For those of you that don’t know, it was my birthday this
past weekend. Now 99% of the time
I am a partying and drinking machine.
I don’t even bother fucking around with mixers, I just usually show up
with a cup and a bottle of straight liquor. My specialty is funneling vodka. But that 1% of the time
when my alcoholic tendencies get the best of me somehow always happens to be on
my birthday. Last year I hit an
all time low by getting into the club at 9:50pm to avoid a cover and getting
escorted home at 10:05pm. Believe
me I haven’t heard the end of it since, so I was determined this year would be
epic.
The night started out pretty low key, pregame party at my
apartment with a giant batch of Caribou Lou. Except there was no Malibu in it, just pure rum and
151. I was determined to get
everyone else as fucked up as I was guaranteed to be (for all you blog readers,
my friends are finding out about that when you are…right now). By the time we get to the cab
everyone’s pretty fucked up. And
by some magic chance we get a female cab driver. Yes a fucking lady driving a cab right in the middle of
Boston. I’m like this chick has to
be on some kind of parole release program for killing 3 dudes because you have
to have balls to be a female cab driver.
On the way I decide this lady just HAS to hear my story about how last
weekend a dude was trying to pick me up at a holiday party and I just kept
asking him where the chicken wings were, then proceeded to ingest an entire
plate of crab ragoon in front of him.
The best part is where he asked for us to go out sometime and I
literally told him to hold on one sec so I could spit out a chicken wing . How anyone considers dating me is
literally beyond me but this lady was loving me, saying, and I quote, “Guys call they're moms and are like this girl ordered
chicken wings…love.” I think I
made a new friend that night.
After my drunken lesbo fest in
the cab we get to the club, which in it’s own right was pretty cool. I’ll get to the good part though. By the end of the night I decide that since it’s my birthday
I need to see some naked bodies.
My fantastic friends google the closest strip club and BAM. It was
fucking .2 miles from the club we were at. If that’s not a sign from the sex gods I don’t know
what is, so we gather up the troops and head out. Our particular troop consisting of 5 girls and 1 guy. When we get there the bouncer informs
us it’s a $10 cover. Now I don’t think girls should get everything free, but I
have a strict policy that if a place is selling pussy, then pussy gets in for
free. Rather than argue with a 6’2
muscle man I do what any drunk girl trying to get her friends to see some
boobies would do: tell them I’m a stripper. I pretty sure the conversation went like this: “Go get John,
tell him I’m here, aw I used to loooovee working here, can’t wait to see the
place again!” Some dude comes down
to tell me that there is no John, and wants to know when I worked there. I proceed to tell him I’ve worked at
foxy for years. One problem. The name of the club isn’t foxy. Not even close. Needless to say we said screw the
cover. If I wanted to see this
place’s A game I would rather just go down to the Abortion clinic on any given
Tuesday. Instead, I grabbed a cab
and got my chicken wings and pizza.
So for those of you that were hoping this story would involve me getting
arrested or possibly wild threesome, I’m sorry to disappoint you. But I made it past midnight on my
birthday and that’s really all that counts. Stay tuned until next year.
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