Devil in my life

I went out with Sex Bomb last night. It was…interesting.

We got terrifically drunk at a big concert surrounded by 16000 of the smartest people in Los Angeles. Two of her friends crashed the row in front of us. One was good and one was bad. Whatever.

Sex Bomb and I ended up going to score some blow after the show. It was hilarious because her connection turned out to be a guy I know pretty well, but had no idea messed with the powder.

It was ok stuff. We got lit up and hit a club.

That’s where it got interesting. Sort of.

She’s got some major issues, that one. I mean, so do I—it’s why we get on so well.

But she has this block or something. I can’t explain it. It’s kind of a classic case of I Want The One That I Can’t Have And It’s Driving Me Mad. But with a side of self-loathing much greater that someone as hot as her should ever have.

Am I just mad that she didn’t sleep with me? No. I had a tiny window as she was dropping me off, but due to the fuckery at the club felt it was best to call it a fucking wrap.

Of course we played coked-up text games for the next hour until I finally passed out.

Now, under the harsh light of day, I sit and wonder.

What’s it all about, Alfie?

You’re not happy with the ex, you’re out of sorts with the Sex Bomb, you’re bound to be disappointed by Big Love when you go back to (redacted) next month. WTF, as the kids like to say.