(734): i just walked with a girl who was carrying a chair down the street. apparently she got mad at the bartender and took the bar stool when she left.

It started like most Friday night’s start. I tried to make blue eyeliner work while pre-gaming alone to the Girl Talk soundtrack at approx. 9pm. Destination: we didn’t have one. Crew: so far just me and No-game Tom (it’s so pathetic), but Kate and Katie promised they’d come meet us if we didn’t go to Sway again (fuck you, they always play Billy Jean…).

I knew it was going to be a problem night when I put on my Hoboken jeans.

In general I try to only wear those specific jeans in Hoboken because they’re a light wash and I’m sorry but that’s still ok in Hoboken. And I don’t know what the fuck it is but whenever I go to Hoboken I end up back-corner-bar-making-out with the only person at the party slash bar that I absolutely should not kiss. Those fucking jeans are like the Sisterhood of the Traveling pants jeans except instead of fitting even that chubby girl and inspiring daring, coming-of-age shit they make me kiss idiots. I think — I didn’t see the movie.

N.G.Tom says I’m a bitch about the ‘Ho jeans sitch, but facts are fact and whatever he has a hat he’ll only wear in Williamburg. That’s just how it goes.

Around 10 – 10:30, I don’t know I was 2 Sparks and a skunked Amstel light in — N.G.T. and I compromise with Kate and Katie and end up at Naked Lunch which is the most ri-fuck-u-lous name for a bar ever except I still always feel cool when I say it to people who live other places. I’m all, “I know — it’s such a dumb name, but — you know — that’s sooo New York.” I hate slash love myself.

We roll up and there’s some lame $7 cover which is just like — charge $10 if you think it’s worth $7, image is everything — which everyone pays but me because I flash my “I work at the Pink Ponies PR and we’re considering this space for a party” card which works generally never but I think the bouncer thought I was Greek and he was Greek and whatever that’s one more cocktail for moi.

I am told that at this point I’m around a 7, 7.5 on the drunkter scale. According to Kate every third word out of my mouth was in Spanish and I complimented some tranny on his “amazingly life-like boobies.” NoGame reports that said tranny was actually just a chick. Kate says if I do that one more time she’s putting me on friendship haitus.

I do distinctly remember noting that I was out of cash and approaching the bar tender with my corporate card which, like an asshole, I sometimes use falsely thinking I can expense something at 2am under “client entertainment.”

The rest is slightly fuzzy but from the way things transpired (and have transpired 2, maybe 3 times before) bartender and I got into a fight about the credit card minimum. He was probably all, “$20 minimum” to which I’m sure I pulled my, “you are aware that’s illegal” (or in this case “umm, nooo, that’s illegale!!”). At which point he probably said, “bar policy” then I said “I’m a lawyer” and he went “what kind” and I said “a fucking smart one” and he said “where’d you go to law school” and I said “Oxford” and he said, “in England?” and I said “not that Oxford” and he told me to calm down and I said I’m perfectly calm and he pointed out that I had lifted myself practically over the bar and was shaking my somehow very wet hand at him. But again — just guessing here.

N.G.T was doing his Bye,Bye,Bye routine to some song that was most definitely not Bye,Bye,Bye in front of some group of legit attractive girls and Kate/Katie were taking iphone pictures of him, so I decided the only logical thing to do would be to grab the entire vat of green olives , spill out the olive juice on bartender’s bar mat, throw the rest inside my clutch and grab the nearest bar stool.

How I got past Greek with the bar stool is beyond me. All I can remember is some dude yelling, “Are you carrying a BAR STOOL?!” as I ran down the street and me screaming back, “OLE!!!”

Fucking Hoboken jeans…