“Yeah, this outfit only attracts a certain kind of asshole in a place like this,” the young lady who I shared an economics class with screamed to me over the loud, throbbing pulse that some one some where must call music if it’s being played in a club. “But if I had any dignity at all, you think I’d be here in the first place, drinking this . . . ‘whatever’tini? Once you hit bottom, it’s easier to keep going down instead of reclaiming your pride. After awhile, it becomes sort of a game to see how much further you can push the line. My friends and I started a contest.”
“Are you winning?”
She paused to down the rest of her drink, wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, and eye a prospect dancing across the room. “No one wins. You don’t win with things like that.”
Well, it’s hard to argue with that logic, I told myself, and went outside to get a bacon-wrapped hotdog from the vendor on the corner.
