Bad at Sports has realized that society is doomed and is now accepting applications for it’s Ayn Randian compound in the mountains where we will build a new society cleansed of the truly icky.
This week, the Art-School Grad Student who’s sleeping around: 26, female, Upper East Side, straight, single.
1:50 a.m.: Making out with Tattoo Guy. Have bad spins. Tell him I need water and to sober up before hooking up again. He gives me a line of his own stuff.
10 a.m.: Know this is going to be one hell of week as feeling in love with Tattoo Guy, and now super-depressed. Make appointment with school shrink.
11:30 p.m.: In bathroom, I notice prescription bottle. Shouldn’t look, but who wouldn’t? Suddenly sick-feeling. Valtrex. Shit. Could I have contracted from five-minute intercourse with condom?