…We were brought in by a Saudi Prince escorted by giant black men who were bouncers/ bodyguards to us. If we needed anything,
it was to our service.
The best thing was, if we needed to go to the bathroom,
they would guide us there, with their one giant palm wrapped around our nonexistent
bicep (or mine at least) and swing us to the left side: which is the side that
the “coooooool people go.” Like hello,
hit me with some bills and blow to make this round. But me, I was like yo. no.
I don’t even have to pee. And I really didn't. Wait what? Did you get that
because I didn’t.
Point is:
Why do girls go to clubs knowing they are – or will be – a
stupid random groupie, or just another hot bitch at the table. It’s fine to be
that hot chick at the table as long as you have your hot best friend(s) right
next to you agreeing that the situation just as fucking stupid. Fun but stupid.
Comical actually. Meanwhile, you both drink the Dom they consistently pour in
our thickened, plastic flutes.
Nonetheless, you both wonder why you are there. Hoping to
meet someone interesting, to spark some kind of conversation with an artist
that will open up some creative part of your brain that hasn't been exposed.
No. That doesn’t happen. Not at 1 fucking Oak at least. And esp not to me.
Because I don’t think much of what people in clubs have to say is interesting.
The only time I would ever be seen there now is with my
newest hot black boyfriend, Alex. DUN DUN DUN, the lying sociopathic asshole,
has newly just been founded that is actually 45 years old and has 3 kids…Yes,
this was the man that I would be at Oak with…ew, disgusting, foul. Everything
that you could think of yes. But for some reason, I wasn’t as disgusted as I
should be.
WHY. SERIOSULY WHY.
WHY. SERIOSULY WHY.