boom it gets louder and louder and bang it gets right out of order
Before tumbling head first into some lonely Beefeater hell last night - one in which I ended up outside of my apartment building at 2:30 in the morning, smoking a bowl with an insane stripper who is at once powerfully attracted to me but fully convinced I'm gay because I won't snort cocaine with her whenever we bump into one another, and the weird guy with the Hitler mustache she was going home to fuck - I recall babbling some semblance of this at another young woman (a lovely neurotic with a nice smile who is utterly convinced the handsome MARRIED bartender is, yes, always flirting back) who loves books - they're her life, you know, and have I ever read that Maureen O'Dowd - and approves of the Bush Administration's fiscally conservative economic policies.
I was reaching the gin and tonic event horizon at that point, so instead of trying to deconstruct her position in such a way that would make her realize just how stupid that sounded, and indeed was, but would also wean her away from the handsome MARRIED bartender, I attempted to concentrate on asking her why she hasn't ever called me.
Did it ever get this pathetic for Lewis Lapham?
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