Homie's Breath Was Kickin'

This weekend I worked three eight-hour shifts at my serving job, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Boo! How is a girl supposed to go to bars, pick up strange men and get laid when she is always at work making money and being responsible?

A few guys came into my job and hit on me. Trust me I’m not bragging. There was no potential whatsoever. Not even a sugar daddy or a boy toy. Nothing.

There was one guy on Friday night, who looked like he was straight out of the movie, “Carlito’s Way” or “Blood In Blood Out”. He was as drunk as an alcoholic after an AA meeting. When he talked to me I prayed no one lit up a cigarette, because the fumes of Hennessy on his breath would have set the place on fire.

I politely turned down his offer to go over to his house after work, where him and some of the “homies”, were going to get a few bottles and continue their partaying.

“I’m not drinking tonight,” I said.

“Oh, well you don’t have to drink,” he said. “Just come and bring some of your friends who do want to drink.”

“No thanks,” I said.

By the end of the night I was ready to go home and go to bed. I was tired of dealing with drunk people. Drunk people who kept opening tabs with the bartender and then asking me to fetch their drinks. Either you sit your drunk ass at the bar or you sit in my section. You can’t do both. I don’t care what the name is on your card. A tab is a tab.

Anyway, I’m on my way out the door when I see out of the corner of my eye drunk homeboy and his homies also on their way out. I was going to get a security guard to walk me to my car, but I wasn’t parked in the “employee parking”. I figured if I walked quickly the homies wouldn’t catch up with me.

I’m halfway across the parking lot when I look over my shoulder and see three guys come stumbling out of my job. “Oh sh*t” I think to myself and I started to add some more pep in my step. However, they are covering tracks. These guys are making a scene behind me, trying to get my attention, when all of a sudden all I can hear is “BLEH! BLEH! BLEH!”

Not just runny liquor barf, but a chunky soup barf. Sorry for that visual, but homeboy was doing some serious dry heaving. It's quite possible he lost his liver. I don’t know why but him throwing up scared the sh*t out me. I could imagine him trying to get my number and throwing up on me.

So I started speed walking (running) to my car. In the background I could hear his homies cracking up with laughter. I got to my car and I heard it again, “BLEH! BLEH! BLEH!" Omg, by now I think I’m going to be sick. His friends are rolling with laughter and in the midst of wiping his face with his white T, this fool starts calling after me again.

Seriously? Ugh. See what I meant when I said I wasn't bragging? Throwing up is just as attractive to me as Condoleezza Rice is to guys. I hopped into my car and peeled out of the parking lot like a high school kid going for a joy ride.

Going home and going to bed on a Friday night never felt so good.