I Ain’t A Playa, I Just Crush A Lot!

So this past weekend I went out with my fellow research lab members. We got dinner at a restaurant that claims to specialize in traditional Wisconsin fare; which means there was a lot of beer, cheese, and beef. Needless to say I was in heaven. I guess I should confess that I am an FKS or for those not in the know, a former fat kid. Now I want to emphasis the former part because it is an important distinction not only for my psyche but also because former fat kids still can eat like they shop in the husky section of the department store. I packed that pepperjack cheeseburger with bacon in like it ain’t no thang. We all got drinks with our meals and I can honestly say that I will miss all the different beers they make here in Wisconsin.

I should give the breakdown of who makes up my lab. There are ten people in all but only five of us are worth knowing about. The five are Kyle, Jordan, Vika, MadJ and myself. We all head over to a coffee shop and wine bar that Kyle used to work at and we sit down to have a few drinks. The girls decide to head home, which they usually do and the rest of us, including Kyle’s boyfriend Josh decide to head to the bars. If you haven’t already guessed, all us guys are gay so we headed to Shamrock’s, Madison’s premier gay bar.

We are all having a great time, talking to each other and people we know. I notice this short guy, which means something since I am 5’8”, who has a mad ‘fro and major meth face. He keeps staring at me as he walks by and I am getting majorly creeped out. Kyle offers to pretend to be my boyfriend and I have never been more grateful in my entire life. Why do I always get the winners? So they announce last call and we all start to get ready to leave. I am leaning against the wall facing the bar and I notice this guy looking at me. I, in my usual fashion, keep averting my eyes because when I am drunk I assume that the guy thinks I am staring at him and that he is weirded out. So this continues for a while until he waves me over. We start to talk and he ends up asking for my number, which was pretty bomb since he didn’t look like an addict with a horrible hairstyle.

I’ll let you know how that turns out.

Artist: Panic At the Disco