Summer 2006

The summer after my graduation from college was a tumultuous one. I had to adjust back to life in my native city after being away for so long, and face the harsh reality of living at home with my parents, particularly my bitchy mom, after living my senior year as a college king. I also had to face the tough truth that I did not have a job, and would not have one for awhile.

The only thing that was ever certain during these months was that there was always an open bar every weekend at The Pork, an NYC bar with the reputation of being a safe haven for people who wished they were still in school and couldn't go two days without a healthy habit of booze. Such as myself. And luckily for me, back then the bar had not yet been discovered by this guy

I would become so ubiquitous with The Pork, that their PR staff would call my cell phone every week and tell me I've won an open bar. They still do today. This one time, I even convinced its promotions department that I was in a hot young rock group, so they gave my "band" a gig, and let me play on my guitar there for almost an hour. But that's for another story.

One night late in the summer, this girl "CrazyBitch", who I had not seen since 9th grade contacted me through The Facebook out of the blue, and invited me to her 21st birthday party, which happened to coincide with my open bar that weekend at The Pork. She was your typical metropolitan party girl, which me and my good buddy "Phase", commonly refer to as a "buttslut".

So I arrive at her 21st celebration, and CrazyBitch immediately runs up to give me a hug. Typical for a girl who has not seen me since the 9th grade, because I was relatively normal way back then. So the night started out rather routinely, just hauling in and chugging as many beers as I could from the hourlong open bar, and chatting with CrazyBitch ackwardly about random high school stuff. Her buttslut entourage was huge, as it is for most girls on their 21st.

So the open bar ends, and immediately the entire entourage begins shuffling towards the VIP area in the back of the bar. I follow them, with the hope that I can use my high school connection to completely steal another two hours or so of free drinks. But instead, CrazyBitch comes up to me to solve a little problem.

"Hey Scotty, I don't have a credit card on me, so could we please, please, use your card to get the VIP. I have it reserved for the night. I promise, promise you I'll pay you right back". Then, she gave me a nice kiss on the cheek.

OK, here is where there should have been a series Screaming Red Flags thrown in my mind:

Flag #1: She is drunk, and drunk people tend to forget about things upon sobering up Flag #2: She just turned 21, and usually according to tradition, girls on their 21st birthday celebration tend to get a LOT, a lot of drinks" Flag #3: She has a huge entourage, which combined, are all gonna take huge advantage of any kind of open tab. Flag #4: She has not seen me in seven years, and if the Law Of NYC Mentality correctly played its part, there is no reason to believe I will be seeing her again for another seven. Yet another excuse for her to take advantage of me. Flag #5: Most importantly, she is a buttslut, and there is nothing that buttsluts enjoy more than sexually teasing guys with the vague promise of action, only to take advantage of their large wallets and access to funds.

But after reading the rest of my site, do you think I ever have the piece of mind to pick up on social cues? Um, that's a rhetorical question. The important thing is that now, I faced the pinnacle of embarrasment and succumbed to it. Through the drunken fog in my brain, I thought that CrazyBitch was trying to tell me that she needs to show one of The Pork's bouncers that someone here has proof of a credit card, not that she and her friends had any plans or intentions of using my card to buy all their drinks.

God, I cannot even tell you how many times I just slapped myself hard in the face in rapid succession just thinking about how idiotic my thought process was on that occasion. I kill myself sometimes.

I handed my card over to The Pork's bouncer, and CrazyBitch came over to give me another big hug and kiss on the cheek. Within 10 minutes, CrazyBitch and all of her friends were dancing on top of the bar in the VIP room to the song "Crazy Bitch", a favorite at The Pork. Hence her nickname. I was throwing back bottle service drinks, and everything was looking good. A little later on, I cornered CrazyBitch and made sure I had her digits, so she could be contacted to pay me back. Of COURSE she said she was gonna remember...

Maybe a half hour after that, CrazyBitch was hooking up in the corner of the VIP room with some random guy. Not with me of course, but with someone more resembling these guys. As a matter of fact, all female members of her entourage were soon hooking up with similar-looking guidos. Of course, being the stank bitches they are, not a single member of her buttslut entourage even bothered to acknowledge my very presence in the VIP section, much less thank me for being the poor shlub they were all drinking off.

At a certain point around 3AM when they were all not looking, I walked over to The Pork's hefty bouncer and demanded my card back, just then remembering it was in his posession. The resulting bill he handed over put me in a state of shock. CrazyBitch and her buttsluts had squeezed the lifeblood out of this tab, which in turn almost literally squeezed the life out of me.

I will not say the amount of the resulting bill, because it still pains me to this day, but let's say that it was in the "high hundreds". It made me want to puke, right then and there. I considered puking directly on the bouncer, but because The Pork did serve its purpose for me with weekly open bars, I wisely decided against. Instead, I ran out onto the street and puked my guts out.

The next day, first thing I called CrazyBitch on the number she had given me. Only to hear "You have reached a non-working number. Please contact your service provider". I was fairly sure I had copied it correctly. In fact, I had her give it to me 3 times to make sure. BITCH!

Then I went onto The Facebook to send her an angry, ANGRY message about how she's a bitch to give me that fake number. But, I got an automated message from a Facebook admin when I clicked on her profile: "(CrazyBitch) does not exist on Facebook. Please try another name" WTF?! At this point I was fuming. "She did NOT just cancel her account. She did not just cancel her fucking facebook account!", I screamed aloud. That was the last (legal) show I had at getting my money back. Looks like someone got PLAYED!

Why, WHYYYY am I always the sucker in these situations? I can never explain it when it happens, I just accept that fact and hope that with this book, it will come back around.

In the off chance that I ever run into CrazyBitch again at The Pork or any other bar, not only is her drink getting spilled but she is going down to the fucking floor, falling down like the drunk buttslut she is. I don't care who she's there with. I don't care if she's there with a fucking WWE superstar to throw down for her. Whatever the circumstances, she's getting what she deserves for that.

And the moral of this story, according to me, is : Never, EVER, trust a buttslut. You could also say that the moral of this story is that I am a retard. You choose.