SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

Okay so last night, while on my family vacation week at the gay capital of the East Coast (Rehoboth Beach, DE) I got very drunk on vanilla vodka and Dr. Pepper and decided to go out looking for trouble. Afterwards, I came home and wrote about it (while still very drunk.) This morning, I thought better of it and deleted the post that was a little too honest and revealing of my sad, sad condition.

But now that I am sober(ish), I will tell you that I found no trouble last night because there are no males in this town between the ages of 16 and 45. It’s some kind of phenomenon. I just want it to be known that I have/had no interest in sexing up teenagers (unless you mean 18 or 19-year olds, they’re totally fair game) and that is why the evening was a complete waste. And besides that, the very few males that are around are total uggos or into other dudes, making this quite likely one of the most depressing scenes for a single female on all of planet earth.

At one point, I was so giggly (and bored) that I forced my cousin to dare me to talk to this non-deformed guy who was sitting near us on the boardwalk. He looked straight and between the aforementioned age ranges, so I figured why not. After about 3 seconds of talking to this guy I became certain the he probably had Tourette’s and was contemplating ways to murder me, or what was on Cartoon Network at that very moment. He was twitchy and weird and I hope he was on meth or something. I asked him how old he was, (answer: 28) and then pretty much ran out of conversation topics. I bid a hurried farewell and got the fuck away from him, dragging my cousin with me as I retreated. It was an utter failure, and not remotely my fault.

Just as we had given up for the night and were heading back to our beach house, we came across three dudes sitting on a bench toward the end of the boardwalk. As we passed them, one of them said something to/about us, and instead of listening to my usual instinct that says, “People! Run!” I turned to talk to them. Because I was drunk. I proceded to chat with these attractive strangers who were neither in high school nor sporting tribal tattoos, and eventually exchanged numbers with the best-looking one of the bunch. (Okay, granted one of them was gay.) I’m completely certain I made a total ass of myself though, and was needlessly gesturing and flailing my arms with just about everything I said. I may have thrown in some gang signs too, and no doubt I had on my usual crazy drunk eyes.

The point is this: last night I lost my dignity, and for some reason feel like this is suitable for sharing on the internet in a longer post than the original one I felt was damning enough to be deleted, and now you all know way too much about me (don’t judge). I blame Chelsea Handler. I just hope that other people can reap some joy from the thought of me hilariously embarrassing myself, because if not, then we have only to ask God why I was ever allowed to drink. Though I did learn a very important lesson: never try to pick up guys. And I’m no Chelsea Handler.

I am not expecting a call from my hot local, but I take pride in knowing that I now have his number and will definitely send him overt and inappropriate texts next time I am drinking (later tonight) that he will ignore.