I hadn't done anything self-destructive enough in a while. I mean, usually during a breakup period I create my own trauma very effectively, but this time, things were just going so well. There had been the thing where I poured boiling tea on my wrist and gave myself a second-degree burn, but somehow that wasn't bad enough.

I needed more.

So last night I had several Sparks and watched a bitchload of lesbian soap opera antics, and made the decision: time to go out and pick up a girl. So I got all kinds of dolled up, lipstick and all mind you (and we are entering a new era here: Ogma is finally getting the hang of lipstick), and went out to the gay bar down the street.

It's a Berkeley gay bar, so it is always packed. The front room has a pool table and slot machines and is full of roving lesbians in vests and cowboy hats; the back is a mirror-walled dance club featuring flashing lights and chubby fags. I made my way into the smoking lounge, and invited myself to sit down next to a couple of girls who instantly engaged me in a conversation about theology.

The pickings were slim: all the girls there appeared to be either 55 and overweight, or taken. So I decided just to enjoy myself, and ordered another drink.

Long story short? I ended up with the only straight guy in the bar (hot, yes, very, thank you), we went back to his place, he couldn't keep it up and kept asking if we could do it without a condom "just for a second". So I left and went home, kicking myself the whole way.

But at least I did something properly self-destructive. Now I can be comfortable being angry with myself...

Okay, anyway I have to go now, my lizard brain keeps saying "eggs".

today I read
cantplay and
a gay history of berkeley