Eugh. It's 3:14am. I'm supposed to be at work in four hours and forty-five minutes to sit through a meeting. I have just arrived home, and I sit here blearily - I have cigar
breath, and my face is covered in Stripper Funk(tm)
. You know, cheap perfume, my own sweat, and whatever powder/blush/foundation makeup that the strippers at the club I was at use to make their breasts look Unblemished when they wave them in and on my face.
I hate myself. Not for going to a titty bar, lord no, but because I can't get out of a titty bar in Manhattan for under $300, especially when I'm there taking a friend out for a bachelor night debauch.
On the plus side, I did manage to spend twenty minutes being chatted up by a waitress from the other side of the bar who mostly seemed to want to sit next to me and run her hands through my hair, without taking any of my money. Which made her an absolute rarity. I used to be impressed by Disneyland as a money filter; the Econopocalypse has hit Manhattan, and the Eastern European stripper population is hustling lapdance money with the focus and drive of professional biathletes. The cute waitress was from Woodstock, NY - maybe that's why she wasn't hustling hard. Or maybe she was actually bored and thought I might provide diverting conversation. Or maybe she really actually did just want to run her hands through my hair.
Who am I to say no?
I'm a broke idiot, that's who. But of course, I can't, so the only thing to do is survive and hope I have enough cash to make it home when I leave.
At least this time I managed not to pull out the credit card, and only spent what I had on me.