Little Loca will be the nom de guerre I give to one of my best gals, my ol’ ball-n-chain … who happens to also turn into a beer-soaked wife beater when she has one too many whiskey shots (mixed with a shooter of anxiety-in-a-group-setting). Little Loca and I have this gift—or desperate need to overcompensate—where we can convert throngs of club-goers into loyal and submissive subjects by channeling our inner Professor Xavier’s and amplifying our most party-hardy personality traits. Granted, we’re completely effing useless otherwise, and I honestly don’t know how I got a job and how she’s managing to make it through grad school right now, let alone how she even got in.
Usually, the deal is to buy one drink at the bar and fill the rest of our canteens on someone else’s tab, but sometimes, when keepin’ it real goes wrong, we end up making rain the invisible money that we DON’T have, as a show of dominance (and alpha complexes) over our newly devout following, and then wake up the next morning crying, “What have I done?!” Such was last weekend when Little Loca blew through town and saved me from my corporate nightmare. “Dude, I just wanna get crunk and forget everything that happened this week.” Like Robin Williams as the voice of Genie in Aladdin, my wish was her command, and she outdid herself a little bit …
We slept a total of 13 hours over the course of 3 days. Each morning, we’d wake up feeling like a newborn giraffe had just free-fallen 6 feet out of its mother’s ass onto our crania (graphic, but that’s really how bad our hangovers were at any given time) and would ask the same question to our reflections in the bathroom vanity mirror: “Dude, what are we doing with our lives that’s so great?”
And there was always the constant reminder of the juxtaposition between our lowly selves and the functioning members of society that share this great city with us.
The first night on the town, at a bar/club/taco-truck-location that my friend Dan describes as the place where creepy dudes go to catch “whatever washes ashore,” we spent the entire night dancing in a sweaty soup of bodies and palm-slapping aforementioned creepy dudes like we were fly-swatting da club. Next morning, still in bed, writhing in our joint misery of terrible dehydration-of-corpus, we get the smart idea to Wikipedia Ahmed Shihab-Eldin, who, I told her, is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen (and that’s saying a lot since I’ve seen David Beckham in the flesh, and his immortal beauty nearly singed my eyelashes and brows clear off my fucking mug). After reading the laundry list of his academic and professional achievements, practically upon exiting the womb, Little Loca looks at me: “Dude, what are we doing with our lives that’s so great?”
We go out on Saturday night to meet some friends from her program who graduated the year above her (who are now all upstanding members of the DC/NY political community, to be sure—well above our ‘station’). Because she was nervous to see them again (especially one searing-hot dude in a too-tight-for-my-unworthy-eyes-to-handle white V-neck t-shirt), we drank. HEAVILY (#liquidcourage). I don’t know what came over me, but I felt the need, again, to overcompensate for my lack of impressiveness at first glance and started confrontations on three isolated occasions. The last one was justified, though—some dudes called us bitches because Little Loca had refused their advances, and they, for some cray-cray reason, wanted an explanation—but the preceding two were questionable. I humble myself in admitting that I’ve never been in a physical altercation nor do I ever want to be in one, but for some reason, that is Drunk Broke Bitch’s default reaction when I’m in the company of Little Loca, because she always gets us into trouble and I always think that we’re going to die if I don’t do something. So, I puff up my plumes and ring my bitch bell with a ferocity the world has never known, and usually that works. But between her drunken comatose (and unforgivable bump-n-grind dance moves) and my uncalled-for volatility, I think all ties with those esteemed individuals might’ve been severed for her forever, especially with searing-hot dude because he had to save my ass from a pummeling on that last occasion, and the poor dear is as white as the un-driven snow…up against two formidable-looking dudes… at a bar in da hood…
Example 3: El Clásico
“Today’s gonna be different, girl. We are not getting drunk today.” Pipe dreams. We ended up getting day-wasted in celebration of Barcelona’s sweet, sweet victory over Real Madrid. The juxtaposition was watching far-superior beings (on both teams) kick around a soccer ball while we drank in the lowliest of Brooklyn sports bars as hungover cretins of the city’s underbelly. After the game, we hopped around nice, respectable establishments in our jerseys yelling “YEA BARÇA!” to innocent bystanders in places like, I don’t know, the ice cream parlor or the barbecue house (because we’re fat). My perfectly respectable friend and my perfectly respectable roommate joined us, and within hours our influence stripped them of all respectability and made them one of us. I honestly don’t remember what happened as we advanced into our evening, but I remember watching Planet Earth Diaries at some hipster bar up the street from my apartment while the three of them harassed a poor barback who’d just started work there three days prior, and I remember us running home against the chilling wind, and by ‘home’ I mean to the deli a block away to buy drunk sandwiches and those deplorable-but-delicious nuclear oatmeal cookies from Little Debbies (“Two, please.”). We ate on our new couch, and somehow, we woke up at 4:30am, on my bed, fully clothed (Thank God, I guess?), on top of my covers, with candles lit on my bedside table (WTF?) and the light on. We crawled across the apartment to the bathroom to brush our teeth and strip our faces of the makeup and shame we’d worn all day, looked in the mirror at one another’s reflections, and said again: “Dude, what are we doing with our lives that’s so great?”
This YouTube video has no relevance to my story save that Baby Smiley reminds me of Little Loca: