So apparently, Thursday is date night at The Dubliner. So there are no ruffians or ne'er-do-wells with whom we may consort, however innocently, or not guiltily, whatever the case may be. Stef is here with me, and we abandoned our ginormous table that we never sit at for the bar, which we always sit at, and we feel much better. Except now I'm writing and Stef is bored. Writing is a solo process. It blows that we can't write at the same time. They make sex toys with remote controls for two, but still, I blog alone. I'm sure Stef appreciates that. (Official disclaimer: we are just friends, and not in a Perez Hilton way.)
I am a mathematical genius. Took the algebra final and despite not knowing an effing thing about logarithms, I still got an 87.something, so I hit my 64 quota and have my A overall. Please hold your applause. Hey, cook me a steak. I'm all stream of consciousness right now. You would be too after 4 or 5 beers and a bunch of blinking Christmas lights. Oh my gah, Stef just outed me blogging to strangers. I blushed. I can look at vibrators for two hours today, but two dudes see me typing at a bar and I blush. My brain is so miswired. Ok, now I can't think. I better buy some shots or something. Self-consciousness ruins everything. Self-awareness is heretofore banned.
Ok. Who wants a Tuaca shot?
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