"I would like a beer and a sympathetic ear."

My Sunday Night

Cat: "I heard you had a hot date last night."

Me: "There was nothing hot about it."

Cat: "So is she your girl?"

I got the keen sense that she was fishing for information.

Me: "Who the fuck knows. It's undefined."

As I flirted with Cat the bartender, whom I once ran into at a lesbian bar, I realized that this was what I was missing with Holly -- a sort of reciprocation of body language, a silent confirmation that reads, I fancy you.

I gave her a genial smile.

So here I am trying to shamelessly flutter my eyelashes at Cat when a drunken asshole named Matt is doing his best to chat me up. Matt is a budding comedian who gets his material by trolling though an online message board trying to wind up the other posters. I ask him how long he's been a comedian.

Asshole Matt: "A month," he replies drunkenly.

Me: "A month?"

Asshole Matt: "No wait. I meant a year."

I'm not sure if this is a freudian slip or not.

Asshole Matt: [lists all the comedy shows he's doing this week]

Me: "I'm sorry. I'll be busy promoting my homosexual agenda."

Asshole Matt: "You're gay?!"

Matt is probably a former frat guy. He has that air about him. And his eyes are lighting up as drunkenly remembers every piece of lesbian porn he ever jerked off to. Lovely.

Asshole Matt: "I knew that. I knew that."

Me: "Sure you did."

Asshole Matt: "So I guess I'm not getting lucky tonight?"

I grabbed a salt shaker and threatened to pour it into his eyes.