I may or may not have salted a stranger. Alright, you caught me. I salted him. I salted the hell out of him, in fact. Yes, he deserved it and no, I do not feel ashamed. I may feel ashamed that I told some guy at a party that he was dressed like a homosexual from the 1970s, but I feel no shame in my Waffle House impulses. The guy sitting behind us as we ate kept creepily hitting on my friend who obviously had no interest in him. He wouldn't leave us alone, which left me no choice. The man needed to be salted.
Last week was one of those weeks that leads you to give up entirely. After deciding that not one fuck will be given over the course of the weekend, you're salting strangers at 3am on a Saturday night. It's a freeing experience. I highly recommend it. You may be wondering what kind of week has someone seasoning humans. Well, I'm about to tell you. It all began with a sweater.
Thursday night, I find myself at a bar I rarely go to. I stopped going to this bar after I got beat up by a bunch of frat guys, though I could have kicked their asses. I just decided not to. Obviously...
So I'm at this bar playing pool when I see someone I know racking the balls at the pool table right next to me. I go up and say hey.
(Just like that.)
"Hey! What's up?"
"Just shooting some pool with a couple friends."
"Yep, me too. YOUR EX-BOYFRIEND is coming later!"
(Kinda like that. "Your ex-boyfriend" was not actually stated, but that's who was mentioned.)
(Playing it cool.)
A few minutes later, I'm talking to the friend again when suddenly the former boyfriend approaches. I say hey.
(Still playing it cool.)
I look down and realize...I am wearing his sweater.
I tried to think of a response, which didn't work, so I opened my mouth to say something, thinking that if maybe my mouth was open, words would just fall out of it. Except no words came. So I am now just standing there. With my mouth open. And I look at the sweater. And I look up. And I try and close my mouth but it won't close. And this is when I decided that the only thing to do in this situation is turn and walk away. With my mouth still hanging open.
NOT PLAYING IT COOL, NATASHA. NOT PLAYING IT COOL.
Of all the nights. Of all the people. Of all the sweaters.
IT'S A NICE SWEATER, OKAY? I JUST LIKE SWEATERS.
My intended alcohol consumption increased after this encounter, and the next thing you know, I'm feeding all my one dollar bills to the jukebox machine. Except that every time I put in a dollar, the jukebox spits out four quarters. I take the quarters and click the screen for a song, but none of my songs will play. This continues for about twenty minutes. Put in a dollar, grab my four quarters, click the screen, nothing happens. I continue doing this until I have ten dollars in quarters in my pockets and then it hits me: this is not the jukebox. This is the change machine.
WATCH OUT FOR THE BORDERLINE RETARD! She just might wear your sweater.
The next night, I made it a point to not make a fool of myself, which is easier said than drank. I ended up going from point A to point F in a single car ride, which I'm not going to get into, because you're a smart person and you can figure it out yourself. Besides, that's not the funny part. The funny part is the texts I checked the next morning. According to my phone, I got a text around 4 in the morning from a male acquaintance, saying the following:
"Come to my house. There is money involved."
There is money involved? Who is this, Nic Cage? Am I in Las Vegas right now? Well I'm leaving.
WATCH OUT FOR THE ALLEGED PROSTITUTE! She just might puke in your car.
So after Friday night comes Saturday night, and I swore to myself that I would not be going out. But then it gets dark. And do you know what happens when it gets dark? It makes me want to go out, that's what happens. And that is what happened. One minute I'm at work and the next minute I'm at a house show carrying around a bag of beer and being recognized as "that Febreze girl." I had to tell two different people that no, I did not "bring the Febreze with me," and after explaining that that was a one time thing, I ran into the guy who had offered me money. Naturally, I approached him.
"I AM NOT A HOOKER."
"Come to my house? There is money involved?"
"I did not say that."
"Yes you did."
"No I did not."
"Yes you did. Here it is on my phone. Look."
I hold up my phone. He looks.
"Well I don't remember saying that."
"Well you did."
"Well I am sober right now."
What does that have to do with anything?
"Well...okay? Whether you're sober or not, I AM NOT A HOOKER."
And I don't remember exactly how the conversation ended, but I know it involved me walking away. I wish I hadn't, though, because I then immediately run into Earring Magic Ken.
"You look like a homosexual from the 1970s!"
"You're always such an asshole whenever I see you."
I was speechless because 1) he's probably right and 2) the first time I met the guy, I had to deem him as "Stranger Danger" because he was the first of three guys who decided it was okay to come up and kiss me, which occurred all in the same night. So basically, yes I'm a dick, but yes he deserves it.
Someone else approached me then and introduced himself and by this point, I'm immediately on guard. I'm either going to be called an asshole or someone is going to try and rent my asshole. I still say hello.
"You know? Oh my god I'm so sorry, my memory is horrible. Have we met before?"
"No. We've never met."
"Oh...then how did you know my name?"
"I read your blog."
"No way! How'd you know about it?"
"I heard about it. From a friend of a friend. A lot of people I know read it."
So this made up for everything else that happened all week. Because it's fucking awesome.
WATCH OUT FOR THE RECOGNIZED BLOGGER! She just might salt you.