If I didn't dress like I had a seizure in Patricia Field's closet, I wouldn't be at home on the couch tonight

*Warning: drunk post

I was riding through downtown today when I saw this cute guy riding a black, red and white Redline (my bike too!) As I began imagining how we'd take romantic bike rides together, where we'd honeymoon and name our kids, I didn't realize he had ridden up next to me and was smiling. "Where is Broadway?" he asked and I kind of pointed and spastically gestured in some random direction. I wanted to make more conversation but then I glanced in some office windows and saw what I was wearing and it was horrible. A bright red jacket, random turquoise scarf that kept coming undone as I was riding so I had kind of made a noose around my neck, hair half-stuffed under a black cap, oversized sunglasses and socks with sunflowers. I looked like a child who had gone into Patricia Field's closet, had a seizure and walked out. Not cute.

So I rode off cursing and reminding myself to always look in the mirror before I leave the house. But then he was back! Riding behind me, smiling again. And I all I could do was make some kind of gurgling, half-whimper sound that I hoped was cute. It was not.

Goddamnit. Had I been able to speak English and dress myself properly, we might be half drunk and fondling in some eastside bar. Names aren't important; good tongue usage is.

Four percent.