Dear Suite, You’re pretty sour.
Can we talk about Suite for a moment?
You know, the grimy, rave-like, guido infested club at the Epicenter?
Barf.
I’ve been to Suite three times in the past year or so, none of these times being my own personal choice. I’m the type of gal that enjoys low key bars such as Braswells, Ed’s Tavern, Thomas Street Tavern, etc., so needless to say, Suite is not really my scene. The first time I went, my friend rented a VIP table outside for her birthday, so I didn’t notice the douchy-ness that was happening inside. The second time I went, it was NYE 2009 and I was surrounded by tons of my closest friends and boyfriend of the time, so I didn’t so much care about my surroundings as much as the people I was with. However, this past weekend I was boyfriend-free and on the prowl, and the plethora of greasy losers bordering the wall was painfully obvious.
To put it simply, I felt like I had suddenly materialized onto the set of Jersey Shore. Looking around, I failed to find one single male that attracted me. They all stood sleazy-like with their button down shirts and greasy hair. Their eyes trailed the half-naked girls with fake eyelashes the size of my hand and enough hairspray to chemically murder someone. The worst part of it all was the go-go dancers slutting it up on top of the makeshift “stage” to the horrendous string of remixed pop radio.
If that’s your scene, neat. But prepare for an anxiety attack when you get smushed against a wall and you can’t breathe because of the throngs of scantily clad attention whores grinding in front of your face.
Oh, but they do have super hot bartenders.

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