"How Do You Know Erika Tuck?"

Friday.
I grab a bottle of Mike Warford's finest, and my most recent aggressively-worded t-shirt and I google map Erika Tuck's house.
Colin and I got lost on the way.
I've been heavy on not sleeping a whole lot lately, so I was wary of socializing with a bunch of strangers with astute vocabularies.
But, with Erika Tuck playing party host I figured her two-story would be a Mecca for girls in plastic-framed glasses.
My favourite kind.
I was right.
But they all wanted to talk to the skinny dude in the red and black striped sweater.
And who could blame them, really.
He seemed angsty enough.
So, I spoke to Barrett and Critch (old friends now) about teaching cats from Saudi Arabia how to speak English, and the UFC.
I was mildly disinterested.
But they seemed nice enough.
I ended up on the stoop/deck because I was boozy and smoking.
I began speaking with one Kerri Breen (with a 'K'), who chiefly edits The Muse.
I've never written for The Muse.
Though I've threatened to several times.
I threaten to do all sorts of things.
Get a job, for example.
They need a features editor.
And I haven't been procrastinating nearly as much as I'd like to, lately.
So who knows?

It wasn't until afterwards that I remembered that I'd had another drunken evening on a balcony with a Muse chiefly editor for the majority of an evening.
I forget his name. But he had hair.
And a face.
I threatened to write for him, too.
Never panned out.
My memory's fuzzy, but I don't think he was as pretty.