So he asked you to his formal. He got down on one knee and begged for you to paint him a little cooler and fill it with alcohol and snacks, all at your own expense, in exchange for some half-hearted dick on one of the three nights of your stay in a shitty Wildwood New Jersey Motel. That’s fine. Because you know what I got? I got a Grotto’s Wristband.
It kills me that you get to experience that super fun weekend with all the bros hanging out with each other on the beach and ignoring their dates to play Kan Jam, but then I remember that I get to go to Grotto’s with basically no line during formal season. That’s right. I get to stride into the Main Street Galeria, looking like a total snack, and only wait like two minutes for the bouncers to check my ID and then slide one of those beautiful “we’re all infected” wristbands with the skulls onto my right arm.
While you’re busy trying to locate your date after he’s had seven shots of strawberry lemonade Svedka, I get to sit back, relax, and order as many slaters as my heart desires. I deserve this, so much more. You never really deserved the Grotto’s wristband anyway, so I don’t even care that you’re there on the beach right now.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to go to that formal and post an Insta of me on the beach holding the Phi Psi flag with the three other girls I just met whose dates also suck, but then I stop myself. Because as heartbreaking as it is that I’ll never get to bond with those girls, or hold that flag, I have something better: a patio seat at Grotto’s.
I get to people watch everyone who walks down main street from the comfort of my table, Grateful Dead complete with floating rubber ducks in hand, and more free popcorn bowls than I care to count. So I’m sorry that you weren’t here at Grotto’s during formal season; but I’m really not.