This girl is glad to be home. Going out last night with the work peeps was SO much fun, (except for those two horrible examples of modern manhood*), but I'm not nineteen anymore, and desperately need sleep. Gonna have a big chunk of time away from work this week, which is probably good. I'm so drained... sad and tired and emotionally zapped. At least I get to look forward to things maybe changing drastically within a few weeks- I'm ready to stop treading water and find some happy.
* SUNDAY POSTSCRIPT:
Now that I'm caught up on sleep, the two jerks story is actually kinda funny. Basically, you get a coupla drinks into me, and I'm dancin'. Not well, mind you, but very enthusiastically. Add a shot of Patron, and Lord, I get delusions of invincibility. Well. We walk into the first club (no, the second, but ten minutes at the first one hardly counts!), and one minute later this guy I'm calling The Weatherman trolls up. He's shortish-but-cute: brown hair, blue eyes, nice hands, but he's from New Jersey and has the jerky "I'm-all-that-and-you're-lucky-I-let-you-breathe-my-air" attitude a lot of those boys seem to cultivate (Seriously, who is telling these guys that being a complete douchebag is the way to find a sweet, pretty girl who will love, honor, respect, and nurse your grouchy ass when you're 80 and have Alzheimer's? WTF.). He keeps insisting I dance with him, and I won't, cause I'm mostly sober and he's a dick. We leave, go to a coupla other places, have a coupla more drinks, collect a bunch more friends, return a coupla hours later, and... well, The Weatherman wasn't a bad dancer, but I tend to take extreme umbrage when a total stranger tries to...er... check my temperature. So to speak. This is why I only wear skirts maybe twice a year-and it wasn't a very short skirt! So I basically RUN from his skanky ass and take the chance to chat up a cutie I'd spotted. We talk for a good ten minutes, it's going nicely, and his buddy starts pressing him to leave. I ask where they're headed next, and his buddy gives him The Look. Cutie blurts, "I gotta tell ya, I'm married." I said, "Oh. Well, have fun with your friends!" and made a beeline back to my peeps. GAH. This whole dating-in-Orlando scene... I dunno, maybe I'll stick with the bookstores.
* SUNDAY POSTSCRIPT:
Now that I'm caught up on sleep, the two jerks story is actually kinda funny. Basically, you get a coupla drinks into me, and I'm dancin'. Not well, mind you, but very enthusiastically. Add a shot of Patron, and Lord, I get delusions of invincibility. Well. We walk into the first club (no, the second, but ten minutes at the first one hardly counts!), and one minute later this guy I'm calling The Weatherman trolls up. He's shortish-but-cute: brown hair, blue eyes, nice hands, but he's from New Jersey and has the jerky "I'm-all-that-and-you're-lucky-I-let-you-breathe-my-air" attitude a lot of those boys seem to cultivate (Seriously, who is telling these guys that being a complete douchebag is the way to find a sweet, pretty girl who will love, honor, respect, and nurse your grouchy ass when you're 80 and have Alzheimer's? WTF.). He keeps insisting I dance with him, and I won't, cause I'm mostly sober and he's a dick. We leave, go to a coupla other places, have a coupla more drinks, collect a bunch more friends, return a coupla hours later, and... well, The Weatherman wasn't a bad dancer, but I tend to take extreme umbrage when a total stranger tries to...er... check my temperature. So to speak. This is why I only wear skirts maybe twice a year-and it wasn't a very short skirt! So I basically RUN from his skanky ass and take the chance to chat up a cutie I'd spotted. We talk for a good ten minutes, it's going nicely, and his buddy starts pressing him to leave. I ask where they're headed next, and his buddy gives him The Look. Cutie blurts, "I gotta tell ya, I'm married." I said, "Oh. Well, have fun with your friends!" and made a beeline back to my peeps. GAH. This whole dating-in-Orlando scene... I dunno, maybe I'll stick with the bookstores.
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