All the AmeriCorps girls (and Dave) took off to go to some club in Fort Lauderdale. I demured, since it's 40 minutes away, because it was raining, and because I'm sick of going to clubs where I have to pay five dollars more than the girls to get in, and where they won't let me in if I'm not wearing slacks, or if my shirt doesn't have a collar. Also, I'm sick of staying at lousy clubs until 3, and I'm also sick of being the designated driver. Dave really didn't want to go, but he also didn't want not to go.

Is it wrong that I hope they have a bad time? I just don't know how these girls can afford to go out like this, and why they can't just stay home and not go to some club that has women dancing on a pole for once.

Funny incident: last night, after going to the bars in town, we came home, and I retired to my room to continue watching the original "Manchurian Candidate". As I'm lying in my bed, Dave comes into my room, lays down beside me -- like, right next to me, almost spooning. I'm surprised, to say the least. I say, "You must be really drunk." He says, "Man, this is the drunkest I've been since I got here." He gets up, looks straight at me, and says, "These girls are killing me." He then proceeds to go out to the living room and begin pounding on the wall we share with those girls so hard that the dry-erase board falls off the wall. It was so cute, like watching a drunk puppy. He's a nice guy; I like him.

I now have proof that everyone in my apartment and the apartment next door know I'm gay. They're promising to scope out gay bars, and are now asking what my type is.