Which girl? THAT girl who breaks up with people on her blog. The Foreigner who says he never reads it, read it yesterday. I was mortified. We still went out for drinks as planned. To the weirdest bar in Dallas, The Grapevine. It's on Maple. They have the best music and the weirdest clientele. It's fantastic. They use whatever glassware they can find so every drink I had came in a different (i.e., bigger) glass and they fill them up all the way. It's alcoholic Heaven. I had a great time. It's hard not to when you're getting felt up by a queen named Gary.
But wait! There's more!
I am also THAT girl who drinks exponentially larger vodka tonics and ends up crying in the parking lot. I KNOW. I HATE THAT GIRL, TOO. I can only hope that all the black eyeliner and mascara I was wearing was smeared all down my face. I wish I hadn't given up getting my jeweled false eyelashes on straight. I would have cried them off and I can imagine one stuck on my mascara-streaked face, all heaving bosom and hysteria, "DON'T LOOK AT ME! I HATE YOU! THANKS FOR BUYING ALL MY DRINKS! I'LL TALK TO YOU NEXT WEEK! I SAID I HATE YOU!"
It was the messiest, most ridiculous, most out of control me The Foreigner has ever seen. But at least it was honest. That's what happens when you don't say what you think. Bottling things up is bad. You're just making the inevitable explosion that much worse the longer you pretend EVERYTHING IS OK. So don't.
There now, don't we all feel better? I certainly do. I'm not sorry and I don't feel guilty. I feel a little protective of Drunk Crying ReadBecca. It's not her fault. She was just pushed to the limit of what she could take. I put her to bed with a little kiss on the forehead.
She's fine.
No comments:
Post a Comment