Some friends of my friends threw a party last night. We all went shopping to buy party supplies, and I supplied two boxes of beer. Ready for a good party time.
So we turn up at 8pm, after having gone to the gym and gotten ready or whatever. By 8.30pm I’m halfway through my first beer, and gabbling away nine to the dozen when the party hasn’t even started.
By 10pm, and three bottles of San Miguel later, when everyone else finally arrives I’m well past drunk and into the “where am I” befuddled, confused and slightly melancholy phase of drinking – the “sitting by the stairs” phase of the party. By 11pm, I’ve crept out of the party with my original companions, and gone home.
Indulging one of those bizarre fantasies (the same kind whereby you kill yourself and imagine every ex-lover or enemy sobbing at your funeral), I idlely wonder how long it takes for anyone to notice I’ve left the party. It takes about an hour before anyone notices, and even then she’s far more concerned about why H left the party.
So the evening ends with me listening to my female friends going on about their boyfriends/non-boyfriends, and them telling me what a “nice guy” I am. which is pretty much the kiss of death for my non-existent sex life. Bah. I need to stop being the nice guy and be the nasty one, so I actually get a girlfriend.
But that presumably means increasing my alcohol tolerance level so I am still standing after three beers. Which means drinking more. which makes me fatter, and renders me even less physically attractive to women (if that were humanely possible). AARGGHHH!
Mind you, not hanging around lesbians might help!