Fucking Girls Man

I'm sick of sleeping with these insipid Manhattan debutantes. Nothing shocks them anymore. 

I drank to much to go for a ride, so I'm stuck here with my blog.  Went to a hipster club tonight.  I don't mind hipsters.  I'm willing to play a hipster as long as I don't have to grow anything gay on my face.  A girl tried to hit on me, asking for a cig.  Actually I don't know what she asked for, but I searched my jacket that I was still wearing in the fucking club cause I"m lazy and I had neither a cig nor my awesome lighter.  Then she said something about "I don't usually smoke either."  I'm pretty sure that meant she wanted to make out somehow, sometime in the future, but the best thing I could thing of to say was "Good luck [finding a cig]."  She got one from someone else and smiled at me on her way out.  After she was gone I thought of a million things I could have said to her, but I was too slow.  I think talking to girls runs in O(n) or O(n^2).  We need to get it to O(1).  Whatever the case, my damn lighter is in my hand now, and its pretty fucking awesome.  The awesomeness of my lighter may not have gotten her shirt off, but that's the way I'm going to tell it.  Fucking A.  What the hell am I writing about.  Yeah.  I'm buying a pack of smokes tomorrow, and I'm going to smoke one (because I've never had a cigarette in my life and I'm not going to try one in front of a girl like a bad 80s movie), and leave the rest in my jacket for the next time I am in a fucking hipster bar.  There are many, many reasons a girl might not want to make out with me.  Some stupid shit I say should never be one of them (long story).  Me not having a lighter/pack should also never be one of them.

Then, so, after that I realized that I should wake up and pay attention.  Saw this girl standing by herself, looking like...something about I should go dance with her.  She wasn't smoking hot like the girl who wanted to go grab a smoke, and I really didn't think I was going to do it, but for some reason I walked up to her and asked her name.  She shot me down with a drunk version of the rude hand wave that Sebastian used in cruel intentions to diss the meter maid.  It was cruel.  I tried to console myself that she was not that hot but it still burned.  I guess I got to get used to it.

If I got sad every time my code didn't compile I wouldn't be able to program for shit.

So...then I thought about Betsy, and Shea, and after realizing I was too drunk to ride I figured I'd be a nerd and write about it.  I have this fantasy where my life is so exciting that my inability to meet girls in Seattle didn't matter, but in that fantasy I'm never trapped in my apartment because of my blood alcohol content.

Oh, and there was this guy at the club...a friend of a friend...my friends told him I'm a pilot and he turned out to be a flight instructor at one of the places down at boeing field.  And we were right next to the speakers.  We had an entire club-style shouting conversation...a shoutversation, about my flight club and where I like to fly because there was no way I could explain I lost my medical certificate in a noisy club.  Stupid fucking friends; I wish no one knew I ever had a pilots license.