Fickle Am I

Fickle \ fi-kel \ adj : not firm or steadfast in disposition or character : inconsistent

Every time I hold one of those red cellophane Fortune-telling Chinese fish in my hand, it flips right over declaring me – fickle. Every time I hold the fish, it is the same thing. Fickle.

Saturday night, my birthday party, a raging success on all accounts. The turnout for the rooftop kegger was quite remarkable. The perfect mix of people attended; coupled with sweet views of Manhattan, free- flowing liquor, moonlight and the perfect ipod mix. So perfect, that at 2am, I was over it. People were still hanging out, but my fickle self wanted out.

So I left my own birthday party.

Headed downstairs with the full intent of ending up at 151. On the way, I noticed what used to be my favorite “healthy burrito” joint, whose closing I lamented to no end, had been replaced with a chic bar. My fickle self forget the promises I had made the staff about boycotting the new place, as spoke to the doorman and stepped through the door. My fickle self indulged in vodka tonics and shots from the ice luge.

Then my fickle drunk self decided that the cute architect boy I had just met was better than the guy I had been seeing for the last few weeks. So I told the guy I’ve been seeing that he was too drunk, I think he should go home. He balked and didn’t want to leave, but I insisted. He eventually left, but not after cluing into the fact that I was sending him home so I could hit on some other guy.

So now, my fickle self is hanging with the cute architect. We decide to meet up with other friends at the Back Room. The thing about the Back Room is that it is one of those old speakeasy bars, with a hidden room behind the bookcase. The private space is frustratingly difficult to get into. My roommate and I have befriended nearly every bouncer in the place to try to get behind the bookcase.

Now at this point, things are really fuzzy. All I know is I made into the Back Room of the Back Room with some guy who was not the Cute Architect boy. Not sure at what part of the evening I ditched him, or who I was behind the bookcase with, or how I got home, or how I ended up with a stress fracture in my foot.

But I know one thing, that fortune-telling Chinese fish is right, I am incredibly fickle.