Monday, March 14, 2011

Why I'll Never Be a Famous Socialite.

I've never been much of a "party girl." Aside from my ever-so-dangerous love of cupcakes and balloons, my partying has always been rather tame. I'm usually the designated driver, even on my own birthday most years. And I'm not about to get all preachy here and go into a "don't be such a sloppy drunk" lecture...because we all have our demons. But I think last night I really understood why I can never fully relax and have a good time when I'm out.

We all know I have my insecurities, and they pretty much rule my life. Not by choice, but what are you gonna do, right? I don't let them fully turn me into a hermit as is exhibited by the fact that I did go out on Saturday night. Me and a bunch o' pals gathered up to hit some bars and listen to some bands at our favorite local casino, and for the most part, it was pretty fun.

That is, until one drunk-ass Angel, one of the said pals, decided we needed to go to a "classier" bar. You know those bars...they're full of trendy douchebags spending nine dollars for a shot of Jaeger and sucking on a hookah with six more frat boys who look at me like I just farted in their mouth because I dared to walk past their eyeline in all my fat glory. I don't know if you guys know this, but the Las Vegas nightlife is not very fat-friendly. Girls wear six inch heels and half a shimmery pillowcase for a dress and everyone's stumbling around and giggling. It's no place for a girl like me!

After about seven billion looks of disgust (i.e. 2 minutes in there), I said I couldn't take it anymore and that I was going back to the bar we just left to go watch fat guys play beer pong where I feel more at home. Angel stayed. An hour later, her boyfriend is literally dragging her ass back over to where we were. I dunno what happened in that hour. I can only assume the nine dollars you pay for the shot comes with a tab of Rohypnol because this bitch was OUT. He put her in a chair and tried to get her to wake up since I was their ride home and I wasn't ready to go. Needless to say, no one explained to me that she was like, legally dead at the fucking table. So, obviously, we had to go.

I had a point here. OH this fucking dude who is her boyfriend this week, like hefted her ass up in his arms and just fucking carried her allllllllll the way outta the casino, out to the parking lot, out to the car, laid her head down gently in the backseat and like got in next to her to cradle her head while I chauffered their asses home. Um...THAT is why I can never be that drunk. Sure, it's all The Bodyguard/An Officer and a Gentleman when it's involving some 98 pound chick like Angel. But if my big ass was to ever fall out like that in a public place, I have a feeling I'd either be sleeping it off on some dirty-ass casino carpet or someone would just like push me into a corner and put a broom handle under my chins or something so I could look like I was still partying Bernie-style. I COULD NEVER LET MYSELF HAVE THAT MUCH FUN (?) BECAUSE NO ONE WANTS TO TAKE CARE OF A SLOPPY MESSY DRUNK FATTIE. Period.

Like, in theory, I wanna think that no one wants to take care of some slopped out chick/guy EVER...but I dunno. This dude seemed like happy and proud. Captain Save-A-Ho strikes again. Like it's endearing to take care of someone like that because she's so tiny and a baby bird or something. I just...don't get it. Like all bitterness and jealousy aside, I seriously don't get it.

Anyway, it's not like I'm saying I wanna be thin and attractive so society will be okay with me getting fall-over drunk. I'm just saying...Chris Farley is dead and Charlie Sheen still walks amongst the living. Discuss.