Just when you think your life is at it's most bizarre moment...

...it's not. I'm living proof that life only gets stranger the moment when it seems it's at the climax of strange.

Let me start with a disclaimer saying that I HATE MySpace. Yep, I said it. The thought of it makes me cringe. That being said, a FABULOUS friend of mine created one for me (you'll probably rot in hell for this) and it's pimped out and whatever else. But I really just can't stand it. This is a story that legitimately just happened the weekend before last. I always talk about how I'm going to write a book someday and this will definitely be a story within it. I've changed the names and left out specific locations, as if you do know me, you can probably guess who is who and where I was.

I’ve always had this tendency for being quite the 007 type of chick. Some may call it nosey, I prefer to call it intelligent and curious. For no particular reason other that looking at other people’s online habits (so maybe this is nosey..?) I’ve always had an urge to find things about people online. I’ve done it all: I Google more people than I do actual pieces of information I need and I even managed to find the mugshot of a guy I had been talking to, for a recent DUI (unbeknownst to him…). It’s truly for no other reason than I love to be a FBI type of person. It runs in my family to do somewhat investigative-esque work, as my father has done similar things throughout his entire career, however I just do it out of pure interest. I probably should have been a criminal justice major instead of business economics, but I digress.

I had spent a harmless, enjoyable and intoxicated night with some girlfriends at our favorite dive bar that is known for it’s scantily-clad college females, trashy dancing and overabundance of Brazilian immigrants, who I must say, do spice up the night in ridiculous ways. This place is not only a dive bar, it’s a somewhat underage bar, geared toward your college freshman thru seniors. Many would say we had no business being there, as we are pursuing Master’s degrees and hold real-life work positions. We would argue otherwise.

Spending a night at the bar with the girls. Seems normal, no? I had known that a guy I had talked to for a period in time, who I had actually met at this bar because he was a bartender there, was going to be back to work, as the colleges were back in session and there were $2 pitchers of Natty Light and SoCo and Lime shots to be served. I knew he was back working and I figured, “hell, let’s get an indecent amount of liquor and be on the verge of inebriation before we even arrive to this place”. Again, sounded like a plan to me. I rounded up the girls and got an insane amount of vodka, enough to probably quench the thirst of a Russian street gang and a ton of wine, including that which this particular guy had brought over to my house. Out of convenience in this story, let’s call him Mufasa. Mufasa had brought me a great bottle of Italian red when I had first moved into my new apartment in Connecticut. It was sweet and being that we only each had a glass before going out that night a few months back when he came over, I had plenty to indulge in before I actually had to face him at the bar. This had been the first time I had seen him in about two and a half months.

Jayna, Tamara, Jill and I all seemingly enough overdosed ourselves on my bitter mix of Stoli Bluberri and cran and were eventually off our asses in laughter over a drinking game we had created to get us as obnoxiously drunk as a sorority house full of first-time drinkers, granted, there was nothing first-time about us. Our other friend Aimee came over shortly thereafter with her boyfriend so we drank some more and took too many pictures in all the same pose. Eventually we make it to the bar and I spot Mufasa. He’s working at the bar outside and quite obviously I do what all girls do and warn my friends that if they speak to him I may or may not tell the entire bar they have a sexually transmitted disease and then leave the bar without them knowing so they are left all alone. Of course, as I lead the pack of girls to go back inside, he yells to Jayna that she neglected to say hi to him. Jayna says hi and I about throw a shit-fit.
Things continue as normal, dancing on platforms and poles with the girls, for the remainder of the night and I even scored a couple free drinks from Mufasa, who clearly does not remember giving me the free drinks as I had brought it up to him the morning after in a text message. Towards what quickly became the end of the night, I noticed Mufasa’s roommate taking pictures of my friends and I. I figured it was one of our cameras that we handed off to him and demanded him to take pictures, being that he had a good angle of us. Unfortunately enough, I would find out two days later that this was not the case.

On a dull Monday night of reading and laying on my bed in procrastination to return a few phone calls, I decided it was due time to do a little investigative research on Mufasa. For one reason or another, while most likely intoxicated, I had found Mufasa’s MySpace page a number of months back and had browsed it every now and then when I was feeling bored. Well this was one of those times and then by curiosity the mouse wanders and it happened to wander right onto the MySpace page of Mufasa’s roommate, Abs. Abs was just that: obsessed with himself, his looks and especially his abs. This may come as a rash statement, being that I knew virtually nothing about him except that he was Mufasa’s roommate and that my friend Tamara had once forced him into buying she, myself and Aimee drinks at this same bar in another awkward run-in. Abs would just hang out at this terrible boozefest every Saturday night that Mufasa was working. It was really sad, actually, because they lived quite a distance and I’m pretty sure unless Angelina Jolie and Chelsea Handler made guest appearances every week you could not get me to hang out in this place alone every Saturday night.

I wander onto Abs MySpace page and decide to browse his pictures. “Nice,” I thought to myself, “he updated pictures, maybe there’s something interesting that will kill a few seconds of my time”. Lo and behold, I see pictures of Mufasa with the extremely foreign looking female bartenders and as I kept clicking through I saw a picture of myself and my friends. WAIT, WHAT?! It was a picture of me, Jayna, Tamara and Jill standing by a stripper pole in the middle of this dive bar. This has got to be a joke. He didn’t even know me! Why did he have pictures of random girls he doesn’t know on his MySpace page. I’m hoping that as you read this, none of you have ever stumbled upon pictures of youself on someone’s MySpace you do not communicate with. If you have, I’m sorry and I totally understand your pain, as the pictures were probably not the most admirable photos you’ve ever seen of yourself.

There ended up being two pictures of my friends and I and to be completely frank with you, I was creeped out an horrified. I immediately sent Tamara a message online telling her and she demanded to see the link. Just when you think your life can’t get weirder, it does. Nothing is impossible. I pondered the idea of bringing it up to Mufasa, however I would blow my cover and he would know that I’m the modern day female James Bond, which I didn’t want him to find out, as I wanted to keep some sort of “normal” reputation with him, if for nothing else than future run-ins at this shanty establishment we classify as a bar. I barely knew of Abs, nevermind had a conversation with him. However, did I mention that same night that I did a body shot off of his stomach? Again, not one of my prouder moments. Oh, the effects of liquor…

You can’t make this stuff up.