And So It Goes

For the first time since my drinking debacle on my sister's birthday in September(a rather unpleasant weekend spent huddled on the floor of the bathroom after a rather naughty run-in with a bottle of tequila, two shots of vodka and a glass or two or three of wine) I went out drinking with some friends. The bar was dark and smoky and filled to the brim with lawyers and bankers, assholes and rejects, liars and short men overcompensating for their size. I, too, was dark and smoky- clothes were tight and trendy, boots were tall and pointy, hair and makeup were properly primped and flawlessly styled. The night went well, compliments were plenty, drinks were free, and former MTV competitors were friendly and forgiving of my over-enthusiasm. Eventually, though, as final call ticked closer, I watched as friends paired up and left me to nurse my import and make polite conversation with strangers about college and unemployment. I suppose I don't really mind coming home alone at the end of the night. After all, who wants their fairy tale romance to begin, "Once upon a time, in a bar far, far away, I was totally wasted after a night of drinking my troubles away when, all of a sudden, this random guy told me he could see himself in my pants and I knew. It was love." Avoiding that nightmare, however, doesn't make the hurt of romantic voids and an empty bed any less.
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