Over spring break, I drank at John’s house every night until Thursday. On Thursday Woody suggested we drink at the bars in downtown Long Beach, and I offered no protest.
Hours later, while Woody sat passed out, face down at a table in Dubliner’s Irish Pub, John and I scrutinized a nearby hipster.
“You don’t understand, John. That’s exactly my type. The dark-framed glasses; the no-nonsense bangs; the cherry-red lipstick; the heels; the arm tattoos; the leg tattoos; the skirt. Oh god, that skirt. On a related note, holy fuck, am I drunk, or is that is a nice pair of legs?”
“Yes to both of those, man.”
“Like, if she and I were to ever have sex, upon climax, the semen would stream out of me for hours and hours until finally there was nothing left of me.”
“I get the idea. Thanks for the visual. But what do you make of the unceasing swarm of dudes around her?”
“It does kind of take me back to a dark, lonely, miserable place. Remind me, what was that called?”
“Prom.”
“Right. I don’t think I like her so much any more.”
