Kitty Power

Sweet Bird of Youth

Yesterday, I was thinking to myself that besides the whole paycheck aspect, this whole working thing is way overrated. Sitting in one place for over a third of my day, during prime sun-filled hours, in a fucking ice box. Stupid annoying ass people, bitches walking like Peggy Bundy and skeezy guys hitting on everything that moves and this butterface who thinks she so fucking cute and these girls go to the bathroom in PAIRS it really is fucking junior high!!!
Oh, I did mention I had approximately an hour and a half of sleep last night? Isn’t it obvious?
Anyhoo, yesterday I was like “you know, tomorrow’s a 9-2 day because of the holiday weekend, so fuck it! I’m going wild.” I popped in at Sapph as I do to find the yuppie brigade in full force, most in suits and ties. I asked my friend the bouncer with a sneer, “what is this? an office party?” Some eavesdropping girl was all “no!” really bitchily. I gave her a look and wished I was a man, so I could give her “deez nuts, bitch” gesture. It’s one of the few man things I envy. “Suck on my left one” or whatever just doesn’t have the same ring. Especially since there’s always the fool that would be “umm…okay!” I’m not trying to get my Courtney Love on, thanks. (Isn’t also fairly obvious that I’m only a semi-reformed tomboy? Yeah, I thought so.)
I really love Sapph. It’s totally like Cheers. “Hey”s and waves all around as I saddle up at the bar. “Where’ve you been?” said my bartender friend. “I haven’t seen you in forever! I thought you were dead!” Sheesh. “Umm…I was just here last week.” “Hmm…well you left mad quick.” “True…but dead? I was just a little tired, man!” Everyone was asking about P. Fizzie. Take a kid there twice and they’re all “where’s my boy at?” “At home with his girl,” I replied. “Tell him to bring his ass here next week!” Consider the message passed.
Considering my disgruntlement with everything, I had a blast at Sapph. Once the yuppies cleared, it was the regs plus friends and randoms just chatting, drinking, dancing. I was a chatty chatterbox to the extreme. (Yay 2 for 1!) Then again, I’m a random magnet, so it’s par for the course. I got one guy telling me his past relationship drama all bitter like (the synopsis: live in gf cheated with best friend and now they’re dating and he’s gotta move. Burn!). If anything I can say I’ve learned lately, live ins are a bad idea. It apparently needs to be held up as a relationship killer. But yeah, talking about relationship trauma, that’s sexy…NOT.
There was this new DJ getting static and zero love because he drove the brigade out. I, of course, wasn’t too burnt about that, but then again, it’s not my money at stake. Can someone explain to me why good DJs who understand the principles of mixing and mood are playing small hole in the wall lounge parties and shitty hipster DJs are everywhere else? Is there someone who’s like “yeah, I’ve got a space that fits about a 1000 and I want terrible music. Hmm…who can I pick?” This guy was really mining the crates and he played my request like 2 mins later. (I said Brand Nubian to go with what he was doing and he threw on “Slow Down.” I’ve got “what I am is what I am” on a loop right now. Someone please give me a new song.)
We closed the place out and then some and I found myself at Houston and Allen at 4:30 feeling very sad. Long trek ahead of me and I still had to be up at 6:45. In my sleep disorientation, I got off at 71st Continental for some reason I still don’t really understand. Great…that was another 30 mins on my trip. I stumbled into bed at 6:15ish and had the radio blasting until Ms. Mommy peeked in like “get up, turn that shit off, do something” plus some “you know you had to get up this morning so blah blah reap what you sow blah blah kernel #467 from the parents handbook.” I was too tired to do a “deez nuts” this time plus I like my life.
And the story ends at work with a big ass cup of french vanilla coffee and a permascowl. I’m lucky that at 23, I can bounce back from this shit fairly well. But knowing me, unless I’m all super domesticated in 10 or 20 years, I’ll still try it every once in a while. A little rager never hurt in the long run.

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