Yes, you knew it was coming.
I ate way too much much sushi at the Wasabi with my friends and drank way too much free birthday vodka at the bars by myself.
I almost called 911 to report a murder: someone had killed Thursday night. The French Quarter was a ghost town last night.
Of the few people that were out, there was two other people at The Pub celebrating birthdays. i.e. bitches trying to steal my thunder.
The more I go out the more reasons I come up with to jump this miserable ship of a city. It’s the same 100 pretentious Abercrombie and Bitch/Hollister wearing, twink starved suburbanites rotated around from night to night. The other bars are mostly hook-ups and leather types – fun for a while but eventually I want something more than dirty sheets and a ride home. The few times a hook-up lasts till the next morning remind me how much more I like sleeping with someone than “sleeping with someone.”
On the way home I listened to the 9 voicemails I received today; mostly happy birthday messages from family and friends.
It’s 40 minutes later and I just realised who didn’t leave one. I’m not surprised but I’m a little disappointed.
