Going Out On the Hunt
It’s been three months. I’m getting mean.
My friends have finally convinced me to go out clubbing with them. Not that I do well in bars (okay except for that one time), and not that I plan on getting any on a Wednesday night, because the fantastic random sex I crave does not include me falling asleep before four a.m, but neither of those will keep me from trying to come home with my left forearm full of phone numbers. Although of course if I report back tomorrow with no come-ons from anyone other than an elfin metrosexual and a tranny with lopsided knockers, you won’t laugh at my pain, will you?
Heh.
