Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Halitosis and Ho-Dom

Last night was girl-talk night for me & E. We went to the bar that I work at part-time, knowing it would be quiet enough for us to share salacious details without fear of being overheard. I like these kinds of nights. We swear to each other that we're only out for one beer a piece, but thirty minutes into our conversation, we're already ordering another round. And then another...and then another. Just the right amount of booze to lower our inhibitions enough to begin discussing the really GOOD stuff. But these are stories for another day.

At about eleven-thirty, Halitosis Jen walked in. I didn't even have to turn around. I KNEW she was right behind me. If she's within five feet of you, you can smell her. I'm not kidding, it's like something died in her mouth. It's that undeniably sour breath that implies a lifetime of alcohol abuse. Unfortunately, this isn't the worst of her traits. Not by a long shot.

H.J. is one of those sad, empty-shell people. You know the type of woman I'm referring to. There's at least one like her at every corner bar. On the surface she's the life of the party. She order shots for everyone, she dances even when there's no dance floor to speak of, she tells all the best raunchy jokes...she's the good-time girl. On the inside though, she's rotting. Wasting away from too much alcohol, too many cigarettes, too many drugs and one night stands. She hates herself, and it's evident to anyone around her that's willing to look further than her cleavage.

In the few years I've known H.J., I have personally borne witness to countless hook-ups. She's not picky. If you've got a warm body, you're pretty much fair game. The fact that a man has a girlfriend or a wife is of no consequence to her. There's no method to her madness. If you've paid attention to her for longer than five seconds, you're pretty much guaranteed, at the very least, a blow-job in the men's room.

What never ceases to amaze me about H.J. is the inevitable devastation she feels after one of her many encounters.

"Why doesn't he call me?" she asks, tears in her beer. "We had such a great time the other night."

What do you say to a person like this?

"Honey, the man is married. You've fucked nearly all of his friends. You're a drunk and a whore and you have horrible breath. What did you expect?"

But I can't say that to her. No one will EVER say that to her. Why? It's the age-old dilemma. If a train is about to crash, do you look, or do you turn away?

Everyone looks, and if they say they don't, they're lying.

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