Last night roommate and I were invited to a going away "party" for the friend of a friend who is moving back in with his parents at the age of 24. He's making this move for many reasons, some financial, some personal, all noble. Though, really, you'll see me busking on the street corner before you catch me living back upstate.
The going away "party" was more of a going away gathering that consisted of a bunch of people I don't know sitting around and playing Creed's version of Kumbaya... featuring the second coming of Christ himself. Clearly, I needed to get out of there before Scott Stapp walked in, blessing each ridiculously boring heathen soul as he went.
I inched my way towards the exit with my back to the wall (don't ever show Scott Stapp's followers your back), gathering up roommate as I went. It was time for Our House - a mix of equal parts BU greek life, Allston scenesters, and underage students wtih some young professionals tossed in and blended with a dimly lit room, dingy couches, board games, and alcohol.
At the bar we happened upon some friends and much merriment and hijinks ensued.
Move on to the end of the night and the walk back home where we were met with a delightful assortment of the best Allston has to offer. First up, was the ghetto lova who invited me back to his place for the rest of the evening. Having been brought up correctly I politely declined with a laugh and was on my way.
Seriously - how fucked in the head was this bag of douche to look at me in my hoodie, jeans, and vans and think, wow, that's the type of girl I want to wake up to tomorrow morning. Horror would have ensued on both our parts - mostly mine.
Next in the long line blocking my success in getting home was Gerry who I will affectionately refer to from here on out as "The Village Idiot" -- or "TVI" for short. TVI, clearly trying to get anyone to go back to his place, was pulling out all the desperate male stops, including:
"Justin Timberlake is my cousin." No he's not TVI, if he were you'd be hanging out with whores and groupies at his sweet hotel room in downtown Boston right now, helping him prepare for his show tomorrow night. Instead, you're joining the mass of suburban drunkards waiting for Store 24 to re-open.
"I'm from Ireland." Please, TVI, please. You have no accent which, granted, I could possibly forgive. After all, my friend Jo is actually from Ireland and has no accent. What she does have that TVI does not is a base knowlege of Irish geography. Galway and Cork are not "right next to each other" you stupid fuck. Go buy a globe.
"I go to business school at Boston College." ...not with that vocabulary you don't.
After extracting from the web of lies spun by TVI, we kept walking. Home was so close! I could see the finish line! ...I could also see some kid peeing in the bushes at Budget Rent-A-Car. As we walked past he looked up and attempted to chat... with his penis in his hand and urine going everywhere.
"Feeling relieved?"
His response was one of confusion; which would be fine if he wasn't still relieving himself five feet from my sneaker.
Finally, finally, we got back to the apartment, to be know from here on out as The Motel. I decompressed by eating my pizza from the man who told me I had pretty eyes and watching some Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights starting Diego Luna, a man who has pretty everything.
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