Although Friday had been a truly horrible night, my boyfriend and I decided that going out again on Saturday would be a fabulous idea.
We had originally planned to go to a music festival, but when we got there, our favorite bands and artists were not playing.
So we ended up joining my coworkers for drinks at a local pub.
It was actually a good night.
One of the girls had just broken up with her boyfriend and was in high spirits. She is absolutely gorgeous and hilarious of course, so the two male coworkers that were with us, were buying her drinks all night and hanging on her every word.
One even took up smoking as a new habit for her.
It was pretty silly.
So while they chain-smoked the night away and lavished her with attention, we all had a really good time talking about work, my big boobs, work, my big boobs, my coworker’s stupid ex-boyfriend, and work.
I don’t have a lot in common with these people, but I find them fascinating.
(And when I say I don’t have anything in common, I mean one is a fan of Miley Cyrus and doesn’t even know who Freddie Mercury is/was. What the fuck world, what the fuck?)
We took lots of silly pictures and drank a superb amber ale.
I was approached by a couple of gentlemen, but ever-so wonderfully, they kept their hands to themselves.
I was told I should do pin-up modeling, that I was a free-spirit, and that I was “just gorgeous.”
Now, normally I’m against beauty being the end-all, be-all of my existence, but the night before left me feeling pretty ugly, dirty and grotesque.
Sometimes it is nice to be called beautiful without any expectations behind it.
Sometimes it is nice to dominate the jukebox so you can create an infinite playlist of 80’s rock.
Sometimes it’s nice to a capella the White Stripe’s “Seven Nation Army.”
Sometimes it is nice to be reminded that not everyone you meet is a super pussy dickboil.
Also, beer is good: