I'm used to friends (or more frequently, guys I go on dates with) asking me when they'll have a blog post.Trust me, when you do something worth writing about, you'll be written about. I mean, that's the New York Times motto, right? Just kidding, they'll write about anything.
So will I.
"Why am I not in your blog?" Hey man, this is probably a situation where no news is good news for you. Of course, there are those moments where I have a serious lapse of judgement and think, "You're right, I should write about you," and then I end up cradling a giant plate of chicken nuggets that are still cold in the center because I just couldn't wait for the empty comfort of breaded white meat and BBQ sauce.
WHY IS THIS BBQ SAUCE SO SPICY?! Damn you, KRAFT.
So I decided to get drinks with a boy I used to date, and then I decided to buy him drinks because his CitiBike wouldn't work and he lost $60 and he lives in Brooklyn and what a sad existence.
It's true what they say. Martinis are like boobs. But I hate boobs, so martinis are like testicles.
One is like "OK. No big. We can do this", two is like "No surprise there", and three is like, "Please let me stop crying into this bowl of popcorn and M&Ms".
Seriously, they will give you free popcorn and M&Ms at Stonewall, and it was so good, I think we know what started the riots.
Pretty sure it's safe to say that this gentleman will remain a "guy I used to date". Whose fault that is, we're still not sure. I'm going to blame Max the bartender for given me that third martini and extra M&Ms.
Should've known better, Max. Should've known better.
I mixed the BBQ sauce with mustard and it's not so bad anymore,
TJB: Making It
NOTE: To be fair, the subject of this post told me that reading my blog is like seeing a crying clown. I really liked the analogy.
