My first encounter was a brief glimpse of the "Koch brothers", no not the philanthropists, but the monied shitheads who leash me into provocateur with a thick trail of jetted-in blow. Quality product I have yet to find anything else like in the city. Those days are over and I bypass them with a quick glimpse and the faint memories of long nights in gender unspecified bathrooms and fiery, drug infused conversations. Oh RICCARDO- I beg you to get a life.
We enter the room of a foreign territory that resembles my old stopping grounds, the land of the sugar daddydom. This time, adorned and newly renovated with Pop art, flashing neon lights and blaring music that's fuzzing the speakers. People make out next to us, men half my height with a lower cut neckline than my own spy me and my girlfriends like vultures- did I just get transported to Miami beach? I leave my beverage order fate to my roommate- drinks of gin sent over from a Palestinian I'll be far more acquainted with come 8 am. I talked to the owner to line up two more rounds for the girls on the house, meanwhile handed tequila shots in syncopation to the awful Latin/EDM music. I didn't even know this genre existed. The crowd boogies like its 1989. I glare, and avoid these bald eagles, and get as much alcohol in the tank to forget why the fuck I ended up at this expired place. It's 15 minutes are almost up, maybe I'm even 15 minutes late.
The trove of guys want to go clubbing; it's 1 am on a Wednesday and I have no interest in head banging hip hop at marquee. We suggest a cocktail lounge- my local haunt where I'm greeted with more acquaintances than I signed up for. Kisses on the cheeks and a few greetings later I'm sitting with this broad at the bar being poured a coup of unnaturally rouge Moët rose. I hate it- where be the krug. We chatter, I'm mildly entertained. I exchange with the manager, then in drunken network mode head over to the guys running Quality Meats to divulge how awful the $100 seafood platter I ordered last week was. Realize it's a mistake to their expressions and general dismay, and make it up to them by name dropping a loyal patron of their bar and the expensive one, no two bottles of wine we ordered. crisis averted!
We enter the room of a foreign territory that resembles my old stopping grounds, the land of the sugar daddydom. This time, adorned and newly renovated with Pop art, flashing neon lights and blaring music that's fuzzing the speakers. People make out next to us, men half my height with a lower cut neckline than my own spy me and my girlfriends like vultures- did I just get transported to Miami beach? I leave my beverage order fate to my roommate- drinks of gin sent over from a Palestinian I'll be far more acquainted with come 8 am. I talked to the owner to line up two more rounds for the girls on the house, meanwhile handed tequila shots in syncopation to the awful Latin/EDM music. I didn't even know this genre existed. The crowd boogies like its 1989. I glare, and avoid these bald eagles, and get as much alcohol in the tank to forget why the fuck I ended up at this expired place. It's 15 minutes are almost up, maybe I'm even 15 minutes late.
The trove of guys want to go clubbing; it's 1 am on a Wednesday and I have no interest in head banging hip hop at marquee. We suggest a cocktail lounge- my local haunt where I'm greeted with more acquaintances than I signed up for. Kisses on the cheeks and a few greetings later I'm sitting with this broad at the bar being poured a coup of unnaturally rouge Moët rose. I hate it- where be the krug. We chatter, I'm mildly entertained. I exchange with the manager, then in drunken network mode head over to the guys running Quality Meats to divulge how awful the $100 seafood platter I ordered last week was. Realize it's a mistake to their expressions and general dismay, and make it up to them by name dropping a loyal patron of their bar and the expensive one, no two bottles of wine we ordered. crisis averted!
Time to make a quick escape to the overpriced local deli where raw coconut water is $7 and a quest bar will get u at $4.50. The Palestinian and I bond over a shared enthusiasm with their Instagram and he tells me he's fallen in love and tries to make out with me in front of the unentertained Japanese deli keeper. Jesus- the staff already knows me as "the girl who ate shit", let's not continue building my reputation.
The roommate wants beer. She wants lights, she wants action, she wants someone to pay for her fucking ham and cheese. She carrells the group back to my apt, illogical decisions that come with two broads sprawled out unconscious smack dab in the middle of our beds.
I wake up in the morning annoyed and hung over. Then completely delighted to the soft caresses and fondling of a man who knows whatever the fuck he's doing. What did he do again? Run operations at the Plaza Hotel? Clearly he's handled utilities before, the man's working some magic on this haggard ol wretch. He's strumming me like a guitar, I'm verb-ratin all ova. But homies g2g. He asks me to take his number. Ain't nobody got time for that. Homeboy, you, and your soft hands, and your magic handiwork touch whateverthefuck got to get the fuck out. and ok, sure I'll pass along mine. Now cab to work. And lemme write this shit down and pop and adderoll and start this train again.
#Wednesdayfriendsday
MM