Last night after work, I went out for a cocktail with my boyfriend Joe. We went to The Red Rock. We sat at the bar. I drank my usual. We chatted. I rubbed Joe’s head because he shaved it recently and it’s at that fuzzy stage that I like to pet.

Bo joined us. Joe called Corby. Corby arrived. We moved to a table. (The dumb asses at the Dead Cock removed the booths, so now it’s even boomier and more aurally uncomfortable in there than it ever was before.)

We chatted, drank, and smoked. We were all amusing as hell, as usual.

Dwight was drunk and disorderly, and spent a goodly amount of time banging his hands as hard and as loud as he could on the bar, more or less in time to the horrid rock that was blaring out of the Bose speakers hanging from the walls.

When I went to the ladies’ restroom, this was Sharpied on the door:

I know it’s foolish of me to hope that graffiti will be spelled correctly, but damn. What kind of mongoloid can buy a Sharpie, get herself to the bar, and operate a bathroom door, but can’t spell sticky?