I took your shoe, Fake Lesbian!!!
I'll start with the back story.
My friend and I (we'll call her "Maria") just planned to have a quiet dinner at her house in West Philadelphia on a Tuesday night. This was to be the beginning of a new phase of entertainment for us; we're prone to meet for "one drink" and wind up slurring and irritating our mostly teetotaler boyfriends. So, in an effort to prove that our friendship isn't based on alcohol consumption, we had dinner. Pasta salad, if you must know.
Sidebar: I'd like to take a minute to explain that I'm close to boycotting West Philadelphia altogether. It's a pain in the ass to get over there; once I'm there there's not that much to do; and getting home late at night is either expensive or dangerous, depending on your mode of transport. On this particular visit, I was caught in a torrential downpour AND I lost my wallet. I'm pretty sure that the wallet thing was my own sorry fault, but it happened in West Philadelphia and I'm going to go ahead and blame her godforsaken neighborhood.
I digress. We had dinner, watched "America's Top Comic" or whatever the hell it's called (for a brilliant woman, "Maria" is embarrassingly addicted to even the most brain-deadening of reality programs). Around 10:30, we decided to go out dancing in Center City. On a Tuesday.
Did I mention that we drank two bottles of wine with our pasta salad?
So. We shot down to the Rittenhouse area on the trolley, because I remembered that Loie usually has some cheezy 80's-type music playing, no cover, and a decent-sized dance floor (which we needed, as "Maria" is partial to an Expanded Robot, and I like to pretend I'm an Olympic Gymnast doing cross-mat dance routines).
We were having a good old time, "Maria" and myself, when you and your other Fake Lesbian friend came along. You'd done a little too much tippling, I think, and you were off your gourds. You'd left your boyfriends on the side of the dance floor. I imagine what began as a little experimentation at the suggestion of the boyfriends had turned into a Full Show for the whole bar. You were on the dance floor, making out in the most inconvenient places. NOT dancing. I repeat: NOT dancing. Only grinding all over the dance floor in what was rapidly beginning to concern your respective Frat Boys.
I hate it when girls make out to excite the boys around them. There's nothing worse. It just serves to reinforce that stupid fucking "lesbianism is hot" thing that makes me believe we'll never break past the point at which the majority of the idiots in the world think that being gay is a choice. Lesbianism may be hot, but only when it's LESBIANS who are acting like lesbians.
Anyway, sorry. I took your Bedazzled Flip-Flop and put it in a booth down the bar right before I left. I feel a little bad about it, but not very. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
The Shoe Bandit
this is in or around Loie