Glue for Idiots

So.

I have this friend from Serbia.

Not Russia. Serbia.

There’s a difference, I learned.

She and I used to go out to clubs in San Francisco to drink and dance the night away.

One such night we went to a club in the City and when we walked in it was a sea of black – everyone wearing black wool coats in the San Francisco cold and fog.

I was wearing a red wool jacket.

I stood out like a sore thumb.

The red jacket had an interesting effect on the people there.

They started to approach me and compliment my jacket.

A few of the men even attempted to start conversations with me.

My friend, who was very selective in her choice of men, disagreed with the men I spoke to.

BASICALLY I WILL SPEAK TO ANYONE WHO SPEAKS TO ME.

It’s just something I’ve learned:

Never be rude.

As the night progressed, my friend became increasingly concerned over the quality of men I drew in – to put it politely, they were not dressed well enough for her tastes.

And that’s when it happened.

She nicknamed me “Glue for Idiots.”

Now I’m not saying that this isn’t true on some levels.

I think I have a very approachable demeanor that encourages men to take their shot.

All I’m saying is that I’m not going to ignore a man because he’s wearing jeans or his watch isn’t expensive enough.

Truthfully there’s nothing much sexier than a man in comfortable jeans and a t-shirt that’s a bit on the tight side who smells like freshly cut grass and deodorant stretched to it’s limit.

If that makes me glue for idiots, so be it.

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