And then she went home and drunkenly ate the rest of the leftover roast beast

My plan last night was pretty simple - find a bar, hone in on a group of sad-sack, Valentine-less girls, unleash a furious cyclone of wit and charm, go home with someone, do dirty stuff til the wee hours of the morning, come to work, schedule an STD test, the end. Seemed like a pretty fail-safe plan, right?

I ended up going out with a small group - two guys, two girls (a perfectly acceptable dynamic on most nights, an added degree of difficulty last night since no single girl is going to approach two "couples.") We bounced around to a few bars, most of which seemed to have pretty normal crowds (in my imagination, the world is a cartoon and on Valentine's Day, bars are packed to the windows with sad, desperate singles). The bars were a little emptier, but nothing too out of the ordinary. We ended up at a place called Rudyard's, and right when we walked in I was stopped by a lady at the bar. Her eyes opened wide and she put her hand on my shoulder and said (slurring, of course) "yer beautiful! You make the door look beautiful!" And her girlfriend said, "that's such a nice compliment! That's the nicest thing I've ever heard! Wow, what a great thing to hear!" Ummm...okay then. Now. I'm not one to brush off a compliment, and this was certainly an opportunity for some guaranteed lovin'. However. The woman was absolutely shit-canned, and was...well...not that attractive. First off, she was older (40-ish) and looked a little bit like one of the Whos from the Grinch movie, because her nose was little and sat really high on her face. It was weird.

A few minutes later, I was ordering another beer at the bar, and her (somewhat sober) girlfriend was trying to wrangle her into leaving (they had been kissing just prior to that. The hell?!). So the Who from Whoville turns to me and says, "do you want to come to my house?" Uhh..."maybe later. I'll throw acorns at your window to wake you up." She looked really disappointed. Really. "Oh." And then she scooped up her massive purse full of white trashy stuff (Virginia Slims!), grabbed her keys and struggled - I mean, struggled - to stand up and walk out the front door without toppling over. It was high comedy.

So I didn't meet the woman of my dreams last night. I'm okay with this. I'm just glad I didn't spend the evening at home eating a tub of Cherry Garcia and weeping softly into my couch cushions.