i recently ended up in philly during a roadtrip with friends, and brought an sc “ladies’ night”—one i hardly think the locals were prepared for. blacked out early in the evening and bull-in-a-china-shopped it for the rest of the night. wound up splitting a bottle of whiskey with a handsome acquaintance and walking hand-in-hand down the block (all the while playing a game of “try to stop me from careening into the pavement”). we sat atop some newspaper stands and i alternated between kissing him and head-butting him in the face. he took the whole thing in stride and, after a couple hours and a mild b&e, we passed out on the lawn of the presbyterian historical society. 

i came to while wandering south street, with no recollection of how i had gotten there (or, really, even broken and exited the PHS). managed to locate said dude (still sprawled like a crime scene chalk outline), who was a champ and stitched me back together with water, aspirin, and a legal place to sleep. on the whole, i deemed it a positive experience.

a few days later i was exchanging texts with him on the car ride south (one of which prompted the quote in the previous entry), and my friend brought up the fact that i incur more bodily damage during a romantic evening than anyone else she knows. 

“matt’s right about you,” she said. “your foreplay is like gary busey’s life.”