A couple weekends ago, it rained on our parade. Literally, the St. Patrick’s Day parade. In fact, it rained so hard, that if I had shampoo … I could have taken a shower in it.
That said, my friend refused to walk the two blocks from my condo to the EpiCentre garage to catch the tail end of Rich and Bennett’s 5,000-person-plus St. Patty’s Day Pub Crawl. (Note: The best thing about a pub crawl is you don’t have to worry about what to wear.) She even refused to go outside to hail a cab. Clearly, she has never lived in N.Y.C. ’cause my ass would’ve just walked.
So, she drove us, despite the fact it cost us $10 and 20 minutes more. But it wasn’t until we got out of the car and rats the size of rabbits greeted us that she regretted that decision. And with that, I felt like I was living in N.Y.C. again. Except these rats were just hovering around us like pigeons (the winged, more ballsy version of a rat), showing no fear of humans. But they scared the shit out of us. We ran full speed, in heels, to the elevator like we were in a scene from attack of the killer rats.
I don’t know what I was so afraid of … I have run-ins with rats almost every time I go out. Club rats, that is. You know, those human rodents that go to clubs for crumbs from either rich men or hot girls. The female rats sniffing their way thru VIP looking for cheese, and the males nibbling off their insecurities. But since they can’t be exterminated like real rats, we have to share the clubs and party with them.
We just have to learn how to tell the difference between the rats and those worth meeting … or dating. I clearly suck at this because I tend to end up in the sewer with the rats.
I’m starting to conclude that there are two main breeds of rats (men): the kind that is psychotically obsessive over you, and the kind that cheat on you. And I’m pretty certain I’m not going to meet a man that proves me otherwise amongst the rats in a club.
This article appears in Mar 23-29, 2010.
