Sunday, February 9, 2014

The Conversation

A rainy San Francisco Saturday night, a few cocktails too many, and you have a blurry escapade with way too many exclamation marks. Accompanied by my good friend Marianna, we floated from the safe haven of nacho goodness at Fly Bar to the dangerous hallows of The Cinch (obviously sarcastic if you have ever been there).

My goal that night was to secure a pool table so i can further improve my skills of hitting balls into tiny holes. The Cinch is my go-to place whenever I have friends visiting or if i'm too lazy to venture to the Castro. This iconic gay-friendly dive bar has left me many nights with happy memories.

This night was especially interesting. I have always considered the act of "picking up someone" at bar as a superfluous scenario that only exists in Sex and the City.

Oh that Samantha.

There was a strung out visitor that was sitting to the right of us rocking out to his Beats earphones. My first thought was he must be on a good one to be so bold at a bar. The though directly after was how much I missed my raving days. PLUR.

Upon our third Cosmo, a gentleman man with a distinct taste level (and smell) approached the said tweaked out free-spirit and picked him up with a line and poorly strung sinker.

I kept asking myself if this was really happening. Maybe I had watched too many episodes of SATC and my last Cosmo made me too intoxicated to see reality.

Regardless, maybe that was what they both wanted; a good one night stand and another tick mark on their agendas.

At that point, I picked up my A.L.C track jacket and we sashay'ed to the wait line for our pool game.

Point of this entry? No point.

Welcome to Senseless Sundays. 


Remember to have a plate of fashion, scrambled with a a side of Savvy!

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