Yes, you. You know exactly who you are.
All I wanted was a girls’ night out, you know? We had this planned for weeks. We’re going to wear our good Victoria’s Secret bras, drink some Redbull Vodka, dance to songs we claim we hate, and attempt to make a frozen pizza when we stumble back into my apartment.
So, was it supposed to be a joke? Or have you had this planned for years?
The dance floor is packed now, elbow to elbow, and if I wanna get out I have to seriously piss some people off. So I keep dancing. Then it hits. Gina gets a weird look on her face, then looks at Jessica. Jessica exclaims “Ew!” as she covers her nose and then looks towards Chelsea. Chelsea is trying to keep her eyes from watering so the guy she’s grinding on doesn’t think she’s getting emotional about backing it up on him. Suddenly everyone around us has done a breathing treatment of whatever the f— you ate that day, and is looking around to blame.
Did you think there would be no consequences? I suppose you’re right. How is anyone supposed to know it’s you when you’ve perfectly cued it up to the drop of “Turn Down For What”? But god, you are the worst. I have a hard time believing you didn’t know it was coming. I have a hard time believing it wasn’t planned. I don’t care if you have to go outside to the smoking section wearing a mesh top in dead-ass January. Why should I feel like I’m in a scene from Final Destination because you decided to pre-game with Mongolian BBQ? Your ‘silent killer’ killed Brittany’s chance of going home with that guy she’s dancing with tonight because he’s not sure if she just did that right on his … . The poor guy with the thin little mustache and his hands in his pockets is receiving a multitude of dirty looks.
“Yeah… that was me.” You’ll tell your boys as you stand off to the side, giggling. The sweaty one who’s only ever been laid once by accident high-fives you.
Then you end up going home with my friend. Because that’s the way the world works, and I hate you.
You can take probiotics for that.