Via text messaging, Brandi invited me out to her birthday party on Saturday evening.
"We totally need to do a joint birthday!"
I was, at first, a little hesitant to respond positively. My first meeting with Brandi was an absolute shit show. And by meeting, I mean Brandi. In fact, I bet Brandi doesn't even remember meeting me.
However, I always like to give people second chances.
That and I have been in desperate need of a social life since Leo's departure. Hurry the fuck up, Leo.
I agreed to join Brandi at her favorite haunt; yep, you would have answered correctly if you guessed Hollywood's own Happy Ending.
I whispered a silent prayer to myself as I walked into the bar. "Please don't be blacked out. Please don't be blacked out. Please don't be blacked out."
As I opened the doors, the sweet, sweet melody of Jermaine Stewart's classic "We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off" flooded my ears. "Well," I thought, "a bar that plays my theme song can't be that bad!"
My optimism quickly faded as Brandi bounced over to me, lifted me up and spun me around. She was blacked out.
Brandi grabbed my hand and led me to the bar.
Brandi: We're both turning 21 tonight tonight, So! That means 21 drinks for you and me!
So@24: Dude, I have to drive at some point.
Brandi: Well how about a birthday drink then?
I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, but the bartender happened to be listening to our conversation, e.g. Brandi's slurring, and stopped me.
Bartender: I can't serve her. If you want a drink, that's fine. But she's cut off.
It was 9:30pm.
I don't mind when people over drink while celebrating. Hell, I've been known to do it myself numerous times. The problem is, if the person blacking out is a complete social butterfly in the worst sense possible. I didn't know anyone else at the bar, but Brandi was all over the place. I maybe spoke to her for a combined total of 5 mins the entire evening.
I was awkwardly left alone on the sidelines scratching the back of my head while Brandi hugged and chatted up complete strangers; anybody that walked within her sight. What a fucking night.
The rest of the evening only got worse. I have to admit that plenty of Hollywood eye candy shows up to bars like Happy Ending, but the scenes that play out are depressing as all hell.
The tipping point came when I saw a girl, could have been straight from the pages of a Playboy magazine, "dancing" with two guys at rubbing up on her shit at each side. I put dancing in quotes because it was more like unenthusiastic swaying. While each guy, who definitely were not guys she came in with, were trying their darndest to mark their territory. Each one of their faces were like fucking zombies: dead, starring straight ahead. Like they were just forced to go along with it. Fuck it was sad.
Maybe it was the shittiness of the evening. Maybe it was the single shot of Jack Daniels bubbling in my stomach. But suddenly, I felt this strange philanthropic urge. I was going to approach a girl who didn't fit this Hollywood bill and say something nice. Just to have something to show for this terrible evening.
I left Brandi with her new friends and didn't bother to say "goodbye" or wish her a happy birthday. She wouldn't have remembered anyway.
A girl sat by herself in a corner. I'll be honest, she was quite homely and certainly stuck out like a sore thumb in a place like Happy Ending. She looked like something that Hot Topic digest and puked up. She was clearly bored and kept scanning the room as if to spot a friend bringing her a drink. She wore a ratted hoodie with a patch of GIR on the back, a cartoon character from a cult hit cartoon that most people didn't even know existed.
So@24: Hey there.
Hot Topic Girl: Hi.
So@24: That patch of GIR you have is awesome. Invader Zim was a great show huh?
Hot Topic Girl: Uh. Yeah.
Hot Topic Girl: ...
So@24: Well then, have a great night?
Swing and a miss.