The last sane bloke in Chicago

My proclivity to accept "getting beers": a euphemism

So Liz, my beer buddy that I met on Craigslist, sent me an email last night that I will post here, with permission. I would prefer to type [sic] after every sentence, but I will refrain:

hey dude, its spring and we havent spent more than 15 minutes together since we ran into each other this week at that bar. how about we get together saturday night closer to me and we do some real drinking and maybe make fun of the hipsters like you promised? im free, the boyfriend is out for the weekend fishing or hunting or something and im kinda bored with my friends. maybe 9 or so?

I contemplated it all morning and shot back my reply. "Ok. Get dolled up."

It's not that I'm not really interested in spending time with her, honestly kicking back Scotch on the rocks, but I'm fearful of the new chance at developing a fuck buddy relationship, when we both agreed it wasn't a good idea.

Liz is really cute. 27, which is a good age for me. She's fun, and we do have a lot in common. The sex is amazing, and from what I gather it's great for her, too. I've said it before: I like to have regular sex with a woman who has a great boyfriend who is just boring in bed. Some guys can never learn. Liz would be an obvious choice, except for the fact that she's comtemplating moving in with her beau. That's a good choice, he sounds well-rounded and probably is an excellent provider.

So I'll meet her for drinks, for sure. If she's dolled up, which I hope she is, I can always use her as bait to catch the eye of another pretty girl in the same pub. Should that happen, I'm sure she'll be a good wingman. If I meet a pretty girl in a bar, I'm the kind of guy to go up, say hi, chat for 35 seconds and get her number. It won't take from our drinking and poking fun at badly-dressed scenesters that seem to creep into every village and region of Chicago.

The only problem is that I can really use a night of sweaty banging. It's been awhile, and I think it's the right time for sex. It's raining, and there's nothing better than a good rain to knock the power out while I spill my seed multiple times in a humid bedroom. But Liz is out of the question. If I have to fight the urge, I will. She's too much fun to ruin over a just-sex relationship, and she's too involved to be more than a beer buddy.

It's sad that Celine is dating Paulo still, because she's more of a natural meld for that sort of relationship. But, alas, she's definitely sticking to Paulo for the long haul; he has everything a woman can want and is faithful, to boot.

Maybe tonight will just be a night of drinking with a pal and a cab ride home. If so, it's OK. I'm not going to actively look for sex, just like I don't actively look for love. I think the meter is ticking at 5 months, though, but the worst thing I can do is find another used whore in another hipster bar to try to hook up with a few weeks from now.

That settles it: I'm going grocery shopping tomorrow. Whole Foods is, and will continue to be, the best store of under-estrogened women with too much testosterone. It's too bad that store is anti-Splenda, or I'd be there much more often. Here's to xylitol consumption, at least.

And Bea Arthur is dead. That's sad.