Blog, Sweet Blog

Recreational drinking with old friends and suspected serial killers at goth night

Posted on: Sunday, May 16, 2010

Mood: Blllurggghhhhffffnnnntttt
Music: Camera Obscura- I Need All the Friends I Can Get




I went to a different goth night on Friday with my new favorite gay couple and a college friend who’s visiting from San Francisco.  Goth night with mah gays is usually a lot of fun, but Friday was only so-so.

Friday nights are usually hard for me; I’m tired and so over the long week and I’d much rather go home and eat pizza and watch The McLaughlin Group.  This week, I felt nauseous and bloated and gross and I wasn’t really in the mood for people, let alone club people.  I considered calling it off, but this was my only chance to see my friend before he left town again.  Also, it was rainy and humid and it took me two fucking hours to get ready.  So, I felt harried, yargy, and tired before I even walked in the door.

It got better.  We all walked and talked and drank (a lot) before the end of the night.  I caught up with my friend and made eyes at the cute, twink-y bartender.

I’m kind of an adorable, charming, bumbling drunk but I really need to be looked after.  I tipped the bartender when he closed out my tab.  Ten minutes later, I was interrogating him, asking him why he wouldn’t let me tip him.  He assured me that I had, in fact, already tipped him, generously, but I didn’t believe him.  I thought he was flirting with me by making up some elaborate story about tips and my credit card bill.  I made him charge my credit card a dollar so I could leave him another five.  Thank God I didn’t run into a charming grifter on the way to the bathroom, you guys.

I met a man in there somewhere.  He was standing at the end of the bar near my boys, desperately trying to make eye contact with the bartender.  He was jealous of our special connection and asked for my advice.  I suggested he flash a little skin and make with the sexy winking.

We talked a bit while he waited on his drink.  He was an ok looking guy, older, an inch or so taller than me with longer blonde hair and a slightly receding hairline; a nice guy, but not especially remarkable in any way.

A couple of minutes into our conversation, I thought, He’s lying.  He’s a serial killer and he’s cruising for his next victim.  He wants to take you back to his house so he can drug you and tie you up in the basement and videotape you and torture you and murder you and have sex with your corpse and make a lady suit out of your skin.

I don’t know why I felt that way.  He hadn’t flashed any psycho googly eyes or let anything untoward slip out. I just got a sudden lotion-in-the-basket kind of vibe off him and I felt like I had to get out of there.  I made an excuse about having to say goodbye to my San Francisco friend and I walked with him out to my car.

I hope I’m wrong, it sounds like we go to a lot of the same places and that I might see him again.  I hope it was just the alcohol and my crippling fear of intimacy making me crazy.  Then again, it’s like my momma always says, it’s better to be safe than hacked up into tiny bits in some psycho’s soundproof, easy clean murder room.  So, of course I spent the entire day reading about serial killers.

Have any of you ever felt that way, like you just narrowly escaped getting murdered?

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an introduction





Hi, I'm Anna and I love cheese!

This blog is a chronicle of my life and a catalog of happy ephemera. The About page has a little bit more information, but, remember, none of this is really me...it's just a supplement, a thumbnail sketch, a mostly anonymous Intarwebs placeholder. I'm way better/less wordy in person. :-)

Oh, and if I wrote something about you and you thought it was mean or hurtful, I'm sorry. It's how I felt at the time, but probably isn't how I feel now. Chances are, I love you and I think you're awesome.

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