Saturday, July 5, 2014

I don't want to dance with you.

The fourth of july.  A time to celebrate our country, reminisce days of yore, and drink PBR and eat 10 different kinds of potato chips on a rooftop.  I’ll take any excuse to wear a red crop top and eat guacamole, so the fourth of july is always a thumbs up for me.  Yesterday, in my red crop top and shorteralls (= short overalls, for anyone who doesn’t know and isn’t living their life to its greatest potential), I prepared to have THE MOST FUN I WILL EVER HAVE.  Because every night you go out in New York City has to be the BEST NIGHT YOU WILL EVER HAVE. Here’s a little secret, any night someone remarks, “Oh my goooosh, this is gonna be the best night EVER,” it’s not going to be.  It’s like that part in a movie where Liz Phair is playing and 6 girls are walking down the street and the second after someone says that they are all kidnapped and sold into sex slavery.  You know, that ladies sex slave kidnapping movie?  Sure, sure, it’s probably a thing. You say the phrase, and like some sort of witch’s curse, the night is immediately poisoned.  Someone’s bag is going to get stolen.     Someone is going to barf all over their new sneakers.  Someone is finally going to fall down one of those open grates.

I began drinking alcoholic beverages around 2 PM.  “It’s the 4th of July!” I exclaimed, as I if that meant anything.  I poured rum into a tiny mustache flask, because I “needed to be prepared,” becoming more of a parody of myself, and ventured into the gloomy, rain soaked city in my denim shorteralls and denim jacket. Every party can be a costume party if you want it to be. 

I’m going to kiss a million boys, I thought.  No more garbage men! (I don’t mean actual garbage men, they are probably great people; I mean people who are HUMAN GARBAGE).  We’re going to meet people who respect us and want to talk to us about our childhoods and will respond to texts in a normal amount of time. Today will be the best day ever!

Many Fourth of July activities occurred.  I drank bud lite. I drank Malibu rum. I ate Doritos.  I bought a slurpee at 7-11. I bought a hat that says SLURPEE at 7-11. Not all of it was bad, in fact some of it was great.  I’ll probably wear that neon slurpee hat for the rest of my life.  I got to hang out with a lot of amazing friends and watch them try and chicken fight by the East River. 

The real reason I’ve chosen to unload my feelings on such a public forum (besides the fact that I need attention every hour of every day) is to say this:

Hey dudes in New York City,

Let’s cool it.  We all just want to have a good time and be young and celebrate our lives and spend all of our money on rent and whiskey blah blah blah. 


I love dancing. You love dancing. You can ask me dance!  Great!  I might dance with you.  But sometimes I might say no.  Because I’m allowed to.  Because maybe, I don’t want to dance with you.  You hear me? I’ll say it again. I don’t want to dance with you.  I don’t need a reason why and neither do you.  Walk away and move on. When I turn my back on you that doesn’t mean you can then try to dance with me from behind.  Get your dick off my back and stop sexually harassing me.  I'm not being coy. I'm moving away from you to the opposite side of the dance floor because I don't want to be around you. This isn’t a fun game where if you bother me long enough I will give in and have sex with you in the bathroom.  That is 2000% never going to happen even if you tell me you are a pilot, or that’s it’s your friend’s birthday, or you follow me to another bar like a LUNATIC.  You want to dance with me?  Ask me what my fucking name is first. 

#america 


No comments:

Post a Comment