In case anyone out side of six degrees is reading this blog, here are two things you should know about me. One, I do not get dressed to go out. This was already apparent back in the States, where my weekend, paint-the-town-red outfit was either whatever I had stumbled into work wearing that morning (ie, the closest I could get to sweatpants without actually having anything written across my bum), or actual sweatpants. True story. Then I crash-landed into a long-distance relationship, the upside of which is that now I really don't have to give a shit about my appearance ever. I know, I know--I could take some personal pride in myself. But ultimately it's a hell of a lot easier to just throw on some mom jeans and a pair of beat-to-hell sneakers and expect people to close their eyes if they are offended.
Two, I rarely get drunk. Oh, there have been times...times that I do not care to remember, which is good because some of them I can't. But most of the time, when I go out it is to have a few drinks, get a bit tippy and come home to bed well before anywhere close to closing time. The dawn stumble has never appealed to me.
So with these personality traits in mind, can I just tell you how much I FREAKING LOVE watching all the Scottish lassies going out on Friday nights here? It is like the circus. Their heels are so high and their skirts are so short and they are so completely covered in powder and/or bronzer...when they walk by in packs it's a bit like watching the lady centaurs from Fantasia.
But at least at the beginning of the night shit is mostly under control. Sure, there's the odd header on a stroppy cobblestone, and last night I saw a girl whose skirt was so short the crotch of her tights was visible as she walked. But, you know, on balance things are going ok. And then the bars close...
Last night on my way home I saw two women going at it (um, fighting) in the park. Both were screaming obscenities at each other at the top of their soused lungs, and one particularly erudite young lady managed to conjugate "fuck" as an adverb, which I didn't even realize was possible. Finally, as I watched, Louboutins attached Jimmy Choo, with the intention of scratching her "whoring little eyes out." Unfortunately, the added height from her monster heels seemed to have allowed her to overlook the (admittedly rather squatty) wastebin that stood between her and her nemesis. I watched in complete schadenfreuded glee as she gathered steam...
You know that epic football tackle when the guy with the ball jumps up to avoid a defender and then someone hits him in the knees and he flips completely over while in the air and lands flat on his back and then they rush onto the field with a stretcher? This was better. Girl went ass over teakettle over trashcan like she'd been shot out of a cannon. The best part is, I don't think she would have made it over without the added height from her heels. No, wait, the real best part is the way she immediately popped back up, clearly too drunk to notice that her shins had recently been sheared in half, and offered her frenemy a cig.
I love Friday night.
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