Why Did I Get Off The Couch?

I was happily ensconced, Zesty Ranch Doritos nestled lovingly betwixt my breasts, watching “Risky Business,” when the phone rang. It’s Saturday night, it screamed. Plans have been made. Put yer face on and get out the door. Uh, can I call in sick?

I dutifully get gussied up like the tart God intended and hit the streets. The rest of the night goes like this:

“The crazy house party” was a dirty, barely furnished 2-room apartment with 5 people, deep in discussion about which animal was their totem spirit guide: dogs, cats, or boa constrictors. Next topic for debate: which is better house-trained?

“The cool, new hipster bar” consisted of virginal nerd central. I had the pleasure of being seated next to Artie Ziff. Artie had received a healthy overdose of self-confidence thanks to the $2 PBR drafts and his recent promotion at Google, and was insistent on displaying his amorous zeal. I was insistent on displaying my wrath.

“The after hours club”: Denny’s, 1:37 AM: 2 runny eggs, 1 measly sausage, kitchen-sponge-textured flapjacks. Sadly, it was the only sausage I would be attending to that evening.

Dearest Sofa, I will never leave your side again. At least not until next weekend.

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