I should never have left the house.
I stayed in for most of tonight because my cramps were bothering me and most of my friends were going to Wicker Park, which is about 1-1.5 hours away by el, and I didn’t want to be that far away if the cramps came back.
How bad could it possibly be? Suffice it to say when these fuckers are full blast, I can’t even sit up, let alone stand up, and I didn’t want to be far from my sweet sweet drugs if they hit.
The drugs also have an alcohol interaction warning, and I didn’t want to pay 20 bucks in cover charges to get into bars where I was going to do precisely zero drinking.
So I watched a movie, and before I sat down to the inevitable (homework), I decided to check my email (which is a bit more of a task when dialing up, stupid stupid cable modem dying and all).
So of course, I sign on to AIM, and I get a message of “Why aren’t you at my party?!” from my friend Sharon, to which I responded that I had no idea what she was talking about.
So she tells me about the party, then, as added incentive, tells me there’s queer girls there, because she thinks I am an extremely predictable person.
She is clearly not wrong about this, and since the party was only about a mile away and I couldn’t drink because of the medicine I’m on to combat the cramps anyway, I decided to bike up, since I could come back faster if I had to.
So I got there, and there were indeed a bunch of queer girls there, including Irene the Hot Italian Chick who shot me down, and a very nice rugby player I had met the night before named Megan, who I think is cute, and who I probably would have asked out if I hadn’t been piss-drunk last night and unable to form complete sentences.
So of course, Irene and Megan were flirting.
(bangs head on desk).
You know, I’ve got to stop doing this. I’m going to end up with a big purple welt on my forehead.
For the first time in my life, I actually became glad that I have debilitating cramps, because they kicked in right on cue for me to make a convenient exit. Which, unfortunately, I had to make in a beer-soaked overshirt, since someone had spilled all over it at some point. Perfect end to a perfect evening.
It’s very funny when I look at it from a detached point of view, because, well, if it had happened to someone else, I’d be laughing my ass off.
However, it does make me feel pretty fucking stupid for not just saying fuck it and going up to Megan’s rugby game this afternoon, which I didn’t because it was raining when I got out of the shower. Shit shit shit shit shit.
I swear, this never happens to straight people.