“Hey! Steve is that you?” says the girl from the corner. “Oh my god, no way. Sarah?” you hypothetically say. You then address the drunk slut bag who has to pee, “I am sorry to cut our convo short but I just ran into an old friend who I thought was dead, thanks for the interesting topics though.” The woman, who is sufficiently pink not from her alcoholism but from her superhuman ability to hold her piss, leaves. “Oh my fucking Christ, thank you so much for getting me out of that slut trap of a conversation.” The new woman, dark and artsy and wildly beautiful, tells you not to worry about it. “I am Michael.” “Camille.” ( The thing about this whole situation is that it, without fail, happens every time. It just so happens that you have been eying Camille the entire night, from the moment you walked into the bar, but you knew her type. She is the hard to get type. The type that comes to a bar and doesn’t really want to meet anyone, the impenetrable vagina shield. She is a type B bar goer. She looks for people to play the indie game with, people who can humor her sarcasm and pretentiousness but more accurately can fall victim to it. She seeks out the frat boys and the drunk engineers only for the sake of playing games with them. She drinks slowly and with class, making sure that she is always a few notches more sober than the idiot courting her.) Like an optical illusion, when you thought nothing could get worse than a conversation about human excretion and all hope lost, the girl comes to you. A savior, (from a night of watching cartoons and eating dry cereal) the most self confident, least neurotic, and strikingly intellectual woman in the bar has decided to talk to you.

The amazing thing about this is the difference between type A and B men versus type A and B women. The type A man is easy to place. This guy is the overly confident jerk. He has one goal in a bar and that is find the one he will court and take her home for a one night fling. What society doesn’t tell you, and what type A male bar goers figure out during the lowest point of their alcoholic future, is that this sort of thing is extremely hollow and might create awesome stories to tell to their other type A jerk friends but will ultimately end in an STD or regular visits with a parole officer. Type A women really enjoy humoring the type A guys, but genuinely so. The type A female bar goer is an embarrassment to all woman. She is desperate, she has no self confidence, she probably wears too much makeup and too much perfume and not enough clothes, she is easy. For a type A woman the goal is objective enough, get laid. Bars are a wildly unfortunate place in this regard.

What lies just under the surface of this AA universe of fantastical bullshit is where bars get really interesting, and probably the only reason they are worth writing about. The type B person goes into a bar as a skeptic. They hate bars but maybe they had been dragged there by their friends or something like that. Type B people are in no way entertained by the superficial “show” that goes on between the A’s and the A’s, and occasionally the A’s. Type B puts up the wall, sticks to a very specific area of the bar and is usually consumed with themselves. You are a type B. Characteristic of most type B’s, you came to the bar with the intention of being a type A but that dream sure as shit died as soon as the door swung open. Your friends are too A-like for you to even try to be like them, the sad truth is that you were brought in to be that comparative loser to make your loser friends look cooler.

So the type B bar goers tend to accept the fact that they are in a type A bar goer’s universe and that always ends with getting trapped by type A women with bladders of steal. The type B women just laugh at the type A men that try and trap them, unless of course their type A friends are retarded, which happens, and they get trapped by type A men who’s fingers stick to the small of backs like electromagnets. So the type B boys and girls just lose any hope of enjoying the night unless they can just swim in the sarcasm of their selves, which is what you did. You shut out the type A universe, just as Camille, and started swimming in the fantastic world of sarcasm. It just so happens that skinny dipping is more fun with two people.

“What in the hell was that woman talking about?”

“To be honest I only caught bits and pieces of what she was actually saying because her tits were totally about to fall out, but she kept complaining about the line at the women’s restroom.”

“That line is quite unbearable. I think some girl is really sick in there and all her equally plastered friends are trying to help, quite a disaster.”

“Story of her life I am sure.”

“It’s not like she will remember it.”

“True”.

“So what’s the score”.

“The score?”

“Of the game idiot”.

“Oh, you know I have no idea”.

“That’s what I thought. Why are you even in a bar like this? You are easily the smallest guy in here”.

“I will try to see that as a compliment. You see the broken chair just outside?”

“Yeah”.

“My friends 21st”.

“Are you with those guys that spilled four pitchers back over the bar a little while ago?”

“If I said yes would you still hate me?”

“Of course”.

“Then yes.”

“Okay then. I can see then why you are alone, not enough cheap beer.”

“I would never, haha. How about you? Why are you here?”

“Well that’s because I am ugly and desperate of course”.

“Oh, duh. I could obviously tell by the fact that you are wearing more makeup and more perfume than any one in here.”

“I actually don’t wear mak…Oh. Haha”

Being a type B bar goer has it’s perks. There are many more complicated cultural dimensions of a bar but going into them now would be impossible. You have met Camille, and completely forgot about the type A universe that you have been forced into. You are not seeing the surface anymore. You are looking through the photograph of the bar scene and quickly, experientially, a new image has arisen.

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On a train from downtown San Jose to San Francisco these idle thoughts swim from ear to ear. You are going to pick up some sensitive documents ensuring your escape from this weird culture is realized. Despite having been raised as a northern Californian nutcase you still find escape to be the only sensible thing to do considering your unabashed goal to leave this place behind in the dust cloud of psychological progress. You momentarily laugh at the picture that was chosen for your Japanese visa but suppress the giggling for a rush of adrenaline as you realize this is it. This is validation of your escape. You are leaving. You finally can exchange the weirdness of California, inherently in your blood, for a culture that is probably just as bizarre to the lay American man. You are utterly speechless as incredible motivation and feelings of hope flood your bodily systems to the point of cardiac arrest. You stab yourself in the leg with a PDA stylus just to verify you are alive and barbarically scream, “I hath risen!” The man on the train, who you just stole a stylus from, looks at you in complete paralytic shock as you return to him an essential component of his ancient organizational device.

Slowly moving away from that guy who now looks like he would like to take another stab at you with the same apparatus, you sit next to some kid a few rows back. He asks you if this train is bound for San Jose and you look at him blankly to say “yes”, the man a few rows up looking back with a slight look of fright as you beam him with the crazy eye. He quickly slips back into position staring at a bald man’s head in the seat in front of him, periodically rotating his head and craning his neck to look at you. The kid you are sitting next to is now in another world, the world where small creatures you have captured fight other small creatures for experience points. Entranced by the full-color back lit screen, you and him both get excited at the sight of a wild [insert fictional animal name]. Once he captures [insert fictional animal name] you prompt high-five position only to be left with an arm in the air, saluting a fictional dictator. You awkwardly move another few rows back through the train and take a seat away from other passengers.

Having your own disturbingly weird personality rejected now by two individuals you decide to just keep to yourself for the remainder of the trip when a strikingly and ridiculously beautiful Asian woman sits next to you. You try not to make eye contact even though she is looking right at you. The train enters a tunnel and you see her gaze against the reflection in the window to your right as the cabin lights create a distorted mirror of the surface. Slowly you turn your head upright to investigate her curious eyes and before you can snap, “what!?”, even though you thought it, she says, “Hi”. Speechless, you attempt to respond but you only can muster the ability to mouth the word, “Hello”. She asks, “I’m Miko. What is your name?” You quickly trip into your own name, “Michael”. “Nice to meet you”, she replies as if the conversation was to end there. You start into a cold sweat and the next twenty minutes go by drudgingly slow in such a disgustingly peculiar stream of consciousness that you become sick to your stomach.

What in the hell was that? What person randomly says hello and abandons the conversation? What random person starts a conversation on public transit in this area? This area is usually full of neurotic and self-diagnosed Silicon Valley-an psychopaths, I should know, I am clearly one of them. The mere fact that I am having this silent conversation with myself about this fact is only verification of that sad sad truth. Maybe this woman’s disgustingly good looks makes her a little more neurotic than me. Maybe her neurosis is causing her to begin conversations that she has no intention of finishing. Maybe she intended to finish it but is as choked up about my own good looks as i am about hers that she cannot reciprocate conversation. I highly doubt that because even I shutter at how ugly I am when I look in the mirror. Maybe I am being to harsh on myself. My mother thinks I am good looking and that any woman would be lucky to have me. I should hold that thought with caution though. Maybe my mother only says I am attractive to satisfy her own insecurity about her looks, having given to birth to me and all, me being a part of her gene pool and all. Maybe this woman has doubts about her beauty as well. Maybe her mother begrudgingly gives off the same thoughts to boost her self confidence (the woman’s mother that is). But her mother wouldn’t do that. Her mother would probably tell her she is ugly in denial of the fact that she birthed something so beautiful. Maybe this woman has not met her mother. Maybe she is an orphan. Either way someone has told her she is beautiful before or she has reason to doubt that she is ugly unlike me who only has reason to doubt that I am attractive, thanks mom. I should get out of here before I start to sweat on her. I am in no capacity to sit next to such a beautiful woman for another twenty minutes to SF. I should get up. If I get up she might think something is wrong. She might think she smells or something. I already clearly must look upset about something and I cannot just get up and leave without her doubting something in herself, which would be bad because I know this woman must be the most perfectly crafted woman ever birthed into this world. I should leave a note.

So you get your ass up and get the fuck out of there really quick so as to not show any type of hesitation but as you get ready to leave the train car, before your stop anyways, you take a look back at the woman as if to verify her beauty into your long term memory. She read the note. You left a simple message, “You don’t stink, you are perfect”, signed Michael with your phone number at the bottom. Idiot. If it wasn’t odd enough that you left a note verifying the fact that she did not stink you just had to leave your phone number, as if she would take the message as terms of endearment and give you a call. “Hi Michael. This is Miko calling, the girl from the train. I just wanted to call and tell you how I really enjoyed your note. It was cute. Though we were bound for San Francisco I actually live in San Jose. If you wouldn’t mind the train ride I would love it if you’d join me for a cup of coffee sometime soon. You are probably a very busy man but you can surely give a girl a chance”. Yeah, she never called.

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70% of all Americans never leave the country, which is an arbitrary number but probably very accurate. You have left the country exactly 3.5 time, because going to Mexico on a cruise only counts as 0.5. The total time you have spent outside the country equates to 24.2% of your entire existence on earth but your math is severely hindered by your compulsion for arbitrary numbers. The two tenths in the aforementioned statistic about time spent abroad is not even the proper significant digit required of the calculation, which is an arbitrary mathematical function any ways. None the less you are an arbitrary statistic and your choice to write a travel blog (which is a choice that the 30% of Americans that are fortunate enough to travel outside the United States in their lifetime have decided to make 87% of the time, unless they are traveling to Mexico on a cruise) makes you incredibly unique (but it doesn’t).

You are writing a travel blog, or that is what you call it at the least. In reality, if you can call the Internet reality at all, you are simply writing a blog about your life, despite the fact that the conclusion of all this writing is only so you can increase and arbitrary number from 3.5 to 4.5. You have a hunch that, because you are writing the entire blog in the second [point five] person (which was an arbitrary choice of a number between one and three) people will read your blog when in reality (the real reality, not the internet’s poor excuse for a reality) your own mother is probably the most avid reader and your friends even only read it 20% of the time. And in spite of this realization you shamelessly whore out your Internet pen name to get readership. It would probably be in the best interest of 70% of Americans to read your blog and fantasize about leaving the United States though 65% of those readers will think your blog is overindulgent, poorly written garbage. Those are the same people who sheepishly followed your whore of an internet pen name to your blog, they probably have some kind of digital STD at this point but who cares if anyone’s Internet persona is slowly dying of AIDS or whatever.

If your Internet pen name had an STD you would imagine it having syphilis, not HIV. Syphilis just sounds messier than AIDS or HIV, physiologically speaking, but you really have no idea because you don’t have either, maybe your internet persona could enlighten you a little. Either way you determine that there is a probability of 23% that your Internet persona has exactly one STD and given that, there is a 100% chance of at least having infected your friends’ Internet personas with digital syphilis, obviously resulting in your Internet persona being the hottest thing since exercise DVDs from the 80′s when they had their come back in the early 2000′s. You imagine your whore of a persona making the obligatory phone calls to the people it has fucked after the results have come in. The thought is kind of hilarious since your Internet persona is just 2.5 years old, but that isn’t funny is it?

At this point in the first post of your travel blog about life most of your readers will have stopped reading because they don’t have the correct childishly mature sense of humor to read any more of this shit. They are losers with digital STDs, don’t worry about them, they will be back after I make the phone calls. So this is my life then, or your life, which is hilarious 666% of the time and just kind of like everyone else the rest of the damn time. Enjoy it while you can because there is now a 22.85% chance you have fatal digital syphilis.

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