The Cupid Shuffle

So this happened last night…

Any single woman automatically breaks out in hives the minute her alarm clock goes off on the morning of February 14^th. Their bodies go into system overload and it takes 24 hours to power down and reboot. Watching their co-workers receive flowers and candy and bullshit all day is enough to put any single gal on suicide watch. I almost knocked a bouquet of flowers out of some bastards’ hands earlier in the day but unfortunately my “morals” kicked in. Most women deny that they are going home after work to throw on their ex-boyfriends sweatpants then eat 3 pounds of chocolate covered anything and proceed to wash it all down with 2 bottles of Pinot and some NyQuil. Well I will never be that girl. I would obviously replace the chocolate with 7 layer burritos from Taco Bell (buckets-o-mild on the side please).

 I decided that I wanted this Valentine’s Day to be extra special. I was picturing a night filled with chocolate covered jagerbombs and a bouquet of cigarettes. Rather than making a noose out of my best linens, I realized that would just be a waste and I should probably find something better to do with my time and my bed sheets. I decided to invite my buddy down to the city so that I would have someone to distract me from watching Titanic on repeat all night while reciting every word. You know who you are LADIES, we are all guilty of doing it. I often find myself having spitting competitions with the dog over my third story balcony. He always wins because he has mastered the art of arching his back while being on all fours, which to my surprise really gives him an advantage. I laugh and call him Jack, with a cocked head he looks at me, but I know there is no confusion. He thinks I make a great Kate Winslet. But that’s neither here nor there.

I thought, why not do the respectable thing and hit the streets for some strange ass. I wanted to embrace being a single woman of 2013 and once again show Chi-town what they KEEP missing. I’d like to call it a Valentine’s Day rebound, but in reality I wasn't rebounding from anything. There hasn't been a backboard in my life for well over 2 years. Ti-Bag: 0 Life: 117. Take me off the bench coach, I’m about to ALLEY OOP this city. After draining an entire bottle of wine, I was feeling overly confident and ready to bat my lashes for some free drinks. My friend and I ended up in Wrigleyville at a bar that looked like it had some potential. We spotted an open booth across the way that happened to be right in the middle of all of the action. Dancing, mingling, rounds of shots - things were looking very promising.

I ran to the bathroom and filled up our Diet Cokes with the water bottle of whiskey I had smuggled into the bar. We sat there for about 15 minutes singing every word to Young MC’s “Bust a Move”, but not one person was feeling our groove. I looked around at all of the eligible bros and honey dips and wondered why they weren't feeling our vibrations. DUHH! We looked like we were on a date! Oh hell no, it was time to go our separate ways. We gave each other some pointers, hand hugged, and moon walked to opposite ends of the dance floor. After giving it some serious thought, I ended up playing the “girl alone at the bar” card. It’s Valentine’s Day, this girl’s drink is almost empty, she looks vulnerable - come and get it you idiots!

Fast forward three minutes – BOOM! Out of my peripheral vision I see the first shark swim up to the bar getting ready to approach me. He was okay, but nothing to write home about. The bottle of wine I had inhaled earlier told me that I could do better. I politely nodded and turned my back to him acting like I was getting a funny text. Oh goody, here comes sorry sap number two. To my surprise he looked like a young James Franco and I wasn’t about to pretend text with this one. Jumping into my go-to character (Betty “Rizzo” in Grease), I act tough letting them know there are definitely worse things I could do than accept a drink from a boy or two. When it came time to leave, he asked for my digits and I went about my night. The whiskey had definitely kicked in at this point and I couldn't for the life of me remember his name. When I got home I received a text from “RED IVY” which was the bar we were at and apparently how I had named my suitor. I texted Big Red back and the next thing I knew he was headed over in a cab. I did what I do with every male guest I have over; I take the edge off by hosting an extremely competitive dance off in my bedroom. In between the worm, the sprinkler, and the tootsie roll I sipped on the cocktail he had made for me. Ivy brought over a bottle of nothing good. When it hit my lips it tasted like a concoction of all of his household cleaning supplies with a splash of red Gatorade. I didn't seem to mind, as I was too busy perfecting my version of the running man. After working up a sweat, we decided to catch our breath by sucking face and doing our very own rendition of the running man. I will spare you the details, but what came next was my so called “Valentine’s Day 3 pointer”. I felt like Jordan in game 6 and it was definitely something to write home about.

At 8 AM we decided to unlock lips and I called him a cab. I noticed that my best bud was no longer on the couch- he typically leaves right around the time he hears the gun go off for the dance competition. Red Ivy told me that he had to get home to write a term paper. I said, oh good for you! Going back to school is very honorable and something I wish I would force myself to do. He said, “Well I didn't go back, I am a student, at Columbia College”. With a confused look on my face, I continued to listen, terrified at what was coming next. “I live in the dorms there right off of State Street.” Uggghhh, son of a bitch. I told him I was very familiar with those dorms, 9 years ago to be exact. That would explain the sweet vermouth he brought over for me to choke down and why he was wearing an Abercrombie polo. He was too young to realize that vermouth was just an ingredient for a Manhattan and not an actual mixer you just causally sip on. This guy just gave me 4 cavities and a license to cougar. Without asking anymore questions, I told him to call his mom back since she had called 9 times, threw his ass in a cab and wished him well with his studies. You know things are bad when you find yourself with someone that sleeps on a top bunk and keeps requesting that you play a remix by one of Kiss FM’s DJ’s. I have become one of the terrifying red dots on your computer screen when you pull up your neighborhood's sex offender list.

Cheers to Heart Shaped Suckers and Co-ed Sleepovers, 

Ti-Bag