Dance Floor Ho'

(Original Post: October 30, 2005 - Sunday)
Hallow Fucking Wheenie! I was a boxer. But let me tell you about my costume. It had five pieces. A shirt short enough to be considered a bra, a skirt with the word boxer on it...thank God because then who would have known..., two boxing gloves that looked like cooking mits, which I tied and hung around my neck, and a robe. I looked like I had just gotten out of the shower. That was the basic look. I mean, there was nothing fucking boxer about my costume. Not one thing. No one walked by and went, "holy shit, you look like a fucking boxer!"
50 well-spent dollars.At some point in the night I wanted to approach this girl. She was not wearing a costume, but she did look like a hooker. I wanted to go up and say, wow, had this not been Halloween I would have totally thought you were a hooker. Great fucking costume. Where can I get it? She was a total fucking Dance Floor HO. Definition of dance floor HO: Someone who dances alone until some desperate guy comes up behind her and bangs against her with his denim cock. They then basically begin to have sex with their clothes on while others stand around watching, pointing, laughing and mouthing the words Dance Floor HO to their friends. If a guy does not approach her, she is not above dancing with inanimate objects. We were in a group of about 11 or so. If a person outside of our group tried to dance with us I would kindly tell him no. There was a little Hispanic guy standing just off stage. He came up behind me. I turned around and said, no no. With my finger in his face, like, no no. He said, ok. Then waited. Next song, same thing. I said, we are kind of just with our friends tonight. Thanks anyway. He said, ok. Then waited. Next song, same thing. At that point one of the guys with us asked me if I wanted him to say something. I was like, what are you going to say. I mean, I already fucking said no. If I was an alien I would have used my acidy spit on him.
A friend of mine went out with us. That was great. She makes me smile. Her husband was dressed as an asshole and he played the part to a T. She was a pirate. A fishnet wearing pirate. Hot, hOt, hoT! An eye patch that she wore on her forehead all night. Too annoying to actually wear it over her eye. Why do pirates wear eye patches anyway? Are there that many of them walking around without an eye? Jeezus.My other friend was a corrections officer. We don’t remember how we got home. We exited the taxi, walked into the house and she said, "How did we get home." Black outs. How come you judge the time you had by how many injuries you've sustained or how much you fail to remember. Like, "Fuck dude, last night was off the chain. Mike is still in bed, I can't feel my legs, and I may have broken a rib, Maggie doesn't remember where her tattoo came from, and may need surgery on her lower back, and Diane lost an eye. You should have been there."
I'm home now. Walk of shame in the bra shirt and some pajama pants. No shoes. Hair a mess. My wack-ass roommate in her tights, boots, and oversized pajama shirt.
Hello Crazy Town.