so, I lived through it...

and my car didn't even get stolen! It was towed, for whatever fucking reason. I toiled long and hard to find a legit parking spot, and actually found myself parked right by the park where I lost my virginity! Surely a good omen, I though.

Neigh, my friends. Neigh.

I walked WAY the fuck down Hastings, in what was surely an ill-advised attempt to see what sorts of marijuanic resources Vancouver had to offer. I wanted to smoke a j so bad I could taste it. I ended up wandering into some kind of crazy homeless warzone, conveniently located next to lots of trashy country-themed bars and stores that seemed to have been closed so long it seemed hard to imagine them ever being open.

I started getting so sketched out, I fled as subtly as my fear would allow.

After lots of walking and sweating (I had so hoped V-town would be cooler, another disappointment) I finally made my way back to my car. Or where I thought my car was. I had a flashback to four or five years ago, in Vancouver with the family. My dad's car was broken in to and his golf clubs stolen. The police said that lots of American license-plated cars were vulnerable to vandalism. I thought for sure it had been stolen.

I managed to not freak out, believe it or no. I was loathe to call the folks, but I felt like I had to because I am quite the young fool and I had totally forgotten my license plate number. They didn't have it either, so I panicked them all for naught. However, the police were quite helpful and I was able to locate the car with some ease.

The towing place was under the bridge beneath Granville (one of the main downtown-y thoroughfares in Vancouver) and as I looked around it, passing by under-the-bridge-dwellers, smoking their drugs, I realized something. This is pretty much exactly where I had me my first taste of the sex! I was so drunk (back then, not to say I wasn't drunk later), exact geographic pinpointing was not even slightly an option.

So I got my car, the towing fee was surprisingly cheap ($30ish American) and all was well.

I almost wanted to leave then and there, but I was too alarmed at the thought of just leaving after that much driving, and without a taste of the local nightlife.

So I went to Celebrities, this club that seems to have sprung up pretty recently that was actually quite the hotspot. Three or four beers in, I get the oldest trick in the "How to Get Your Homely Friends Laid" book. The bait and switch! I should have known. I was at the bar and some scorchingly hot young man asked me if I was single.

"Um, uh, yeah," I said succinctly.

"Go talk to my friend!" he said. "He's totally sweet and very single."

The friend was homely, I admit - but after a year-plus celibacy and three beers, it becomes easier to blur 'homely' and 'fuckable.' SO I went over.

Yikes. This guy was a moron. He was a DIAMOND MINER, and had he not been so lame, I would have believed he was pulling my leg (after having missed my dick). We made small talk for what felt like an inhumanly long time, so long that his dumb ass repeated about half of the lame questions he shot at me.

I am so bad at rejecting people. Probably because I'm so shocked by a come-on, I usually sleep with the people who hit on me, regardless of how attractive I find them (usually, they're pretty fucking foxy). I finally dreamt up some story about a tragic breakup on about my eighth beer, and how fucked up I was by it, etc. IN a way, it's true. I'm breaking up with the idea, more and more each day, of finding love.

So the diamond miner stopped following me (AT LAST!) and I dissolved into the night air to grab some drunchies food, returning not long after to come close out my tab.

It took my still kind of drunk ass about three hours to get home, but I made it home to kiss the pre-dawn of five a.m.

The last time I saw that late an hour, I was obsessively finishing Game of Thrones.

Honestly. I almost wish I hadn't gone, so I could have spent the whole day wrapped around A Clash of Kings. But adventure is adventure.