Last night ended with three of us laughing and gasping in an elevator. I said, “Well, this is the strangest night I’ve had in a long time.” The other two quickly agreed.
I ended up at a bar with a new friend, who happens to be a very pretty girl. Now, listen. I’m aware that I live in Hollywood, where most girls are much prettier than I am. It’s not like I consider myself to be one of the hottest things on legs, but I am getting a little tired of being that girl. It happens whenever I’m out with my pretty single girlfriends, and we end up at a bar.
It: I’m the “other one.” As in, “I’ll take the blonde; you take the other one.” “I want to talk to the hot chick; you distract the other one.” “Do you think they’re gay? The other one’s pretty short.”