Last night at Kommencement, avivahg confirmed that these two girls were, in fact, dancing at me – it wasn’t just my imagination. Which is to say, they were sort of gradually converging on me like two driedels on a slightly concave surface. I suppose I’m flattered, and they were not uncomely but – what am I supposed to do with that? It’s not a booty club, I’m not gonna start bumping and grinding. What possible benefit do they derive from dancing near the mostly oblivious dervish that is Avdi on synthpop? I can’t smell that good after a dancing for an hour.
This is probably why I never have drinks bought for me, and very, very rarely have to fend off advances. *shakes head* I will never have a clue when it comes to the mating rituals of species Homo Sapiens. Good thing I don’t need to.
There is a difference between watching and gawking. I can’t explain it, but there is. Being watched is flattering. Being gawked at is increddibly fucking annoying. Toward the end last night I began to feel like I was surrounded by vultures, patiently waiting for me to stop moving. Look, I don’t care if you’re a normie. It takes all types. Just don’t gawk!
Note to those who go to goth clubs to pick up hot kinky codependant chicks: “Why are you so depressed” is probably not the best pickup line to use. Remarkably, I’ve heard of it being used more than once. What the hell are these guys thinking?
I want an implement of flogging/lashing/whipping/thwapping for my birthday. Don’t worry, I’ll only use it on leering creeps (see above) and those who ask nicely.