Bitches

Sometimes hanging out with women just wears me out. Especially when they are loud, profane women. When the night has been brought to us by the word 'fuck' used in almost every possible way. Never mind the couple behind us having a quiet dinner, no one has to strain to hear our table wax eloquent for 20 minutes about bumping into an old boyfriend on the elevator or hear us posturing about how he had better not (fucking) call you and how (fuckin') over him you are. Or the stalker from a dating site. If I were a single guy, there is no way I would approach our table. Our server didn't even stay long enough for me to ask him for salt. If it were a group of attractive guys standing around talking louder than they needed to hear each other about girls that annoyed them, I'd either be intimidated, completely turned off, or both. I need to start venturing out alone again. I have met some neat people that way. No one I dated but I'm happier knowing they're in the world.

Some other odds and ends from this Cinco de Mayo; drunk people, especially girls who tan 3 shades darker than me, wearing platform spike heels (it's hard to imagine the combo but trust me, that's what they were) who don't break their ankles on the cobblestones even though they are completely ripped, make me jealous. Not two days earlier, I couldn't manage to remain upright completely sober in comfortable shoes, and they are clumsily navigating the cobblestone street to get to their limo to have sex (reportedly) without falling or even seriously stumbling. Ridiculous.