Money Over Bitches

Yeah, I didn't actually take this picture.

So last night saw yet another installment of what I'm now going to call E+V's Big Night Out (EVBNO for all you stock analysts). First we headed over to the Third St Promenade in Santa Monica, where we both picked up the newest issue of MissB, which is amazing if you haven't had the pleasure of getting your ProNail-ed hands on it.

While standing in line for the bathroom at Starbucks, we were then hit on/accosted by some guy with a heavy Spanish accent who complemented me about my shirt and then asked me where the Valley was. It was weird. Word. Then a strange twelve year old came up to me and high fived me.

After that, around midnight/ 1am, we headed over to the Sunset Strip where I was completely determined to have some delicious and cheap pizza. Sadly, determination isn't everything, because I never got it. However, we did find a radio station that played all 80s all weekend, so we got to jam out to 80s synth pop dance tunes the entire night.

It was just as we were getting tired-ish and forlorn (though still energetic from the Annie Lennox and Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam), I spotted The Body Shop.

That's right lads and lasses, V and I spent our night in Hollywood at the strip club. And it was awesome. After I got past the sad fact that I couldn't afford to eat after paying the 10.00 cover and the club didn't serve food, I actually enjoyed myself. V and I are sort of obsessed with this one stripper, who after some research, is apparently named Isis. She was/is amazing. First of all, she's got this Mexican vibe going on so she was wearing this cute-ish belly dancer style outfit and the most fucking ridiculous pair of six-inch stilettos that made her immediately earn my and V's respeto. She glided and danced and did a few acrobatic tricks that were super cool.

But for the most part that club is crapsicles on ice. The music skipped, one of the dancers took off her skirt and started "ahem" touching herself. Oh and then one of the girls started dancing to Pat fucking Benatar. Now I can never listen to "Hit Me With Your Best Shot," for more than obvi reasons. Outside the club we got propositioned with an offer to jump into some dude's party bus, but luckily for me I have the best excuse EVER: "Um, sorry, but I have to get home. I live in the Valley." Works like a charm every fucking time.

Um, and then I got a parking ticket, V and I went to In N Out Burger, my roommate was a rude bitch this morning, and the trains don't run on Saturdays. Salud!

Deuces,
Erika