Rule #14: Own your one night stands

25 May

The next morning after the fail of a night described in rule #13, I woke up and puked then ate some pizza. At this point, normally, I would have had an X-Files marathon. But no, not today. Destiny had other plans. I brushed my teeth and hair, not really caring what I would look like, and walked into work.

I thank the Good Sweet Lord everyday for my coworkers that allowed me to take naps on the bar and would awaken me whenever a table would come in. They would also make me this cure for hangovers which I swear by: soda water, a dash of salt and a squeeze of a lime. That’ll keep you sober and feeling good for at least an hour! Back to the matter at hand. Today was one of those days where I lay sleeping on the bar and my coworkers woke me up for my first table. I was less than overjoyed when my first table was some director at the university and some student assistants. I got their drink orders and everything was all fine and dandy. I went to make their drinks and when I turned around to bring them to the table, my worst nightmare had shown up. But not really my worst nightmare because it was real and it was the horrible vagina beater from the night before. Things got awkward fast. Any rational person would hand this table off to one of those amazing coworkers and they’d be happy to take the tips. Not I. I am a money hungry twirp who somehow tends to enjoy putting herself into inexcusably awkward situations. And I don’t treat them like any other table, no, I linger to let this vagina beating Student Assistant know that I am as capable of creating conversation as hiding when I walk with a limp. I struggled through the hour that the table stayed. Normally, I would strut my stuff and visit the table often so that I could shake my buttcheeks as I walked away, but this was a very special situation. I now had the opportunity to confirm with a one night stand that our love voyage had ended shortly after it started. After everything I said, I did that awkward laugh (on purpose obviously). But it wasn’t that nervous little cackle that 2nd graders do when they are talking to the cute 5th grade boys, I had to muster a laugh so desperate that even the Fonz wouldn’t dare go back: Donkey HeeHaw it is. After a few HeeHaws after phrases such as “Hope that there’s not too much ice in your Margarita HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYAYAYYAOUUWW” or “I promise I didn’t spit on your burger HHHAYYYYAHAAAWAAHOO” I do declare he was probably turned off. My perchina was safe and secure until my next mistake.

He must have felt bad for me because he tipped well. I don’t even care if it was him bribing me to not tell anyone about our nocturnal experiences together. I obviously don’t care because I just published it. Sucka.


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