You'll never believe who I hung out with this weekend. Remember him? The guy who thinks I'm a stalker? Turns out being a stalker WORKS! Who knew?
(Just kidding. I'm not really a stalker. Just stalkerazzi. Yes, there's a difference!)
Anyway. Hung out with Mr. Thinks I'm a Stalker and a bunch of his friends all weekend. A few things I learned:
1. GPS doesn't just come in cars.
2. Technology is an awesome thing.
3. Certain kinds of dimples are known to have hypnotic powers.
4. It can take five hours to watch a two-hour movie.
5. It's possible to go 24 hours without drinking a single thing.
6. Security for NFL teams is hard-freaking-core, even for cute blonde girls. Perhaps especially.
7. Cab drivers can be shaaaaady!
8. Guys don't like to play UNO.
So Friday night we're figuring out where to go, and we find out a couple of guys are already at this place called Cans. "Cans?" I say. "That sounds like a STRIP CLUB!" Is it a strip club? we ask. Noooo, says the driver.
Well. No, it was not a strip club, but believe me, there were some aspiring strippers in the mix. But first, a couple things about this place: Youngest crowd EVER! (A girl walked by and one of the guys was like, "So ... fake ID?" and she totally flipped him off. Ha.) And SO MANY MORE GUYS than girls! Seriously, if you're a girl looking to hook up, let me know, and I'll tell you how to get to this place. It's like a 3-to-1 ratio.
Also, drunkest crowd ever, which leads us to ... our aspiring strippers! Or stripper. We go downstairs where it's a little less crowded, and all of a sudden this girl pulls a stool out from the bar to the middle of the floor and starts dancing and grinding like she's on an audition for the Pussycat Dolls. Or Showgirls: Back on the Pole. Whatever. "She's doing her stripper internship here!" I hiss. UNBELIEVABLE car wreck ... which means, naturally, I couldn't turn away. After a minute or two, a guy sidles up next to me. "So," he says, "do you think you could dance better than that?"
Yes. He really did ask me that.
"Uh," I say, "no."
So the place closes and five of us pile in a cab. We're only going ... oh, 10 minutes away? 15? OK, seriously, this cab ride was like 50 MINUTES LONG!
Guy 1: "Dude, I'm FROM here. I KNOW you're going the wrong way. Quit trying to SCREW us. You are the WORST frigging cab driver EVER. We are SO not paying you for this."
Guy 2, yelling out the window at a guy following a girl down the street: "You're not getting any tonight, dude, so just give it up now." (Among many other funny, yet probably unprintable, things that I can't remember right now.)
Guy 3 starts chugging a bottle of Gatorade and throws the empty bottle out the window when he's done. We're like, dude, where did you get Gatorade?
Yup. It was the cab driver's. Ohhhhh, what a cab ride.
The next night, Mr. Thinks I'm a Stalker and I are eating dinner and the waitress decides she really likes him. I mean, REALLY likes him. She's all tossing her hair and giving him the screw me eyes, and I'm all, hellllllooooooo, can I get some mustard please?
So get this. You'll die, I mean, for real, die. She comes back to the table with some mustard and is like, so, you want to see a picture this girl I work with drew of me? And she busts out this piece of paper, kind of like a glorified stick figure, with two little marks in the middle. "See that?" she says, eyes batting a mile a minute. "Those are my nipples." And then she points down at her shirt. "My bra has this wire thing in the middle, and she's like, it looks like you have nipples in the middle! And then there's two other wire things, so it looks like I have eight nipples!"
Ohhhhhhhhhhh, yes, she did.
For real. She did.
I know. I know!
He still left with me, you'll all be glad to know. I know. I was surprised, too. After all, I only have two.
So ... I'm leaving out a ton, but I am sleeeeeepy! There was not a lot of sleep going on, plus I braved the snow to work almost 12 hours on Sunday. But it was fun and crazy and Mr. I Need to Think of a Better Nickname than Thinks I'm Not a Stalker did a great job of keeping me entertained.
Although would you believe that ONCE AGAIN I failed to take my usual load of stalkerazzi photos? I'm slipping, ohhhh, I'm slipping.