So many people run around bars with the idea that they MUST bring someone home to make their night complete. That’s perfectly adorable, but in my case, I neurotically strive for the opposite. I LOVE sleeping alone, not only because I have a morbid fear of intimacy, but because I can’t stand having to wake up every five minutes to make sure Mr. Stranger isn’t rifling through my pants pockets or vomiting all over the kitchen table.
Besides, lately, the choices have positively screamed “Don’t take me home!”
*First was a perfectly normal-seeming guy who, after a few hundred drinks, started planning a life together with me and obsessively repeating, “The kids will like you way more than me! What am I gonna do?”
*Then came the weirdo who, post booze-guzzling, started whimpering, “In high school, I was the editor of the yearbook. I could have done much better with it if only I’d had some guidance!” He looked like he was about to have a complete emotional collapse over this, 25 years later–and he was serious. So was I when I left him at the bar!
*And finally came the nutjob who actually did follow me home, but didn’t stay, since I wouldn’t engage in the tired psychological game he was insisting on playing–you know, “Tell me a secret you’ve never told anyone before.” Wait, here’s one: I hate taking home freaks!