If there's an art to drinking alone, I'm the equivalent of a five-year-old with her fingers dipped in paint.

At approximately 7:30 pm this evening, I was waiting at the bar in Yogi's for a friend that didn't exist.  I had imagined when we moved into the little yellow house on Indiana Avenue that I'd build a rapport with the staff at Yogi's, seeing as I live right down the street.  I'd walk in after a long day at class, sit down, and my favorite drink would come sliding down the bar at a rapid speed.  I'd catch it, and Sam (my hypothetical bartender's name) would give a big, "Heeeeey-ooooo!" before leaning over the bar to ask, "How's life treatin' ya, Jenn?" 

This never happened.  When I walk into Yogi's, there is no dramatic entrance, no martini with my name on it.  Rather, the bartender merely glances over and ponders, "Hey, isn't that the girl who can eat her weight in buffalo chips?"

At approximately 7:38, the martini was in place. All I needed was a cigarette.  And you ask, "What drives such a sweet, charming girl to drink alone?"  Or perhaps you ask, "Why were you being such a lame-ass dork this time?"

I will sum it up for you in one word: HOMECOMING.

That's it.  Homecoming.  Back in the fall of my senior year of high school, I was asked to the homecoming dance by the guy I had been dating all summer. One of the "cool" kids, if you will.  I had this gorgeous blue floorlength gown, sparkly hair jewels, and professional makeup application.  I wasn't fucking around.  I was going to make this event the dance to end all dances, and I had never felt so beautiful.  The night was going to be perfect, and I'd accept no substitutions. 

To make a long story short, my date showed up late.  We went to dinner with all the "popular" people, which was fun, but I would have had more fun with the "unpopular" -- I mean, "drama" -- people.  My date ignored me for nearly the entire night, not even saving me the last dance.  (He dumped me the next day, after a Matchbox 20 concert.  Ass.) The morning after, the only thing that remained of the night was my makeup, which had miraculously stayed perfectly affixed throughout the night, despite my tears. And while I was upset with him, I was more upset with myself. I had set up expectations that left me with nothing but inevitable disappointment. Brutal disappointment, with a side of self-loathing. 

It was the Homecoming mentality that fucked me over when it came to Brian, known to everyone and their mothers as "Plasma guy," or "Biolife guy," and other, more inappropriate titles that best not be included here.  The thing with Brian was that I barely knew him -- we'd speak for a few minutes at a time.  But it was those in-the-meantime moments when I discovered that I was disgustingly infatuated with him.  I'd come home from donations, and Annie and Leah would laugh at me: "You're fucking glowing, what the fuck is wrong with you?"  Crushes like this have come along few and far between in my almost-22 short years.  So of course, I was certain that it meant something. Because everything has to mean something. 

 Today, I was pretend-reading some crappy article in Blender magazine when I caught him in my peripheral vision:  "So...you interested?" He asked.  "Yeah...[ and I don't fucking care what you're referring to..]"  I had forgotten that he had mentioned earlier that he dabbled in absinthe, which I've always been curious about.  He said to let him know if I was interested, which I of course assumed to mean that we'd hang out -- gasp -- outside the plasma center.  Green light!, I thought.  This is where it all begins.  My new lover and an illegal hallucinogen.  Yes.  We carried on, talking about the weekend, Michigan, etc.  He asked me about the lakeshore - was there anything cool to do up there?  I offered my suggestions on Holland and Grand Haven, how much I loved them, how they were my favorite places in all of Michigan.  "Why?" I asked, "You making plans?" 

"Yeah," he responded..  "I promised the GF I'd take her somewhere."    G...fucking... F.  Not "girlfriend."  "GF."  Whatever. It doesn't matter.  The point is, a) he has a girlfriend, whom I can only imagine is gorgeous, and smart, and is going to be a lawyer and give him 2.5 adorable babies,  and b) I just advised him, in true, discover-michigan's-west-coast fashion, where to take his lady.  A quick scene flashed into my mind in which I yanked the needle out from my arm and violently jammed it in my aorta.   

Why do I do this to myself?

In the midst of all of this, we have started a conversation about WTTS, to which the guy donating next to me pipes up, "You work at a radio station?"  As he is sitting directly to my right, with donation equipment in the way, so I cannot see his face.  All I can see of this stranger is his dirty black pants, stretched out socks, and loafers.  He begins talking to me of his days as a DJ in Elletsville and doesn't stop for nearly twenty minutes.  I am NOT exaggerating, people.  That man spoke on a myriad of topics, never once stopping for any sign of feedback from me.  Because he can't see me either, I'm making faces at all the Biolife employees, who think this is the most hilarious thing in the world.  And if they knew how dejected I felt at the time, they'd laugh even harder, because I was stuck in this most absurd moment in my life with no where to go.

I walked out with $20 and a lack of all integrity.  I walked to Yogi's alone and ordered a martini. Struck up a conversation with a few gentleman who were coaching a soccer camp in town.  One of them was young and British and so fucking sardonic and I loved him for it.  They bought me cherry bombs and martinis and when I was good and toasted they invited me to Cheeseburger in Paradise to drink with more of their coach friends.  I declined, but we exchanged numbers, and perhaps I'll see them again.  Brandon the Bartender got off work and we chatted over drinks about how he is getting evicted later this month.  I walked home, took an hour to sleep it off, and headed into work. 

And here I am. It's been a crazy day.  I can't wait to fucking leave it here and come home.