Charming, but single

So, after a day of relaxing and being fabulous, I was pumped to go out. (In my new clothes, natch.) I wasn't driving, so I poured a big glass of wine and spent a bit of time getting ready. (I could have been ready sooner, but I had no reason to be and I had good music playing.) I wore my cute new pink skirt, a cute black shirt, awesome dangly beaded earrings and terribly uncomfortable, but very cute, high-heeled sandals. Despite wanting to have a good-ending evening, I shaved my legs. (We all know how that just curses you.) We went dancing. At first, I was not so thrilled about this for a number reasons. First off, I always feel like I got run over by a truck the day after I go dancing, because I don't actually own comfortable shoes and vodka makes me forget that I'm 25 and not 19, so I dance around like crazy in uncomfortable shoes and then I wake up the next morning and I'm sore. Also, the particular club we went to lets in kids younger than 21, who (not to be rude) I really would rather not hang out with. I hate tripping over a group of 20-year-old boys just taking up space on my way to the bar. Oh and they want to flirt with you so you'll sneak them a drink. (I'm on to you, 20-year-old boys.) And then there are the 18-year-old girls they bring with them. I'm going to be terribly mean here, but I hate drunk 18-year-old sorority girls with fake tans and horribly highlighted hair and screechy drunk girl voices. (Because they are always drunk, even if they are years from 21. There's always some older sleazeball who'll feed them shots.) Then there is the crying when their prick boyfriends dance with someone else. And the prick boyfriends are always wanting to fight any guy they see who might accidentally bump into someone else in an overcrowded bar. (Overcompensating much?) I will say one thing for the drunk 18-year-old sorority girls. Fabulous taste in shoes and bags, which I suppose you can have if someone else is footing the bill. (Forgive the jealous tone. I have shoe and purse envy.) Anyway, I went to college and I dealt with the aforementioned people then and I certainly don't want to deal with them again. But I really wanted to dance and a lot of my friends were going and I had a designated driver, so I figured, "Why the hell not?" Now, T has not called since I talked to him on Wednesday, when he asked what was going on this weekend. I thought about calling him around 8 p.m. while I was getting ready, but I decided against this, as I didn't want to sound too desperate. (Something I wish I would've remembered later.) I headed out to the bar with two of my girlfriends and we met up with several couples we know. (Eventually, I texted B, who happened to be at a bar down the street, so he and two other guys joined us. On a side note, it is quite amazing to have B meet me out and not immediately want to jump his bones. That ship has sailed, my friends. It's nice to not have my stomach flip around when he walks up. Sometimes I miss this giddy happiness, but not on Saturday.) So, I have three beers on top of the two, um, generously poured glasses of wine I had at home. Then we do a shot of vanilla vodka with a cranberry chaser. So good. Cheesecakelike. Then I did something stupid and switched to vodka and Red Bull. (Not the smoothest of moves.) We got to the bar around 10 p.m. and did shots around 11:15 p.m., so by 11:30 p.m., I had gathered up my liquid courage to call T. I tried to find the most quiet corner of the ladies' bathroom, but I could barely hear anything. I did hear his answering machine pick up (he's literally the only person I know who is still anti-cell phone), so I left a message. The message I intended to leave was, "Hey T, it's S. We're at [insert bar name]. Come have a drink." You know, something concise and not drunk-sounding and normal. (Is that asking for too much, dating gods and goddesses?) What I actually slurred was something like this (I was drunk, so this is all guessing. I know it was horrible): "Hey T, it's S. You had asked what was going on Saturday night ... and, well ... we're out. We're drinking and dancing at [insert bar name] . You know, I thought you might want to know and come dance ... I don't know if you dance or not. But, we are ... You don't have to dance ... But, um, come meet us! Or call me. I'll talk to you later!" You know, I am 25 years old and I am still totally clueless and out of control when it comes to men. It is embarrassing at times. All I want is for ONE dating situation to go well. ONCE. I am not asking for anything big. I don't have to find the love of my life or my future husband or have kids. I can be fine alone with my job and my books and a puppy or something. I just want ONE TIME to act normal and natural around a normal guy I like who acts normal and natural around me. ONE TIME. So, I dance like a moron for awhile (that's the Red Bull kicking in), checking my cell phone every 10 minutes (that's the vodka kicking in). No calls from T. So, around 1 a.m. we head to the bathroom and end up sitting on this bench in the, for lack of a better term, powder room area. I slur and raise hell to my friends about T and the not calling and acting all ambiguous. I call him a f*ckhead. A well-meaning sober girl I do not know (she's waiting in line for a bathroom) says, "F*ckhead? That's a bit harsh." A drunk girl I do not know says it is not. We head out shortly thereafter. I am drunk, but not screechy and crying, so I'm going okay. We leave before I can get too pathetic. I pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow. Thankfully I had two bottles of water and two extra-strength advils before I went to bed, so I was tired and sore and my ears hurt when I woke up, but I wasn't really hung over. I spent most of my day lounging around and cursing men and vodka. T hasn't returned my call. I can only hope he found the drunk me on his answering machine charming and not pathetic. Is that asking too much?