Dear Featherweight,
You're a photographer. Cool. You're Australian. Cool. You are a handsy drunk after three drinks. Not so cool.
My turn.
We meet up in the East Village. Get drinks and dinner and I don't remember going home. Boring.
Fast forward.
You meet up with two of my friends and I who are hell bent on partying on Thanksgiving. Yes, Thanksgiving. Don't judge. I assume you have friends with you, but nope. We go to a bar and after being accosted by every man in there you let me dance with the girls and creepily watch from a table. Not watch, but STARE.
We decide to call it a night at 3:30 at Le Baron, stumble around Chinatown alley's for a bit until I insist on us going home. You leaving the next morning did not happen fast enough. I'm not that lonely.
Not too much else to say, because you are just odd and too much into commenting on my looks, but good luck. You won't be seeing this "fit" girl again.
xoxo,
BWinTBC
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