Be Bold. And Slutty.

This past Friday I went out with my girls Jazz and Red. Somehow they managed to talk me into meeting them at the one club in town I hate the most.

Club Douche reeks of erectile dysfunction. In fact, there should be a law that all men even considering showing up bring some form of pedigree proving they are real men. From 9pm-2am it's like a bad Saturday Night Live sketch, in which you are guaranteed to leave with some form of male narcissistic slime trying to claw it's way into your pores as you walk to your car.

Red and I were the first to arrive, and while Red ran around to say hello to her friends, I huddled in a far corner staring intently at my phone.  The single most UNattractive man I have ever laid eyes on made his way over to my table, gyrating to the song in his head which was clearly not the same song the band was playing.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing sitting here all alone just staring at her phone?" He asked.

"Well, I was hoping it would send a clear signal that I didn't want company, but since it hasn't I'm now contemplating whether hurling myself out that window would end this night faster than breaking this shot glass and using one of the shards to slit my throat."

"Oh! Hahah! You are a feisty one! I like feisty!"

Since I couldn't figure out  a way to stress-vomit onto his shoes, I instead glared straight ahead while he droned on and on about I don't know what.

Finally Red came back to the table and sensing my impending suicide, she managed to come up with some clever way to make that asshole go away.  Jazz arrived and judging by the brimming tears in her eyes I knew we were both ready for something stronger than beer.

"Wanna talk about it?" I asked.  "Nope," she replied.

"I don't think they sell Valium by the bucket, but I could grab us a couple of Patrons." I offered.  And so the night really began.  I made it my sole mission to have a great evening, and to get Jazz as drunk as possible.  I mean, what are friends for if they can't insure your next-day-suffering is at least three times worse than your current suffering?

It took us about twenty minutes to attract half the bar over to our area. One thing I have learned, men love women that make an obvious show of just wanting to hang out with each other.  No, not like THAT...just by not scoping the joint for prospects...by laughing, dancing, and having a genuinely good time.  An hour or so later I happened to glance across the bar...and boom! I was smitten.

The one guy, the only guy, not dressed to impress. His dark, dirty hair stuck out crudely from his scull cap, his black converse and torn jeans didn't match the button downs and slacks around him. The darkest eyes I have ever seen and that perfect bad-boy smirk. He glanced my way.

"Hey!" I yelled over the band. "You should want to meet me!"

He shook his head no.

Challenge on.

"Your loss asshole!" I hollered as I turned my back.  Five seconds later he was right next to me.  Easiest trick in the book, and it has never failed me.

The rest of the night flashed by in a blur of Patron, bad pop music, and a sexy Russian accent.  Yes, he was Russian...which I'm pretty sure only tequila can make sound sexy, but whatever.  At the end of the night we said our goodbyes and ended with a kiss that could have killed any cold war.

"Can I get your number?" asked Vladimir.

"I'm not really a fan of vodka or communism, but it was really nice meeting you!"  OK, I didn't say that...but I did somehow politely decline.

Look, I'm no fool- I get that my new awesome 'I have nothing to lose attitude' comes from a darker place than some Hallmark cliche 'needing to live fully and freely'. I miss my dog. I miss my American dream...the one where I thought I was going to live in big houses and birth babies for a living. That ship has sailed and I'm clinging to the life raft that comes in the shape of a disco ball and a shot glass.  It's working, and I'm having fun. But I have no desire to collect a closet full of one night stands or broken hearts. I don't have much to offer right now, and I'd rather navigate this new fucked up path alone than with Mr. Wrong. (No matter how brooding his eyes, how perfectly pouty his lips, or how sexy his accent)

I'm living with less fear for the first time in my life...because the only person I have to hurt is me.  And me and myself are enjoying the best relationship of my life, so I don't think I'll dump me anytime soon. And I've never been good at that cheating thing.

Plus, it turns out I'm actually inspiring a few folks to live a little less fearlessly, a little more carefree.

Or as my friend put it to me today, "You're inspiring me to be more bold. And slutty."

Hey, I do what I can.

Or as I'm sure Vladimir would put it:

Весело́ весе́лье — тяжело́ похме́лье.  (Translation: Revelry is jolly, Hangover is heavy)