The old friend I'm referring to, of course, is Friday.
Yes, I realize that Friday nights come roughly once every seven days and there are around fifty-two of them in a year. And yes I'm quite aware that a surplus of Fridays have passed since my last post. The difference, my friend, is that those were just days. Last night, was a FRIDAY.
"But Primetime (as I've recently come to be known. Not really - people won't stop calling me Timbabe which disappeared until last night, thanks Leah for sharing that one with the world), aren't Fridays usually the start of the weekend? And don't you work every Saturday?" you may be saying. And, you would be right. Congratulations on your incredible grasp of the work week. That doesn't apply down here.
The reason that last night was a real Friday was because we not only had a family meal, but we also rocked out Fat Turtle. After my shift at the pool bar, I managed to cook a crudely pulled together meal while the Philadelphia Flyers lucked out against the Chicago Blackhawks and evened the series. Justin and Beth came over, as well as their incredibly intoxicated yet still fun to talk to friend who I will protect with anonymity. Food was eaten, people caught up, laughs were contagious. The loud eating game was played and I won. Eventually the time had to come to move on to Fat Turtle.
As we walked in, it was about a 9 out of 10. The place was packed. Good friends were everywhere, as well as gorgeous women. Drinks were plentiful. The only thing missing was some serious dancing. I mean people were dancing, but clearly they weren't serious about it. They were mainly just paired off, moving their feet and hips rhythmically to the beat, sometimes putting their hand in the air or on their dance partner. I mean that's fun and everything, but its not real dancing. Real dancing comes when they make a circle around you as you challenge someone to what is essentially a one-on-one walk-off that features ridiculous(ly good) moves, charming smiles and the wink and pistol aimed at the closest suitable female. Once we got there, it was 10 out of 10. Some serious dancing occurred, but we'll get to that in the next post. Skip ahead.
So I had just finished dancing with a girl, getting all kinds of wild, and it was time to move on and grab an adult beverage and cool off. So I snag a beer, make some moves and bump into the girl with which I was dancing. I figure now is a good as ever to introduce myself, as she basically raped me (in the sense that Kristin Stewart intended) on the dance floor. The only problem is, I've had a few drinks. What I meant to say was "My name is Tim. What's yours?" What I said was "My name is Tim, with an I."
This might become my new pick-up line, because I heard girls like guys that make them laugh - and she would not stop laughing at me all night. She'll probably call.
Later on Kier met some Hooters girls who were fresh on island and gave them her number citing that her roommates were "the two greatest guys on island." I don't know who these guys are, but I'd sure like to meet them as they might be able to help DC and I meet girls. At least her night ended well:
more please
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