkies, but I call sketchy. I'm cold and tired and tomorrow is another day.
The baseball banquet was more fun than expected, dinner surpassing dessert in the yum category, chicken covered in all manner of seasoning, and broiled potatoes with a tangy lemon suggestion. There was dancing and door prizes. I'm the proud owner of a glass cutting board and insulated wine bottle. Being a woman's league, there was not an eligible male in sight, with the possible exception of the DJ, and both K and I commented on his gawkish cuteness, but neither bothered to investigate further. Oh, the road not taken.
We coffee, and convinced by my good friend Danno, we are guided to the entrance to the very pit of hell, but in P-tang, they call it Yorkies. There are bars that girls drag their boyfriends to, and this is a bar that guys drag their girlfriend too. Or in our case, their very understanding female friends. or as K put it, their awesome understanding female friends. As I then said, their 'going above and beyond the call of duty awesome understanding female friends' *looks pointedly at Danno*
For a bribe of two rounds, we keep him company. The band is alright, but I've heard better. They can handle Stevie Ray, which is admirable, but then proceed to eff up something as simple as Third Eye Blind. "might have been a request" I surmise. A man who smells of onions .... yes, ONIONS.... says he heard a rumour we could dance ("it would be awesome, if we could dance... "it's been running through my head all day). Dan gets the kiss of death (the kiss of death is chaste, given to the foreheadal area) and I say 'Never again."
Sit in Timmies parking lot, Bob has joined us. It's cold but conversation is plentiful, even for almost 2 am. Watching police pulling over errant drivers, I'm glad my car is at home. It gets colder, coversation dies down, as the caffiene rushes rush off. We part ways.
At home, I have two messages, both from sam, one is the boy, one is the girl. My cat is being nocturnal and chasing imaginary ghosts, perhaps evil spirits dragged from the bar called Yorkies, but I call sketchy. I'm cold and tired and tomorrow is another day.
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