Talking With Myself

A little self-dialogue, auto-colloquy, schizophrenia, what-you-will, that's bouncing around in the attic today:

Q: Why is it that, when bar hopping, I ALWAYS (OK, not always, just once, last night) end up flirting with the model-hot girls on my way out the door, as my friends are sidewalk lounging, waiting impatiently?

A: Because I'm drunk by that point, and after two pitchers, all the girls I flirt with look model-hot.

Gotcha. Thanks for clearing that up.

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