About a month back the semester was ending, everyone parting ways for the summer, and an overall sense of one more year of partying and youthful stupidity coming to an end. Believe me, the 5-8 day post-finals partying binge was one of monumetal proportions. Hugging best friends outside of dive bars, as your both sobbing and puking, because you won't see each other for like 3 months. (Well with my friends the same thing happens when someone leaves for a weekend, but we all have isolation issue, so fuck off.)
One of the last nights brought some good material. About 8 of us went out to a karoake bar in the Marina. (Some call the Marina the La Jolla or West Hollywood of San Francisco.) I don't agree, it's really just filled with straight people who LOVE to fucking work out. They order dirty-dirty martinis and Samual Adams beer, only party on the weekends, go out on frozen yogurt dates, dream about yoga positions, rock boot-cut denim like we're still in the 90's, and always make it to brunch on time. Anyway the bar we pounced on was not what we needed that night and after laughing about the guy singing Rascall Flats to his girlfriend for long enough we high-tailed out of there.
On the street we realized we needed two cabs to get to the Castro which was on the other side of town. I spot a white limo parked to the side and say to Elise, "Let's go flash him for a free ride."
We sprint over and the driver gets out. Let me explain to you this driver: truly a beautiful human being. He was a black guy dressed in a pimped out lavender suit, including matching hat and shoes, sprinklings of fake gold jewelry throughout. He quickly told us it would be $4 each and we all hopped in. He explained to us that failing to follow his rules would mean he would cut off our "privileges."
We didn't exactly know what these privileges entailed but we learned soon enough. Stick your head out of the sunroof with a bottle in your hand screaming? NOT ALLOWED. Drink the numerous bottles of bourbon and whiskey that were in the back? NOT ALLOWED. Smoke a cigarette? NOT ALLOWED. Our driver would cut our music off long enough for us all to apologize eight times, tell him we loved him, and kiss him on the cheek. When he stopped at an ATM for us he was standing outside with Daniela watching as "Cindy" leaned into the backseat of the limo. Cindy's got some junk in the trunk and he looked it up and down before saying, "Damn look at that booty." Daniela attempted to veto any ideas in his head by jumping in with, "HEY, that's my girl." With a grin on he replied, "No, that's our girl."
At one point in the ride, I'm sitting in the back of the limo with Isabel and Daniela. I see Elise hand Daniela, who is sitting next to the window a cup full of something. Daniela says, "Beer? Thanks honey." What Elise said next made us all whip our heads around faster than LA folk sprinting to a new Pinkberry story opening.
"NO DANIELA. THAT'S CINDYS PUKE. SHE JUST THREW UP IN A CUP."
What The Fuck. Are you serious Cindy? A minute ago I look over and she is sneakily tipping the bourbon bottle down her own throat like the baller that she is, the next she's serving up a big ass plate full of NASTY. Daniela tipped the cup out the window, probably spreading steamy throw-up across the side of the limo. Cindy puked again, this time into a champagne flute. Those cups are damn skinny and I have to give her props for not spilling anywhere and taking care of her puking like such a lady. (ha)
The rest of the night was filled with eyes-closed dancing to the sounds of P-P-P-Pokerface. Cindy kept raging long into the night, Isabel acted as the bouncer at this bar called Badlands for a hot minute, and I kissed the bartender for a round of free Patron shots. All in a nights work baby.
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