So we take a break from the uncomfortable sexual repartee and laughing at mister too-drunk-to-get-laid, and it was time for some pretty interesting philosophical discussion. Chicks dig philosophical tortured artists, you see. Since I speak rather fluent drunk, it would’ve been an awesome conversation of sorts on existential angst and the merits of reading grammatically-incorrect soliloquies in a darkened bathroom. The drinking group is composed of me, four bandmates, and seven women, four of which, in my beer-goggle-influenced opinion, are extremely bangable but nonetheless not the brightest bulbs in the room (our guitarist’s girlfriend is one of the smart ones. Especially if she’s reading this. And she’s a supervisor in my office. Please don’t fire me).

I don’t even have to spell it out for you: dumb hot woman + beer + monosodium glutamate = sexy time for overweight blogger with rockstar delusions.

Unfortunately, my bandmate comes out with what will be henceforth known as the stupidest question in history

“Ladies, does anyone in our group look gay?”

Of course you wouldn’t blame anyone for the awkward silence. Read the rest of this entry »