After the movie, after having my knee consistently patted upon throughout it, he goes off to meet up with some 34-year-old conchèt recalcitránt (the worst, most fierce kind, if you ask me) at Milion.
Before that, sharing a cab, I engaged myself into a discussion, arguing that girls my age are alone because boys his age are fooling around with divorced rejected on-the-rebound-match bitches. To prove my point, I asked the driver if he agreed with my bullet proof perspective.
He turned out to be a 44-year-old, nightclub owner, Black Sabbath fan, dating "una pendeja de 29 riquísima" who gave me his cell number and the URL to his rock website. What are the odds?
Fading to black, slowly, ten seconds before the final credits, my "companion" establishes: "I don't really care how this night ends. It has already peaked, I don't think it gets much better than this".

I'm (such/just) a lame excuse not to get laid.


7-Up Diet: he fucked her good. No second dates on the horizon.
Tonight's song: Mr Cab Driver - Lenny Kravitz. Best served with: learning to prove my point all by myself.