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:: spy ::
 Spy was the first guy I met in a bar. He’s also the first guy I picked up at a bar. I am not like this. But I was really, really drunk. It was an Internet party at a lower east side bar. I was tagging along with a friend. She was off talking to some other people so I was “scoping”. I saw this really hot guy. (Of course, in daylight and sober he is not that hot). I started sort of following him. Then I made eye contact, smiled drunkenly, and said “hi.” It worked! He said hello and we ended up chatting. How easy is this! I rule. He was at another party there but was bored and wandered over to check out our party. It turns out he lived 2 blocks from me. We somehow ended up going home in a limo with brightly colored track lights inside driven by a guy named Serge. I was too drunk so I don’t remember how that happened. Why spy, you might ask. Spy was a private investigator. He said he doesn’t like telling people that because no one believes him. He’s right. He also said everyone asks him if he’s packing. Packing what, I asked. (I am a gun novice too). It did not occur to me to ask that. Perhaps he found that charming. The weird thing about Spy was that he would not give me his home phone number. For security reasons. I’m not kidding. But I’ve been to his house. He had a copy of the Electronic Espionage and Property Protection Act (or something) on his shelf. I guess he really is a spy. We dated for a while. He never gave me his home phone number! Just his cell. This bothered me at first, but he usually answered his cell. I wonder how long we would have to date in order for me to get his home phone number. After a few months he started blowing me off and forced me to break to up with him. I hate when guys do that.
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