I Need a Man Not a Boyfriend

Last night I slipped in my high heels on the dance floor and the mixture of drinks and sweat was so disgusting. I got up and kept dancing. Fuck it, right? 

When are we grabbing drinks? I need a mimosa. 

Its not that I think I have a drinking problem, its my job right? Plus, I have to have all the drinks that my friends cant have because they work for Bayer and Apple and the City of Fuckall and since they don't have time to go to happy hours and shit I have to drink it to keep the Earth in balance otherwise everything in the universe will spin out of control. So yes those tequila filled moji-ritas or whatever Julian mixes on Wednesdays keep the Earth in rotation thank you very much.

So that was on Wednesday, right?  Last night was Anthony's birthday. He is like 28 or 31 or someshit and him and his littler-identicalish brother were gremlining it up on the dancefloor. It was a meat pit and everyone got sloppy. As Im sure you have heard. So that's actually how I got these bruises on my knees. Like a foolish drunk dumbass at this bar called the Dolphin. Yea a GoGo bar with a wall of Wheel-Of-Fortune-esque multi-colored panels that light up and make it feel like the Euro-DJ and the 70's style bar are from a terrible 80's movie. Its across the street from my house. Super convenient. Which is actually how I decided to wear heels. You know, since I only had to walk 1 block so if my old ass wanted to hop across the street for some flats that was absolutely an option. Its called planning, thinking ahead and compromising as little as possible on dressing like a motherfucking boss. I wore a strapless dress in that style of pinup-meets post depression fashion of 2013; basically I dress like a respectable bimbo. But with shorter hair and fake-nothing. The girl next door meets MILF combo of the mid-20 something service industry non-hipster section of South Philly. That was last night. And this is me. Meg. I work at a beer distributor and this is my life.