I come to you today with my soul in pieces. I am not new to the feeling of waking up to a throbbing headache and bubble guts. I can handle tasting the stale vodka cranberry that makes me wonder if I even fully swallowed my last sip. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve Postmated a burrito and eaten it in the bathtub, I would have two dollars, because I just discovered this euphoria. But today, my soul is not in its regular hungover state of dissipation. Saturday night, my friends held our second annual Friendsgiving. And for the second time, Friendsgiving ended at the strip club.
The first time, it happened organically. We genuinely intended on doing a Friendsgiving in the most basic sense. Wear a cute outfit, bring a dish you either made or repackaged to make it look homemade, take some “candid” laughing photos for Instagram, drink three gallons of red wine, and watch someone yell at her boyfriend for taking too many photos at her fat angle. And we did do those things. But after the designated wild card friend planted the seed in the form of a joking-but-not suggestion around drink number three, we all began to take the idea more and more seriously until two Uber XLs were summoned amid drunken cries of “I WANNA SEE SOME NIPPLES!!!!”
This year, the suggestion came up earlier in the night and with absolutely no room to mistake it for a joke. It has become ingrained in our group’s culture. A tradition that promises to endure. Before I had time to even think about protesting, we had stumbled through the metal detector and sat down at our table with the most unnecessary bottle of Tito’s challenging us. I handed our bottle service girl $20 which she exchanged for singles, and we were set.
Being a girl at the strip club is weird. Aside from one night in college and despite my better judgment, I’m only into dudes. Yet, there I was, mesmerized by the sheer display of beauty and athleticism I was watching. These chicks climb up fire poles for a living. They were yoked. If I didn’t already know I lacked the potential, I would consider it if my career stopped working out.
Through my double vision, I watched as a dancer made that pole her bitch. I sent ones flying in her direction. After she was finished, she walked past me and said “Thank you.” All I could do at that point in my inebriation was mirror her words. I slurred “thank you” back, and she gave me a hug. I believe we are friends now.
I had another unnecessary vodka soda, gave out the rest of my singles, was forced a water from the bottle service girl, and tried very hard not to nod off at the table. After that, there is nothing else in my recollection before waking up on top of the covers with my dress still on.
Now, I’m not going to sit here and pretend our night would have been classy had we not gone to the strip club. There was drunk crying in the bathroom. Tequila shots were chased with Lucky Charms. There was an uninvited guest there in ripped jeans under one of those odd men’s t-shirt dresses that is commonly associated with the word “fuckboy.” There was way too much talk of a mannequin challenge that didn’t end up happening. The strip club was just the rotten cherry on top of a heaping garbage sundae.
Saturday night is part of us now. Our fate was locked. There is no free will. We aren’t trash because we end our Friendsgivings at the strip club; we end our Friendsgivings at the strip club because we are all trash..
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