So, I have a few misconceptions about myself.
1. I’m a G. 2. I’m more than 100 pounds. 3. Being sober makes me logical. 4. Boys will not hit me.
I guess I should say I used to have these misconceptions about myself.
But those roaming hoodlums on the fifth floor of the parking structure in San Francisco this weekend proved me wrong.
Now let me tell you, this is not my story to tell. I had a very tiny part, but we can pretend it’s all about me.
When do girls learn not to break up fights?
And why do I think I’m the one girl on the face of the planet that could be successful in this endeavor? Add that to my list of misconceptions.
And you know, I must say I don’t think it was just the sobriety that made me feel like Superwoman. I think it was the dancing. I definitely feel like Superwoman after dancing all night.
Because I am a great dancer. And I think Superwoman probably is, too.
So, when Matt got jumped after a great night of dancing by six completely random guys, my Superwoman instincts kicked in. Instincts is what we’re gonna call them.
I ran. In the Steve Madden booties I borrowed from Dylan’s mom and the tights I pretend are pants and my fake blue leather jacket. And as soon as there was some tiny separation in between The Douchebag and Matt, I stepped in.
And The Douchebag looked directly at me. Pushed me. And then punched me in the face.
Superwoman lost her shit.
How could you hit me?! I am so cute! And small! And I look twelve! YOU ARE BASICALLY A CHILD ABUSER, SIR!
I hope you feel good about yourself.
After that, it’s a little fuzzy. Brawls on every floor of this stupid parking garage. I like to think that everyone jumped in because they were so outraged that The Douchebag hit such a pretty girl. But I doubt anyone even really noticed since there were like 800 other people throwing bows. There were people losing each other and finding each other and bleeding and me trying to reverse this Nissan Murano up five levels to find roaming hoodlums and calm down crying girlfriends and concussed hockey players.
Long story short, here’s how everyone ended up:
Matt: NO SCRATCHES. Maybe Matt is Superman. He may have been jumped by a gang of randos (who at one point pulled out a knife- WHERE WERE WE?!), but he only had some throat pain. Probably because he’s so tall the little hoodlums couldn’t reach his pretty face.
Dylan: Completely traumatized. What if the little hoodlums would have hurt her boyfriend’s face?! Their future was hanging on a thread there.
Mallory: Mallory cannot believe that I ran into that fight. I think she’s reconsidering our friendship since I am a complete idiot. Or she’s considering taking me more places since I am obviously not scared of anything.
Ricky: Ricky is a boxer. Ricky has a broken nose. Ricky is VERY unhappy that he lost this fight (merely a numbers game here.) Ricky bled all over his shirt and got picked up by his girlfriend at the end of the night.
Stephen: After trying to break up the fight peacefully, getting his watch stolen, sucker punched, and most likely concussed, Stephen has two bruises on both sides of his face. For a guy who wasn’t involved in the fight at all, we are convinced Matt somehow transferred all his bruises to Stephen’s face. Because Superman can do that. Also Stephen has like a real job, and I have no idea what he’s telling his boss today.
The old Asian man garage attendant who did NOTHING: I hope that guy loses sleep for many nights because he didn’t do anything but continue checking license plates while people were getting pummeled, girls were getting punched, and others almost stabbed.
So here are the things to take away from this situation:
- San Francisco is the worst place on the face of the planet.
- Being sober makes you more logical than everyone else. But that’s not saying much.
- You can get jumped and come out without a scratch.
- Being cute does not get you a free pass in the face of completely drunken idiots.
I do have the tiniest of bruises. So we can also take away this: