Yesterday evening, I staggered drunkenly through two dates, the first a not-really-a-date-but-a-girl-I-knew-and-lost-touch-with-and-met-again-randomly-and-invited-out-for-drinks date, the second a part of the aforementioned (though now mainly repurposed for print) Friendster booty experiment. In short, the results:

The Friendster date was so bad as to be excruciatingly painful; I have now consequently imposed a minimum IQ requirement (and a maximum Gucci limit) on all future booty. [Further details, sadly, must be saved for the actual article.]

The first date (or non-date), however, was absolutely excellent, leaving me wishing it was more of a date date. Though, actually, it may have been more of a date date than I initially realized; at least, that’s what I started to suspect over the course of the evening. Which may have been largely due to the increasing influence of each passing drink. Either way, I was too much of a pansy to push my luck and test that theory. But I’m hoping to drag her out again, at which point, nerves steeled, my luck will definitely be pushed. [Note to the girl, who is doubtless reading this very entry: you have been forewarned.] [Meta-note regarding the previous note: yes, I am aware that using a weblog in this manner is largely akin to the middle school classic “my friend thinks your friend is cute,” about which I am wholly unrepentant. I say: whatever works.]