Every night is fueled with the ridiculous hope I’ll somehow meet my soul mate: a poetic, dog-loving libertarian with an appreciation for craft beer. He’d say: hey there. I think you’re beautiful. I love Asian women. I have heaps of disposable income I want to spend on you.
After Bernie Sanders is elected we would flee to Singapore and read our curious, interracial children excerpts from Atlas Shrugged.
Instead I found myself dry humping a morbidly obese Mexican woman. It was surprisingly pleasant. There was so much to hold on to.
Evidently my theatrical thrusting impressed a sad man (bearing uncanny resemblance to my high school gym teacher), who offered to buy me a drink.
He told me he hadn’t had sex with his wife for two years. Why the hell are you still together? For the sake of our three year old son. Ah. That makes sense.
On a more positive note: I did score the digits of a cute Korean college student. We were dancing innocently face to face. I remember her pale limbs flailing under the strobe lights and thinking: you would be a terrible stripper. She said we should get coffee sometime.
Does that ever really happen?
I have renewed faith in my potential as a laid-back lesbian. I just need to get over my intense aversion to other people’s vaginas.