Last night I set my hair on fire. And not in some cool bra-burning, protest-type of way. I was leaning across a bar and trying to get the asshole bartender’s attention and all of a sudden I smell burning hair and notice that my hair was on fire. There was this dumb candle. It was one of those types of bars, you know, the ones where you have to get some horrible password emailed to you or something and then say it to the door guy. So you end up screaming “MILK AND MASHED POTATOES” or whatever outside of a trendy wooden door on a crowded street, while passer-bys look at you like you’re just another sign of the apocalypse.
It’s like, “oh, getting drunk isn’t shameful enough? You feel the need to add more mortifying actions between me and my $20 beer?”
So, yeah, I set my hair on fire while leaning over the bar, and the UCLA student behind it looked at me and was like, “yeah that’s probably going to smell for a couple of days.” LIke. Fuck off, student. I’m aware and going through the humiliation of having done this, so please, by all means, keep your non-witty, obvious commentary to a minimum.
Anyway, like the whole fucking bar of course is looking at me like I’m this drunk asshole when I was just trying to get my friends a drink. I looked at them all, right back, straight-faced, and said “Yeah. I leaned over the bar and my hair caught on fire. There is nothing really left to say.”
So naturally I’ve been crying all day about my life and what it’s become, because last night I used a password to get into a bar where I failed at the excruciatingly simple task of not lighting myself on fire.
It’s so humiliating, just even having a body.