I can’t remember the last time I raged it, my days have quickly turned into weeks overnight, my life one revolving door of school, problems to solve, photos to edit, no sleep, a fist to my gut as my photos are put on projectors to be examined and critiqued.
I had a meltdown over Divorcee buying Halloween costumes which has always been my job.
I find myself crawling into Lola’s bed with her, just to touch her skin, begging for an extra hour with Kat on a school night, her little arms grasping on to me like I might disappear at a moment, a fact I am sad but proud as well to admit, is our reality. Life is quickly passing and there are not enough hours I have found, my head pounding the pillow at night with three hours at max, my floor indicating sleep is better than a clean room.
I suppose this is why I surprised Clyde and myself, accepting an invite to a throw down in Midtown, decided to put on six inch leather boots with heels and a red wig, and of course, go as a mechanic.
No one the entire night guessed my outfit.
I guess redheaded mechanics in six inch heels carry more than a wrench around.
And like any best friend and wing man would do, we made a pact.
Under no circumstances were I to be left.
Under no circumstances were I to go home with anyone but Clyde.
Under no circumstances should I throw up in his car.
We would however, pick our top three, hope to make out with maybe one, use WATER!! when being humped by anyone we considered shady on the dance floor.
I found out that WATER being yelled at the top of my lungs while a Man Cub dressed as Frank Sinatra did not send Clyde to save the day. He laughed hysterically, said I was on my own, casually watching me ask for i.d. with a man who looked like he just left his mother’s breast. Clyde laughed and watched.
I cursed him with my eyes.
And then, like heaven opening up and light shining down, I saw my number one. Well, it was kind of hard not to, considering he had a lamp shade with a number 1 on it, way above his head and he had to be over six feet tall.
I pointed him out to Clyde, marched my little mechanic self right up to him, his costume a big box dressed like a side table, two drinks in his hand.
“Hello, and what do we have here?” He looked me up and down, rubbed his perfectly shaped jaw line, his eyes the color, well, I don’t exactly remember the color, but I do remember he was hot.
He snapped his fingers, which looked painful, seeing as a metal rod was coming from his back, holding the lampshade in place. “I got it. YOU, are HOT GIRL.”
Yes, it was a douche bag line.
And ladies, don’t judge, but this time, I didn’t really mind.
I noticed change all glued to his shoulders, a wallet, and then three knobs, the second had a tiny black string hanging from it.
“Is this a thong?” I asked, and at this point, I felt his hands burning through my back as he pulled me in closer to dance.
“Yes,” and he got quiet, leaned down to whisper, “I thought there might be a costume contest. Do you think there will be?”
I rubbed my chin. “No, but I do think I am wearing that exact thong.”
And so we made out. And it was great. He even pulled off my wig at one point, said he had no objection to blond hair at all, and where was I going, and when was I leaving with him.
I knew that was my clue to locate Clyde, schmoozing with a hot kitty, a Mafia dude, and Rainbow Brite.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, my hormones raging, my wing man waiting.
But, I had forgotten to ask what exactly the hell he was. Out of all the men, hundreds, I had chosen him, and I wasn’t leaving without an answer to the costume.
He pointed to the ONE, saying it slowly, pointed to the knobs, the change, the thong.
Of all the men I found, my number ONE, was no other than a “ONE NIGHT STAND.”
Clyde and I laughed about it the entire ride home, which I did not puke in, nor did I break a single rule, and despite even the Jager woke up feeling great, but with one small issue.
I had a bright red hickey on my lip.
Harpua said he hadn’t even heard that word in 11 years.
Kat said I had must of being chewing a lot of gum.
Lola said it must have been double bubble, that you have to be careful with that stuff, and according to her, she doesn’t call herself a child genius for nothing.
I love Halloween. It may bruise you, fool you, disguise you, and as my brother says, “It is the only day in the year all women can get away with dressing like a slut.”
The Ghostbuster guy with the 30 pound back pack was my Number Two, so I think I did alright, making it out with just a small injury, really sore feet, and a wing man that rocked, even if he did not go for THING 2, who was clearly in to him.
There is always next year, Clyde.
Good night and Peace Out, my blog peeps. I have missed you dearly.