I May Or May Not Have Injured My Ex-Boyfriend Because Of Tequila

I May Or May Not Have Injured My Ex-Boyfriend Because Of Tequila

I was wearing too much eye makeup and my outfit was the perfect combination of slutty and slutty. I downed more Fireball than is safe fore consumption, then headed out to the bar with “my bitches.” I was fully embodying the female douche. We walked through the doors, fake IDs in tow, and headed straight toward the bar. This was the first time I’d been in a bar without an X on the back of my hand, and I didn’t really know what to do. My nerves did not subside when a man sculpted from the same clay as Adonis walked up to take my drink order.

“What’ll it be, ladies?”

“I’ll take a tequila shot. On the rocks.” His look told me that shots did not come ‘on the rocks,’ and since I wasn’t really sure what I’d even ordered, I tried to laugh it off. “I’m totally kidding! Just a plain shot of tequila!” Who the hell needs rocks, anyway? Crackheads, that’s who.

“You want a lime and salt? Maybe something to chase it with?”

I waved his suggestion away. I didn’t chase boys or booze. Bad move. The first shot seared my throat. The second almost made me vomit. The third actually tasted pretty good and the fourth was downright delicious. The fifth was the very last thing I remember from that night. But my friends remembered it all.

I saw my ex walk into the room, gave him my best “I don’t actually give a fuck about you” smile, and immediately latched on to the first guy I saw. I grinded on this strange man like a stripper grinds on her pole, thanks to the new dance moves my good friend, tequila, taught me. I said something along the lines of “I feel like a sexy siren, luring in sailors.” I cringe at the thought of something so disgusting coming out of my mouth, and realize now that I had no right to feel surprised when he walked away.

I shifted my focus back to the bartender.


He asked me if I was newly 21 while my friends stood stunned in fear of getting kicked out, discovered as underage, sent to prison, kicked out of school, and then murdered by our parents. He laughed, and then lifted us one by one onto the bar and let us dance for a few songs, before he asked us not to break our necks trying to get down. I tried to kiss him as he lowered me to the ground, but he was apparently married or gay or something, because I never actually got to.

As we adjusted our clothes and headed to the outside patio, my ex approached.

“Nice performance up there. Are you trying to catch someone’s eye?”

“Yeah, your mom’s.” Crushed it.

“Look, we need to talk.”

It was then I transformed from the “betch” I’d been at the beginning of the night into a middle school girl in moments flat. The only thing I could think to call him was a penisaurus, a rare breed of asshole found only in grade school, before you’re entirely comfortable cursing. He “babed” me, and begged me to give him another chance because he ruined things with the only girl he could ever love (probably. I mean, I don’t technically know what he wanted to talk about, but that was probably it). I could barely form words.

So I kicked him. I literally kicked my ex-boyfriend in a bar. Like I was in a relationship of domestic violence, except I was the abuser, and I wasn’t even smart enough to keep it behind closed doors. I was a man-beater. What was I wearing? They were going to have to name a new trashy t-shirt after me and my kind. The bouncers were on me in seconds, reminding me of the zero tolerance rule for physical violence and I was carried out of the bar while my ex was (probably) definitely crying, depending who you ask.

From then on, I lived a new life. As a bandit. A fugitive. A crazy ex-girlfriend. But honestly, my only regret is wearing too much eye makeup.

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