FOUR GIRLS, THREE NIGHTS, TWO DAYS.
SEVEN boys flirted with us at karaoke bar. These included Adam, the yoga instructor with thick black glasses, Diamante whose name should be Diablo, Rob from Wisconson, and Andy who had a dinosaur on his shirt.
THREE boys received phone numbers. Only one called today, inviting us to come watch the baseball game. None of us are into baseball.
TWO of those numbers were mine. ONE given to the fuck-buddy of an ex-friend. The other given to an investment banker named Brad, because he knew all the lyrics to Lauryn Hill's Doo Wop.
ZERO songs sung by anyone in my party. I did sign up for Jackson 5's I Want You Back, and Andy promised to be my backup singer/dancer, but last call was at one thirty and that song list was just too damn long.
FOUR alcoholic beverages consumed by yours truly.
ZERO said beverages purchased by me.
FIFTEEN conversations about genitalia. We firmly established that girls don't like anything in their ass, and if you're that nervous about giving a rectal exam, you're probably gay. Also: periods. Girls love to talk about periods.
FIVE episodes of Brothers & Sisters.
FOUR references to Britney Spears.
THREE naps.
TWO divorces.
ONE case of mono.
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