Yesterday I had two encounters with men. Firstly, the old man crush and I went to lunch at a lovely restaurant. He was so funny, and regaled me with so many stories about his days in L.A. when he hung out with Marlon Brando, that my face literally hurt from all the laughing. He then drove me back to work. And I felt real and true affection for him as I gave him a kiss good-bye, and yet I am pissed the hell off because he is 77 years old. No matter how bang-on and hilarious the Brando imitation, this man cannot be my boyfriend. If he were 20 years younger, however? I’d still be at his condo going for Round Seven or Eight.

After work, I went to a big book launch party for a friend of mine. My best friend Trixie — yes, she’s a Trixie too, we each call the other Trixie — has been going on and on about this hot public defender whom she wanted me to meet. So smart, so funny, really cute — “You guys would be GREAT together!” Not only was the guy hideous — think Gene Simmons — but he was lecherous, and kept touching me. And worse than that? A group of us went outside to smoke a joint, and 20 minutes later he passed out at the bar. He literally fell at my feet. I looked down and his head was on my boots and he was staring up at me in confusion. It was 7 p.m., at a goddamn book launch.

A drug pussy! Jesus!!! Don’t smoke it if you can’t handle it! How embarrassing!

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