4 AM is not time for breakfast

It's Saturday. I'm at work (doing nothing as usual) and researching accelerated BSN programs. I think Penn's my top choice, but the West coast is appealing. Mo and I intend on moving to Denver after the school year ends, and UC Denver seems to have a great program. I'm taking my prequisites at Mercy this summer. It's not too far from my house. I may or may not invest in a bike.

Last night was interesting. The whole gang (including the brothers Jordan) went out to LES. I had the usual: two light beers from tap, appropriately adorned with lemon wedges. Upon Beth's arrival, we walked over to a gay bar called 40C, located at 40 Ave C (creative, huh?). Along the trek, Beth and Karimah, unhappy with her pedal situation, exchanged shoes. Beth had to urinate, throwing Karimah into a fret. "You peed on my shoes?!" was the question of the hour. There are a handful of NYC restaurants/lounges named after cross streets and addresses. One and One is another example. Anyways, 40C sucked. There was no one present, and I'm fairly certain that the dancer who intrigued Tyler had a penis.

We then found ourselves at Urge, a bar for homosexuals who dig muscular latino dancers. Everytime I awkwardly bypass the couches at the entryway, I recall my epic make-out session with some rando that I met during a night out with Gary. What a memorable experience! Prior to that night, I hadn't hooked up with anyone ever since my hellish STD scare. I wouldn't have gotten out of those torturous two weeks without my friends, parents, and Dr. D. Now an inner voice repeats the word "consequences" when I'm faced with an important decision. To continue, Gary offered me a whole dollar to place in the underwear of the dancer entertaining me atop the bar. No consequences there. My dainty finger grazed his other head, causing him to stare at me seductively. I turned away. Alex, Beth, and Karimah appeared after 10 min. The girls retreated to an area away from the bar front, talking, I assume, about tampons, shoes, and sideburns (Aren't those the three pillars of female conversation?). Alex almost pushed my face into another dancer's hard-on. I wasn't too pleased. Nearly an hour passed before we left. Gary, Alex, and I were left to fend for ourselves at the Boiler Room. Nothing great happened. Gary and Alex dug the bartender. I was none-too-impressed. I look for idiosyncrasies (like shorts and Birkenstocks) in potential mates. We stayed til closing, which, in NYC, is 4 AM. I was pooped.