A best friend turned thirty recently and we had an epic night raging our faces off in her honor. After drinking for a solid 6 hours and closing down not one, but two establishments, the single ladies and I decided there was really no better way to continue the evening than to hit up my favorite late-night douchestablishment. I know they must have been beyond drunk to even agree to this. Normally the response I would get upon suggesting this place would be a significant eyeroll, giant sigh and a very pronounced shake of the head “NO.”
About ten minutes after walking in and ordering our first round of drinks, these three guys swoop in and proceed to pair us off. Turns out they were Italians in town for Lollapalooza and didn’t really speak all that much English. But they didn’t need to, since we just all spent the next two hours straight up making out. There was a fourth friend, who awkwardly stood around while his buddies sucked face with strange girls. Although none of us recall the names of the guys we talked to, I did remember awkward 4th friend saying his name was Leonardo, so I’ve just convinced myself the other three were Raphael, Donatello and Michaelangelo.
At some point the other girls left to go to the bathroom, realized they were beyond tired and ready to go home, and came back to collect me from the clutches of yet another strange man who stopped me at the bar and said he wanted to take me to dinner. We all went to collect our belongings to leave. The poor 24/5 year old Italian idiotas were stunned – we didn’ta wanta to do it ah the bunga bunga?
“How can I contact you?” desperately screamed the poor bastard who had been jamming his tongue down my throat not even 5 minutes ago.
“Call me?” I yelled back over my shoulder as I ran for the exit.
“But I don’t have your number!” he wailed.
The best and wisest exit I’ve ever made at 4 in the morning.