Game. Apparently I have it. And apparently this game appears at the most inconvenient of times. Something about a man wobbling on a bar stool, chain-smoking cigarettes, slurring off obscenities, and adamantly demanding that his designated driver wear a chauffeur hat, sends women into a frenzy. I'm not kidding.

The sports bar across the street from my old apartment hosted a free-pour from 8:00-10:00 and it just so happened that patrons with December birthdays, ala me, drank free. Yes, a FREE free-pour. And since I am perpetually impoverished, and like every degenerate does, I took full advantage of a handout.

After chugging down three bourbon and gingers and seven Yuenglings in under two hours, I found myself in a miserable state. I could not stand, walk, talk, or even finish the Bloody Mary I'd ordered two minutes prior to the end of the free-pour. To say the least, I was done for the night so I sent my buddy, decked in chauffeur regalia, to fetch the car. Then I felt a tap on the shoulder. "Can I hold your lighter?" At some point, oblivious to me, a tall blond had sat down beside me at the bar. I lit her cigarette and somehow, despite speaking in broken, intoxicated English, drawn out with my thick Southern twang, sparked up a conversation.

I don't like blonds, but I do like smarts. And, from what I can recall, she used the word "forte" and suddenly she didn't seem so blond anymore. But the problem with some people is that they seem to think they can find deep, meaningful conversations in a beer joint. Had she shown up an hour or two earlier when I was still capable of coherent thought, I would have been down. But I knew the current situation was doomed from the start and she was simply far too sober to see it.

"You should have come here two hours ago before the free-pour." I said, lighting a cigarette.

"There was a free-pour?" She exclaimed.

I laughed.

"Yes, that's what I'm saying. Jesus!  Look at me! How do you think I got this drunk?"

The conversation went off on an intellectual tangent from there. She was a journalism student, I think, and from what I recall, a surprisingly witty literature junky familiar with all my favorite authors. I don't remember much of the thirty-minute conversation, but I do remember how it ended.

She was trying to discuss something—-an author, a book, writing. I'm not sure. All I know is that I interrupted and said something along the lines of, "I enjoy literature too. But damn I'm too fucked up for this shit right now!" At that point, I stood up, took a step forward, stumbled, and plowed head-first into the wall. I knew the buzzer had just sounded on my game so I made my way to the door, falling into people and bumping every table along the way.