Something I wrote about a date I went on earlier this summer:
I believe in aliens, now. I never really thought about it before, but it all started to make sense to me, sipping my third Manhattan, listening to D explain her experiences with the extraterrestrial. I started the night in better shape than this, tipsy and intellectually pliable, slouching on a thrift store couch underneath a giant painting of a pinball machine that someone thought was a good idea. Like paintings of pinball machines, talking about aliens on a first date is not a good idea.
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