Lesbianism

R.B. Winters
R.B. Winters
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Every time a drunk girl gets groped, a lesbian gets her mullet. That’s how it works in the gay bar, and all lesbian arenas, I’m guessing.
Once a year a holiday comes along that boost enrollment of alcoholic’s anonymous chapters nationwide: St. Patrick’s Day. It’s one of those magical holidays that leave you feeling warm and tingly. Caution must be exercised, else you’ll be wearing that warm and tingly down the front of your shirt. This year St. Patty’s Day landed on a Tuesday, and that’s the day that my roomie and I always play.
The day started with breakfast, shopping and coffee; all very standard for a Tuesday. Next we made out way downtown to meet our new lawyer, then back on the train for dinner and drinks. For the first time, in a long time, I got turned around. We rode the train into the heart of Brooklyn, which explains why we were the only white people in sight.  Luckily, my roomie dates chocolate and I have an honorary chocolate card.
Jumping ahead to the fun: We arrived at my favorite Brooklyn dive, racing for the bar. Two beers in The Animator arrived, three beers in PETA arrived. At this point my roomie was loosened up. I know because she was letting us all play with her fun bags (I may be a lesbian after all). It wasn’t long before The Animator and PETA left us, and we were left to our own devices. It’s never smart to leave us unsupervised.
We talked to another odd couple, Candy Mountain and his lesbian sidekick. The two were a cute duo and we talked to them for the remainder of the night. As I continued to drink I wondered if perhaps my roomie would be willing to go girl for a night. She was drinking her boyfriend drama away and the girl she was talking to was cute. Then again, where would they play? My roomie and I are living in my room now that her bedroom has been consumed with mold. Not that I’m totally opposed to letting them borrow the bed for a night.
The hour of our departure arrived faster than anticipated and we made our way out of the bar. We walked with our “friends” to the train, letting them grab a cab while we headed underground. I didn’t realize how drunk my roomie was until we sat down. When she drinks, really drinks, she gets hyper. It’s like watching a kid have a pound of sugar. The train crawled to our stop and we giggled our way down the street. My roomie said good night and hopped into bed, I plopped on the couch. I texted a few friends to talk about their nights. The evening had been a hilarious spectacle and totally worth almost turning my roomie into a lesbian.

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