amanda dragged me out drinking last night. well, not dragged, exactly. she asked if i would accompany her to a bar to meet a friend of hers from work and his friend (i’m the single, rowdy girlfriend that my girls are like, “i can’t go alone. will you go with me?” and i do.)

the rub was that we had to go to PB. *shudder*

neither of us were fans of PB. however, from the first bar we walked into, with a beefy doorman reading a novel, to the late-night ride home, it was a success.

one of the bars that we went to had “go postal” night.

everyone was issued a number on the way in that they were to wear around, business mixer-style. if you liked someone that you saw (and you happen to be devoid of any social skills and are incapable of starting a conversation with a stranger on your own), you would scope out their number, and proceed to the number board at the front of the bar. you’d put their number on a notecard, followed by whatever message you wanted to relay. it would then be placed in a small envelope with their number on the outside and hung up on the board for the recipient to claim.

i thought this idea was super gay. until i had a few cocktails and decided to leave a note for some guy gently explaining that turning up your collar was no longer in fashion, and he was never going to get laid down the road he was currently on (leave it to me to use the system for alternate purposes.) the game got infinitely more amusing proportionate to alcohol consumption.

fun was had by all, i think. i’m almost considering going back to PB, which clearly means that i’m either suffering from dementia or still drunk. either is possible.