The Vault
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Refuge for the rational.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Boring Saturday Nights
I was feeling lonely, that's why I went out. I was at home reading about Mexican transvestites, and I couldn't concentrate, and I have been so hermetic, so I decided to go and be with people. It is strange that when I go out with one particular friend, we seem to draw people towards us; it never fails. Sometimes, it pays off and I have a good time, sometimes I just get frustrated and go home.
We went to the pub and there was nowhere to sit, so we left. I hadn't wanted to drink anyway, I'd wanted a coffee and that was all. So, that's what we got and we took them to a bench and watched people stumble by. A drunken homeless man came up to us and started trying to touch my friend. It scared her, so I gave him a minimalist reaction until he got bored and walked away. Another homeless man came by, told him to leave us alone, and handed him some change. I told him to have a nice night.
Some people came by and started talking to us and we ended up going somewhere to play pool. A guy that was with us kept telling me that I should go into modeling. I told him modeling was prostitution and he seemed insulted when I did because he was one. A model, that is, not a prostitute. I didn't apologize, and there was an uncomfortable silence that was surely expected to be filled by a "just kidding" or "oh, sorry". An English guy at the table kept asking me what he had to do to date a "girl like you". I told him that I wasn't interested in anything, with anyone because of recent circumstances and he told me that was perfectly respectable and then asked me where I was staying that night all in the same breath. Thirty seconds later, his friend threw up on my foot. I hobbled to the basement with one shoe off, grimacing and cringing. I spent forty minutes washing my feet and soaking my shoes in the bathroom sink as girls came in and out, offering to beat the culprit up for me and telling me they liked my hat. We left after that and got something to eat on the way home.
Once I got home, I had to write a blog entry to keep my mind off of other things and because I think the fact that someone threw up on my foot is rather funny. I still feel dirty, I need a shower. Then I think I'll go to sleep.
We went to the pub and there was nowhere to sit, so we left. I hadn't wanted to drink anyway, I'd wanted a coffee and that was all. So, that's what we got and we took them to a bench and watched people stumble by. A drunken homeless man came up to us and started trying to touch my friend. It scared her, so I gave him a minimalist reaction until he got bored and walked away. Another homeless man came by, told him to leave us alone, and handed him some change. I told him to have a nice night.
Some people came by and started talking to us and we ended up going somewhere to play pool. A guy that was with us kept telling me that I should go into modeling. I told him modeling was prostitution and he seemed insulted when I did because he was one. A model, that is, not a prostitute. I didn't apologize, and there was an uncomfortable silence that was surely expected to be filled by a "just kidding" or "oh, sorry". An English guy at the table kept asking me what he had to do to date a "girl like you". I told him that I wasn't interested in anything, with anyone because of recent circumstances and he told me that was perfectly respectable and then asked me where I was staying that night all in the same breath. Thirty seconds later, his friend threw up on my foot. I hobbled to the basement with one shoe off, grimacing and cringing. I spent forty minutes washing my feet and soaking my shoes in the bathroom sink as girls came in and out, offering to beat the culprit up for me and telling me they liked my hat. We left after that and got something to eat on the way home.
Once I got home, I had to write a blog entry to keep my mind off of other things and because I think the fact that someone threw up on my foot is rather funny. I still feel dirty, I need a shower. Then I think I'll go to sleep.
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