Dear friend seeker,
Yes, I got it, you're looking for your friend. You told me that twelve times already. What you don't seem to understand is that every time you tell me that your chances of getting in lessen exponentially. "She's right inside!" you cry mournfully. She could be literally two inches inside this gate and I would still not let you in. We're closed, and I don't care how hot you are, I don't want to put up with your bullshit or get chewed out by my boss. "She's super drunk, though!" you plead. Oh look, it just started raining all of the fucks that I give. By the way, it is not raining. Get the picture? Unless your friend somehow gets paralyzed in a freak beer pong accident, I assure you that she will exit the bar at some point and meet you. Here. OUTSIDE. You and I both know you have a cell phone. Use it. If you don't, well, the 70's called and they said "fuck you."
Sincerely,
The Angry Door Guy
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