It’s December 2023, my very first time going out in Los Angeles. Fresh from the Midwest, and owning very minimal “going out tops,” I showed up in platform Doc Martens and a corset top a little too tight for proper lung function, and jeans that were more practical than fashionable.
I swear I wasn’t planning on becoming that person—the one who lets some older guy at the bar bankroll their night. I always thought I had too much pride, too much feminist backbone, too much… I don’t know, self-respect? But pride melts fast when the cocktails are $18 and the night is young.
It was supposed to be a casual night out. Early 2000s Night in Hollywood. The plan was to have a few drinks, dance to songs my middle school self could only imagine hearing at the club, and make some unforgettable memories. Two truths and a lie.
Let me get something straight: I bartend, I smile, I make your overpriced Instagram cocktails look cute, but deep down? I hate it when people order anything other than a shot. Seriously. Hate it.
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