I hope your boy texts you a wry one-liner the next morning, one that makes you laugh out loud, and feel good, really good about being young and alive and wanted and vibrant.
I wish you all these things, knowing that there is a more than 90% chance that you will completely strike out tonight. You, an average looking guy, will be treated like shit by the doormen on South Beach, and spend exorbitant amounts of money for cover and $16 drinks - swill that tastes like turpentine, really - and slowly gather up the courage to talk to a group of girls, only to have them completely shun you, and you look down and it's 3:00am and you're shoveling Pizza Rustica down your throat while drunk texting your ex-girlfriend, when you know she said to NEVER. TEXT. HER. AGAIN. PERIOD.
That must suck. So, you know what? I'm on your side tonight. Sending some hope and positivity your way. You're 22 and grasping at anything which hints at the multicolored life which they told you you were meant to live. Maybe tonight, your new striped shirt will work. Good luck.
