wine and cheap perfume

I've decided that it's time to get a 9 to 5. I've been living in my new apartment for almost a month now, and it still has no furniture in it. It's not fashionably stark, it's like, empty, aside from a second-hand butcher block and a futon mattress. The reason? I can't afford to furnish it. I keep trying to romanticize my jobs, my schedule, and the fact that I have tons of time "to write." Translation: to sleep, cry, and consume a great deal of pizza. On Saturday night I was so not in the mood to work. The bar was slammed and these three guys in earrings, ass-tight jeans and tank tops ordered three "jack and diets." So, playing the role of the friendly, intuitive bartender, I handed them their drinks and hollered over the roar of the crowd, "HAPPY PRIDE, GUYS!" The bar fell quiet for a second and the three dudes exchanged looks of disgust and then one of them says, "What's THAT supposed to mean?" I stood there with a weird smile on my face, not knowing what to say or do, and then awkwardly volunteered, "I meant, have a nice...evening- tonight!!!" Then I promptly ran to the other end of the bar to escape their pseudo-hetero wrath. On Sunday night, I ran an extremely gay special: ten shots for $6, each shot being a different color of the rainbow for Pride. All these beefy frat boys in white visors and cargo shorts kept sauntering into the bar being all, "We want the shot special!!" So I'd make them the shot special, and then they'd stare in horror at the red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple shots lined up before them. Then they'd pound the shots in like four seconds and run out of the bar like bats out of hell. Towards the end of the night, a little dreadlocked dyke told me that I had a huge ass. I was all, "Thanks. Thanks for that. That's not a very nice thing to say." To which she casually responded, "No, I mean, it's huge. I just noticed." I was all, "Yeah, THANKS. I got it the first time." What's more, the Ved situation is getting worse and worse. I was reading him this monologue the other day and one of the lines read something like, "Please, call to me through the mossy wood!" Ved interrupted me to ask, "Katie, dear, do you think that 'mossy wood' is a metaphor for female genitalia?" I was like, "No," and kept reading. It's like, way to dig, Ved. What will it take for you to come to terms with the fact that I have no interest in sleeping with you? Miriam asked me a couple weeks ago if he's trying to play the sensual-blind-author card, and that's exactly it. There is nothing sensual about a crusty blind elitist with no tact and alarmingly good posture. Nothing.