So your GF gets a few cups in, out on the town in NYC, hanging with some big peck'd six pack laden fashion monkeys.
She gets all touchy feely affectionate.
So one of these protein shake drinken' fellas is movin' his tight shirted ass to the City on the Bay.
Maybe the hormones, maybe she was thinking about her good friends who'd left before, either way she gets weepy eyed and offers to throw a bon voyage party (french for gettin' the fuck outta here).
The idea is met with great accolades and much rejoicing by said treadmill humpers.
She wakes up the next morning in the cold light of head throbbing hangover and asks what she has done.
I enlighten the stumbling lass, still thankful that I hadn't spent the evening holding her head out of the toilet wondering if the stomach acid she spewed all over my shoes was going to ruin the leather.
"Oh, shit" she replies. Then she asks me why I didn't stop her. Like there was any possibility of that.
Shit, I was busy outside waxing philosophical with some big bellied black clad swede about the merits of various middle eastern music.
But Hell, seemed like a good idea to me at the time, seeing as how I was about 5 deep drinks in and loving every creepy freak in the bar that night.
So now it's time to head to the local grocery mart. A Sunday night feeding frenzy of single mothers and desperate singles frothing at the mouth as they fight over the last package of double discounted hot pockets, or whatever else happens to be on sale this week. My girl tears the last bottle of food coloring from the clutching grasp of another carriage pushing baby breeding machine, leaving at least a black eye in her wake, and picks up the last few ingredients for Trey's not quite famous, not quite from scratch, but ga'dam' divine Red Velvet Cake.
Sunday night is spent baking up this blood red monstrosity for the next day's festivities.
Of course, those protein shake swillin freeweight freaks decide that their final night together in NYC is best spent in lube laden carnal bliss. Ruining yet another set of sheets frolicking in the devil's play groin.
Who am I to argue? I like a little fornication as much as the next man, and maybe the fellow after him as well.
So, the question is, where does this leave your's truly?
I'll tell you since you were good enough to ask.
It leaves me picking up the slack hanging out at my girl's apartment doing my level best to kill an entire pitcher of cosmopolitans meant for a group of 6-8, and sucking down huge slices of red velvet cake until I look like I just eviscerated a wild beast with my bare teeth.
So what now? What indeed.
The GF tried to post her own tear laden bitter rant on this very site, cursing the existence of said flakey fuckers. Of course, being the technological whiz that she is, it got lost somewhere in the mix.
I'm stuck here, sucking down tall 16 oz glasses of some high octane pink hued paint thinner that's meant to be served out of thimble sized little whanker cups on a Monday fuckin' night. Too drunk to get it up and ruin my own set of sheets, I'm left typing away while she sobs into her tear stained pillow and curses the devil grain alcohol that got her into this miserable situation in the first place.
You may ask the point of this drunken rant, hell, you can ask what ever you fuckin' want. I got no point. I'm happy as a pig in shit with a belly full of good grain alcohol and a blood red smile on my lips. I'd walk through fire for a tasty slice of red velvet cake slathered with a heart stopping dose of bourbon cream cheese icing. Dump a half gallon of alcohol on top of that and I'm good to go. Those seaweed sucking pilates punks can kiss mine and my girls swelling asses. We're livin' it up here at the strangelands. Me, my girl, and a pitcher of cosmos make a happy three.
Those chumps don't even know what they're missing.
Sucks to be a chump.
In conclusion, my only advice to you dear reader, is keep a muzzle on your girl when she's feeling all affectionate out on the town, unless you think their might be a drunken, cake laden, confectionary rainbow at the end of that particular alcohol infused storm.
God help me tomorrow. I think I'm gonna go puke now.