You were the beautiful blonde in the bar. I was the lonely brunet boy whose friends made you start talking to me. We only spoke for two hours, but that conversation and its emasculating circumstances changed my life. You listened to every word I said, and your responses ranged from deeply insightful to hilarious. Meanwhile, I utterly failed to realize that talking was low on your list of priorities that night. I talked about my hopes, my dreams, my fears, and you talked to some other guy, telling him I was your boyfriend. I talked to that guy about what a free spirit you were while you kissed his enormous buddy. You told me you didn't come to bars looking for intelligent conversation, and I thought you meant you were pleased to find one. Then, when some guy started grinding you from behind as the bar closed, you gently stroked my hand and said, "Sorry, honey—too little, too late." At first I was outraged that you would run roughshod over my emotions, but I came to realize that you had been honest, attentive and straightforward, while I was criminally oblivious. Instead of telling you the simple truth—that I wanted to take you home—I beat around the bush until someone took the bush away. But you could have just walked away or ignored me, and for that I thank you. I now understand the impotence of my frail attempts to score, as well as the realities of the drunken human condition. It's the same old world, but I'm a brave new man.
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