OK so I'm going to attempt this whole blog thing. I don't really 'get' blogs. Actually, I 'get' it, but I just don't 'get' why people would actually care to read them. I mean, There are one or two folks blogs I read, but certainly not with any regularity, its more complete boredom usually combined with some inhebriating substance that sends me on a blog reading rampage.
Which leads me to the hypocritical action on my part, of attempting to post in this blog. Its quite a catch 22. I make no guarantees of commitment to this endeavor. I think I'd probably have a better shot of keeping it up if I wanted to risk having SG show up on the network at work, but since I don't want to do that, I'll just have to leave myself a reminder outlook task at home wor something. Or perhaps put a note in my fridge by the crisper where I store my beer to tell myself to post if I'm drinking, at the computer and bored. Basically to replace my blog reading rampages with blog posting rampages.
Having said all that, I don't believe I just rambled for two paragraphs about my inner confliction about doing something as simple as posting on a blog. Maybe this blog thing won't be so hard afterall.
Now, for some sort of 'content'.
Last night I got an invite to go down to frat boy and frat slut central, the complete antithesis to who I am, the Soddom and Gommora to my already seedy exsistance, the Have A Nice Day Cafe at powerplant live. For those who don't reside in baltimore, this is one of those places where drunk co-eds dance on bars, slutting it about to anyone who played lacross and is wearing a white polo. Now, slutty girls dancing on bars is a good thing in my book, but thats if they were actually hot and could manage to answer a question without using the word "like" in a two sentence answer. So, back to my story. I got this invite to go there. Nowto any other person, but this guy, I'd laugh hysterically at them and hang up the phone. But this guy is an old college buddy of mine, great guy, always been the "niec guy" in the crew of friends, the one who fell in love in college with the wrong girl, got married in a storybook romance, then got divorced and separated a year later. I don't see him very often, and so when the rare occurance comes up that he actually wants to go out, I don't say no. Also, he had free passes and they had booze for a buck until 10. Cheap beer and no covercharge and this guy, is the only combibnation that could get me out to this place, or perhaps if some hot girl threw in the promise of sex, maybe that would get me there too. So we go out. Its "pimps and hoes" night. What a debacle. Amazingly, I had fun. Lots of it. I danced and shook my tailfeathers like I was fucking puff daddy until the wee hours of the morning. My feet ache now. This is a first. My beloeved readers who know me will take note that I don't actually dance. I never do. Mainly because I suck at it and hate the expressions my face makes when I am doing it on the rare occasion. I mean, I make worse faces than porn stars make when getting plugged or plugging. I'm downright rediculous. However, I had a blast. Didn't get nearly as drunk as my friends who were litterally falling all over themselves after a few shots, but I'm used to that. There were pretty girls trying to holla, but I declined. I think I was more in the mood to be out partying with the guys than out looking to chase tail. Which some would think that might be me showing signs of homoness, but I assure you that that is not the case. Also, I'm still kind of swooning from my rockstar once in a lifetime night of debauchery last weekend which involved sex with hot strippers in motel rooms, booze and nekky bars, but I'll get to that some other time, this is long enough as it is.
Which leads me to the hypocritical action on my part, of attempting to post in this blog. Its quite a catch 22. I make no guarantees of commitment to this endeavor. I think I'd probably have a better shot of keeping it up if I wanted to risk having SG show up on the network at work, but since I don't want to do that, I'll just have to leave myself a reminder outlook task at home wor something. Or perhaps put a note in my fridge by the crisper where I store my beer to tell myself to post if I'm drinking, at the computer and bored. Basically to replace my blog reading rampages with blog posting rampages.
Having said all that, I don't believe I just rambled for two paragraphs about my inner confliction about doing something as simple as posting on a blog. Maybe this blog thing won't be so hard afterall.
Now, for some sort of 'content'.
Last night I got an invite to go down to frat boy and frat slut central, the complete antithesis to who I am, the Soddom and Gommora to my already seedy exsistance, the Have A Nice Day Cafe at powerplant live. For those who don't reside in baltimore, this is one of those places where drunk co-eds dance on bars, slutting it about to anyone who played lacross and is wearing a white polo. Now, slutty girls dancing on bars is a good thing in my book, but thats if they were actually hot and could manage to answer a question without using the word "like" in a two sentence answer. So, back to my story. I got this invite to go there. Nowto any other person, but this guy, I'd laugh hysterically at them and hang up the phone. But this guy is an old college buddy of mine, great guy, always been the "niec guy" in the crew of friends, the one who fell in love in college with the wrong girl, got married in a storybook romance, then got divorced and separated a year later. I don't see him very often, and so when the rare occurance comes up that he actually wants to go out, I don't say no. Also, he had free passes and they had booze for a buck until 10. Cheap beer and no covercharge and this guy, is the only combibnation that could get me out to this place, or perhaps if some hot girl threw in the promise of sex, maybe that would get me there too. So we go out. Its "pimps and hoes" night. What a debacle. Amazingly, I had fun. Lots of it. I danced and shook my tailfeathers like I was fucking puff daddy until the wee hours of the morning. My feet ache now. This is a first. My beloeved readers who know me will take note that I don't actually dance. I never do. Mainly because I suck at it and hate the expressions my face makes when I am doing it on the rare occasion. I mean, I make worse faces than porn stars make when getting plugged or plugging. I'm downright rediculous. However, I had a blast. Didn't get nearly as drunk as my friends who were litterally falling all over themselves after a few shots, but I'm used to that. There were pretty girls trying to holla, but I declined. I think I was more in the mood to be out partying with the guys than out looking to chase tail. Which some would think that might be me showing signs of homoness, but I assure you that that is not the case. Also, I'm still kind of swooning from my rockstar once in a lifetime night of debauchery last weekend which involved sex with hot strippers in motel rooms, booze and nekky bars, but I'll get to that some other time, this is long enough as it is.