So it comes down to this. My last night out in BA, and indeed in South America. Tomorrow I will recover, Monday play some Polo, Tuesday visit Uruguay, Wednesday bike tour the city and Thursday I fly to London. Either that or I’m just going to get wrecked every single night and see and do nothing. The latter is more likely with my track record.
I’m pretty up for tonight, the kilt is making an airing for the final time and I’m going all out guns blazing to get some kind of female contact, even if it’s a slap in the face. Once again the hostel is the starting point, as Milhouse has two establishments very close to each other. Each take it in turns to host the party for the evening, before laying on a club night somewhere in the city. It’s a decent set up, they know what they’re doing, so why would you want to do anything else?
The night begins watching Toy Story in Spanish. Crazy. This is me going off the rails. It ends surrounded by Argentinian women with quizzical expressions as I do the whirlwind with my kilted backside in their faces. They must have thought I was a gay stripper. I must have thought I was invincible. Shortly before this we’re wandering around the BA district of Palermo, which is famous for it’s bars and clubs, with nobody seeming to know where we’re going. I’m getting in a huff and throwing my toys out the pram. Half the decent looking girls we started the night with seem to be elsewhere, and we’re left with distinctly average ones. This does not stop me powering through the vodka red bulls and talking utter shite.
I’ve also run into a guy I met in Colombia. Larry is a cheerful Irish lad who was up for a laugh back there and is certainly enjoying himself here. It really is a small world. I’m just disappointed to be sharing a taxi back with him instead of one of the many beautiful women out that evening. Once again I’ve somehow managed to come between myself and a nice girl. I really don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but I’ve a feeling it’s got something to do with ‘drunk’ and ‘very being’.
Usually I have something to tell you regarding a foolhardy attempt at landing a nice fish, which ends in disaster, but I literally did nothing to engage a girl. As I stagger back into the hostel I find I’m on the hunt for the leftovers. Mine sweeping the establishment for scraps. Personified desperation. Surely there is a wasted creature with running mascara that needs my aid? Alas there is no such plight, and once again I’m left to contemplate the obligatory crying wank in the shower tomorrow. I am Stuart’s total ineptness.
Empty barrels
So it comes down to this. My last night out in BA, and indeed in South America. Tomorrow I will recover, Monday play some Polo, Tuesday visit Uruguay, Wednesday bike tour the city and Thursday I fly to London. Either that or I’m just going to get wrecked every single night and see and do nothing. The latter is more likely with my track record.
I’m pretty up for tonight, the kilt is making an airing for the final time and I’m going all out guns blazing to get some kind of female contact, even if it’s a slap in the face. Once again the hostel is the starting point, as Milhouse has two establishments very close to each other. Each take it in turns to host the party for the evening, before laying on a club night somewhere in the city. It’s a decent set up, they know what they’re doing, so why would you want to do anything else?
The night begins watching Toy Story in Spanish. Crazy. This is me going off the rails. It ends surrounded by Argentinian women with quizzical expressions as I do the whirlwind with my kilted backside in their faces. They must have thought I was a gay stripper. I must have thought I was invincible. Shortly before this we’re wandering around the BA district of Palermo, which is famous for it’s bars and clubs, with nobody seeming to know where we’re going. I’m getting in a huff and throwing my toys out the pram. Half the decent looking girls we started the night with seem to be elsewhere, and we’re left with distinctly average ones. This does not stop me powering through the vodka red bulls and talking utter shite.
I’ve also run into a guy I met in Colombia. Larry is a cheerful Irish lad who was up for a laugh back there and is certainly enjoying himself here. It really is a small world. I’m just disappointed to be sharing a taxi back with him instead of one of the many beautiful women out that evening. Once again I’ve somehow managed to come between myself and a nice girl. I really don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but I’ve a feeling it’s got something to do with ‘drunk’ and ‘very being’.
Usually I have something to tell you regarding a foolhardy attempt at landing a nice fish, which ends in disaster, but I literally did nothing to engage a girl. As I stagger back into the hostel I find I’m on the hunt for the leftovers. Mine sweeping the establishment for scraps. Personified desperation. Surely there is a wasted creature with running mascara that needs my aid? Alas there is no such plight, and once again I’m left to contemplate the obligatory crying wank in the shower tomorrow. I am Stuart’s total ineptness.