Disclaimer: The writer of this post may or may not have been on the slightly tipsy side during its composition.
Being downtown on Saturday at 3am is an exercise in avoiding eye contact. While in the light of day, random bus stop conversations with drunken strangers may make for amusing blog fodder, beneath the glow of a streetlight and surrounded by the echoes of intoxicated whooping sort of ruins any conversational atmosphere. This is the time I tend to put on my unapproachable face (okay, actually better deemed my bitchy face, in all truth)-- particularly when my iPod is dead and pretending to be distracted by a taxi with Denny's hubcaps can only get you so far.
The things I pondered whilst willing the bus to hurry itself and be miraculously free of wasted 21-year olds:
- Sangria is the biggest (and most delicious) restaurant con on the earth. How else do they get rid of cheap red wine and browning fruit by the pitcher full?
- Anyone who spends a dime on a stretch SUV limo really deserves to have their rights to financial independence revoked.
- Why do drunk people think that "EVERYONE WITHIN A 5 BLOCK RADIUS WANTS TO KNOW HOW FUNNY MY IMPERSONATION OF ADAM SANDLER IS".
- Potentially the saddest sight ever is girls who are done up to the nines, yet have still failed in their night's goal of picking up. Even pseudo-lesbianism didn't get them enough attention. The teeter down the street so very precauriously, slowing down a little as a crowd of drunken university students walk by, desperate for just a little reassurance.
- Boys, on the other hand, who have failed in attracting a member of the opposite sex to revel in their unwashed sheets, won't give up in the thought that maybe, just maybe, though they couldn't meet anyone in the club, maybe they can on their stumble home. So they grunt/hoot/holler at every woman who walks by. And, very likely, berate them as "sluts!" when they don't respond to these ever so appealing mating calls.
- How is it that, in charades tonight, I actually had to act out diabetes? And, when I tried to indicate blood, someone shouted out "self-mutilation"!
Then again, I couldn't even successfully act out turtle.
As these thoughts run through my mind, the bus approaches... and is remarkably full of sleepy looking homeless guys rather than drunk frat boys. Although the drunk frat boys do get on a few stops later. When I get off the bus, one tells me that my purse is a "Stanley Kubrick bag", perhaps trying to show of his brilliant cinematic knowledge, though I'm not quite sure where the association came from.
Walking down my street, I hear what sounds like a high-pitched child's voice, when out of the shadows emerges a cat. In typical Princess fashion, I start cooing and baby talking him. He looks remarkably like my old cat, so I see fit to tell him so. And then Cat follows me home, and starts rubbing up against my front door expectantly. I try to reason with Cat. I tell him that he has to stay outside, and pet him for another five minutes in some attempt at appeasement. I somehow slip in the door, and he starts mewing.
My heart breaks a little.
I search frantically in my fridge for something to suit Cat's palate. Do cats like mustard?
I settle with a dish of water, for I am out of milk. I place it on my front stoop, which he promptly ignores, demanding more cuddles. I get sucked in again. I eventually dash back through the door when Cat's back is turned, for he looks ready to dash through my entryway if given a chance.
Cat mews some more, and even though he wasn't especially skinny, I find myself googling "what to feed cat when no cat food". No dice. Thankfully, by this point, Cat had given up on me, and scampered off to greener pastures.
And, yes, dear readers, I lied. There is no super dance party at all, only a Princess about to crawl into bed.
However, I will leave you with a rather entertaining little snippet from my week...
The scene: Friday morning, 8:30am, coffee shop.
I am stirring in some cream into my coffee, when I suddenly hear a series of pigeon noises. I look around, only to catch the eyes of a smiling man who appears to be homeless.
Him (upon noticing me noticing his bird impression): You are so beautiful.
Him: You are so so beautiful. So beautiful. I hope your day is as beautiful as you.
Me: Oh, thank you!
Him: My name is Dan. *stretches out hand*
Me: Nice to meet you. *stretches out hand in return*
Him: *kisses my hand*
Me: *thinking I need a way to end this politely, as he is still trying to engage me in prolonged conversation* Well, I have to get going, but thank you, you made my morning.
Him: I could make your night, too.
Me: Uhhhh... I think I'll have to decline that offer.
That's right folks, not only pigeon cooing, but dirty pick up lines, before I've even had my coffee. I am a stud magnet and a half.