Hi,

I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself on Saturday night. My name is Jason Mulgrew and I’d like to make you my wife.

I am not one to rush head-strong into relationships, but I have never been so certain as I am of the fact that I am so deeply in love with you that if you were to ask me to, I would murder for you.

When you first came to the table to take our drink order, I was flushed with excitement. Initially, I thought you were so beautiful that I became sad, sad that women of such beauty and grace could exist beyond my grasp, both physically and metaphorically. But, each time you returned to the table, either to serve us our food or get us more drinks, I realized that deep down, under that incredibly sexy black shirt and little mini-skirt and high boots, you felt something too. A flicker of emotion when our eyes met? A pitter-patter of excitement when we spoke? A sense of queasiness when I stared at you just a little too long? It is not important. What is important is that you felt it too, and I realized at that very moment that you and I were made to be together, whether you want to be or not.

I am not a great man. I am not even a good man, but I promise that I will spend the rest of my life spending all the money I have on you. No longer will you need to serve drunkards Shepard’s Pie (which, by the way, was delicious) at a bar. Instead, you can move to NYC and live with me. I will continue to work and perhaps get a second job if necessary, while you stay at home and look beautiful. I promise that I will do all I can to help in this, buying you only the finest clothes and fragrances, in exchange for some cuddling and letting me smell your lovely hair.

I can not make any promises of being able to satisfy your womanly needs, because I am an unschooled in the ways of the woman’s body, having only experienced physical love while intoxicated or via VHS tape or after exchanging a nominal to significant sum. However, I am a good learner, and I am willing to give at least 40% of my energy to ensure your sexual well-being is cared for and attended to. And, if this fails, as a consolation, I will give you $10,000 for your birthday.

I realize that you may need time to think this over, and I encourage you to take this time to weigh what I’ve said and what I’m prepared to offer. I am confident that I can be a good provider for you, and, like I said, if you want me to murder someone, I will. Seriously.

I hope this message finds you well, and I look forward to hearing from you soon. If I don’t hear from you by Friday, I will see you at the bar, where I will wait, day and night, until I meet you again. But please, we don’t want it to come to that. Trust me.

Prepared to love you from this day forward until the end of time or until the Court orders otherwise,
Jason

[Please pass this on to anyone you might know who works at Lir, or who has heard of Lir, or Boylston Street, or Boston, in the hope that we can be reunited and live happily ever after (and pantsless) forever]

A few notes from the weekend in Boston:

My quest to alienate and/or disappointed every reader who meets me in person made some major strides this weekend when I met two friends of my buddy Joe, Leslie and Sindia. Self-described “big fans of the site” when I first met them, I’m not so sure they felt the same way by the end of the night, when they left (or more appropriately, “snuck out”) without saying goodbye, because – surprise surprise – I was drunk and creepy. I know – shocking, right?

The whole night is a blur, thanks to Joe and I splitting a liter of vodka before going out, then me running up a $230 bar tab (making it the third consecutive weekend night with a bar tab over $200 – more on this later). But one thing that always cracks me up about drinking and really cracked me up this night is that when I’m drunk, I really can’t hear or understand a word that any person I’m conversing with is saying. Of course, this is magnified with each drink and of course, I make less and less of an attempt to conceal this with each drink, so by the end of the night, every conversation is the same:

Me: “So what do you do again?”
Girl: [could be saying "I give head for a living" and I wouldn't know the difference]
Me: “Cool. Do you want a drink?”

Also, poor Leslie had to deal with me hitting on her for most of the night. For any girls that I have yet to hit on, my approach is the following:

1) Tell stupid jokes;
2) Repeatedly offer drinks/shots;
3) Ask the same questions over and over again;
4) Spit all over the girl while talking to her;
5) Repeat steps 1-4 until the lights come on at the bar.

As if that wasn’t smooth enough, I actually remember even saying to her, “So, I don’t know if you know this or not, but I’m hitting on you right now.”

Smooth, dude. Real smooth.

I can’t believe they left without saying goodbye.

*********************************************************************

A bachelorette party showed up at the bar we were at on Saturday night.

One question about bachelorette parties: have you ever come across a bachelorette party in a bar with really attractive women? I never have. Every one I’ve seen is filled with nerdy or unattractive girls drunk of their asses on from their second martini, getting hit on and fondled by the grossest, drunkest guys at the bar.

So naturally my friends and I were all about it.

I hadn’t really started drinking by that point in the night, and the drunkest of the bunch decided to come to talk to me, so I didn’t really feel like dealing with it:

Her: [eyes barely open, spilling her cosmo everywhere] “Hi!”
Me: “Yes indeed. Yes.”
Her: “So why are you not drinking?”
Me: “I have a competition tomorrow, so I really shouldn’t be drinking.”
Her: “What kind of competition?”
Me: “I ride horses. I’m a jockey.”
Her: “Really? I love horses. Where?”
Me: “Like 45 minutes south of here.”
Her: “Where?”
Me: [guessing] “Um, Andover?”
Her: “I know Andover!”
Me: “Yeah, I was married in Andover.”
Her: “Oh, you’re married?”
Me: “Well, divorced.”
Her: “I’m sorry.”
Me: “Don’t worry, it’s not your fault; it’s mine. I just can’t stay away from those internet porno sites, and she couldn’t take it.”

This surprisingly didn’t scare her away, so for another ten minutes I talked about my marriage, divorce, and love of horses, including the genesis of this life-long affection (“I grew up poor and in the city, and the first time I saw a horse I thought it was just a giant dog. But a beautiful, majestic giant dog.”). Later on, I talked to her sister, and told her sister I was a doctor. Apparently, the two talked about me, and when my discrepancies were brought to light, they confronted me:

Sister 1: “You told Merry you were a doctor, but you told me you worked with horses. Are you lying to us?”
Me: “I would never lie to a woman. I’m both.”
Sister 2: “You mean like a veternarian?”
Me: “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

Sometimes it’s just really fun to fuck with wasted girls, when you know you have no chance of hooking up with them, because they are just too, too drunk, so much so that it would be borderline illegal.

*********************************************************************

I think that I’m going to have to stay in for a while out of financial concerns. Three consecutive weekend nights I’ve had bartabs over $200, and that’s really not a good thing. Last time I checked, I don’t make P. Diddy money, so I’m going to try to have to curb this spending somehow.

Of course, I say this sober on a Monday afternoon. Check back with me at Friday night at 1am, and we’ll see how I’m doing then.

*********************************************************************

This weekend I was away coincided with the Puerto Rican Day Parade, also known as the “Scariest Day of the Year” or the “Weekend I Don’t Leave My Apartment” or the “My Only Hope Is That I Don’t Get Hit With a Shiv” Weekend.

Now that I live a stone’s throw from Spanish Harlem, I have a whole new perspective on the Puerto Rican Day parade, and by “perspective” I mean “tremendous, uncontrollable and unabating fear.”

The comic Norton, formerly of Opie & Anthony, has a great joke about the PR parade: “I love the Puerto Rican parade, because it’s the one day a year I know where they all are.”

[Man, I wish I could do racial humor. The problem is that I actually am racist, so it wouldn't come off too well.]

Anyway, it was a quite a site to see. Say what you want about the Puerto Ricans, but they know how to have a good time. I personally love the Puerto Rican people, having formerly “dated” a “Puerto Rican” girl (long story), and my roommate Brian has taken his time off between jobs to practically become an expert on their culture.

Where am I going with this? No idea. I just wanted to get Norton’s joke in, because I love it. So I’ll stop writing now.

Damn it.