I'm losing my touch.

My friend Chris said I was street smart last week. Chris, I am just now remembering that that statement was made after a few shots of whiskey - I am NOT street smart. While I graduated from graduate school with a 4.0 GPA and college in the 3.75 range, I am amazed at how I don't even notice some things that are right in front of my face.

Case in Point: Loie, the bar that serves drama free of charge with their high-priced drinks.

One of my friends celebrated her 30th birthday Saturday night, and we all gathered at Loie to give Ansley's 20s the so long, the farewell, and the good night. I had been driving back from Virginia since the morning, and I hadn't had anything to eat since my friend John had made me some good old-fashioned country breakfast at 9 am. I needed alcohol and something to keep me awake, so I went for what had worked in Vegas:

Cocaine.

I KID! I KID!

I got Red Bull & Vodka. It worked, I woke up and lost the crankiness. But the downside - the fact that I drank the sweet concoction faster than a Kennedy before last call - was lost on my exhausted body and mind. I got drunk FAST. I was upstairs at Loie, which is this cute little Urban-French-hipster kind of place that I usually know I might get a "Molly, settle down" comment thrown my way. I knew most of the people at the party peripherally, and there were a few that trickled in from the general public. I honestly couldn't see people that well - it's so hip, they make it dark so that EVERYONE looks skinny and ominous. I end up kind of in this nook beside the bar, and I'm next to a guy who I don't even notice or care to look at. He turns to me and says "Hi Molly, how are you?"

I think he's one of Ansley's friends, but I'm busy watching some other people across the wall get another round of shots for a few of us. I try to weasel out of the conversation, as I had no desire to pick up Philly dudes at the bar. I said "good, thanks" and that's about it. He looked at me and says "do you remember me? I think you hate me and I probably owe you and a couple of people an apology..."

Now, I don't hate anyone. Yes, I think poorly of people, but hate is a strong word. I reply "I'm sorry, what's your name again? I can't hate you THAT much if I don't know who you are."

"George."

Right. Scratch that. I do hate people. Well, him. I have good reason to hate him. No, it's not a "he broke up with me" bullshit story - we have seen each other less than ten times in our entire lives. Matter of fact, it's not so much ME that hates him - a couple of people close to me are the ones who'd love to have a crack at him. I don't want to go into what happened, because some people I love would be greatly hurt if I told the whole story. Put it this way. Four friends, two cousins, my mom and my shrink know the true extent of why I hate George, and they agree. He is not even pond scum, because pond scum implies that evolutionary change has taken place. He's in Med School to be a cardiac surgeon - I ask that if you ever need heart surgery, look at the first name of your surgeon and holler at me. I will confirm or deny the last name and personally help you find another doctor and then we will go key his car or something.

Yes, that is how much I hate George. Fucker.

But at any rate. I heard him say his name and carefully weighed my options, of which the following came to mind:

1. Dump the nearest beverage on his head, ala my friend Mary in a Delaware Grotto's Pizza circa 2005.
2. Kick him in the testicles.
3. Stand on the bar and scream to the bar the whole story of why I hate him.
4. Insert other action here that would certainly get me kicked out of a bar, but not necessarily arrested.

I was wasted, but I had to do something. Because that's how I roll.

I chose option 5. Give a dirty look and walk away.

Yes, I've lost my mojo. I didn't even recognize him until he told me his name, which told me that I was more drunk than I had previously believed, and I was at my friend's party, which I did not want to ruin. She lives in Miami now and will probably have a baby in the next year or so. I didn't want to be the anecdote that she tells her mom friends of why she's so happy that she left the single or childless world behind.

I did, however, proceed to text message said asshole a few things that may come back to haunt me later in life. Namely, one in particular that said "Just so you know, you are the one person that I hope dies a fiery death. Soon."

Dipshit texts me back: "lets talk tamarow theres two sides to every story."

George. First of all, it's "tomorrow". Second of all, it's "there's". I think you skipped class the week they taught grammar, spelling and punctuation in medical school. Look into scheduling a make-up session.

I did send him another text message laced with angrier comments. But I'm still a little pissy at myself for not going whole-hog on that one. I'm mainly pissed off that I was so unobservant that I didn't even see him until he was RIGHT in front of my face. I'll be more prepared than this in the future.

I've been out in Philly approximately three times in the past six months, and I've seen him three times. No, he didn't talk to me the next day, nor did I want to hear his crap. We'll meet again, George. I suggest you run.

Because I want to think fondly of Ansley's birthday, here ya go.