Bombed Out

You know how you can tell when someone goes out of their way NOT to look at you as they're passing by? And you KNOW she's going the extra mile, because her head is slightly turned away, she's unnaturally zoned in on something straight ahead and her pacing escalates just a bit. Yeah, she's a friend of a girl whom I'd had a bit of a falling out with. So I don't know whether this friend hates me too. In fact, I think she reads this blog... Anyhow, if you're reading this, you know who you are. The next time we cross paths on campus, at least somewhat acknowledge me. Or at the very least, don't make your displeasure so obvious... :P

Totally unrelated, but is it just me or is The Bomber starting to suck. Last night James, Kandan, his two Singapore buddies, me, Colin and Amanda get in line at 11:45. Ended up staying in line for an hour. How does that happen? Used to be that if you got there past midnight, you were guaranteed an instant in. Worse, total sausage-fest inside - or at least, outside the dance floor. At least it was fun trading homoerotic jokes with accounting boy Alex.

And what's the deal with all these brown guys? Brown guys fuck it over for everyone - anytime there are a lot of brown people at a club, you know the girl-guy ratio's gonna suck. What happened to the old days when Bomber Wednesdays used to be all-white? The Asians have taken over Fed Hall... are brown people claiming The Bomber? (Well, the name suits.)

And brown girls suck - they don't drink, they're stuck up, and they're extremely cold towards approaches from randoms (unless you're a friend of a third cousin or something). What's the point if all you're going to do is sit down and scowl and have this pretentious aura of superiority about you? Like Saturday: - "Hey do you guys want to hear a fun fact?" "No." "Well the fun fact is you're boring."

So James is buying us all rounds of jagerbombs. I'm preparing to down one, when the bartender taps me on the shoulder and tells me "don't go nowhere". He gets me a second shot. I look across the bar and this portly brown dude in a tan tweed blazer raises his cup. I'm like who is this guy... then slowly it dawns on me. Taban! lol. Funny telling Amanda "Hey, some random dude just bought me a drink. I think he's trying to get me drunk!" Reminds me of the time a couple years back when I was (illegally) at a Connecticut pub, fresh off actuarial exam celebrations. A New York City cop calls over his buddy, points to me, and says, "Hey, it's M. Night Shyamalan." Later NYPD buys me and all my colleagues two rounds of shots.