After a long, tiring streak of drinking and dancing for many nights in a row at a night club in Metro-Detroit the lights came on and it was time to leave. My attempt to meet someone was once again thwarted and I started to think there had to be a better way to be single and mingle.
As I was walking out, I noticed my inner thigh was sticking to the inside of my jeans. In a drunken stupor, I shoved my hand down my pants to see what was lurking in the abyss. It was gooey and sticky and when I pulled my fingers out to explore what was creating this hot mess, I was overcome with the smell of grape.
I, nor anyone I knew, that evening had been riding the bubble-licious train so there is only one explanation that I could come up with:
In my booze-fueled haze, I had not only *gasp* sat on a night club toilet seat but had unknowingly entered into a symbiotic relationship with a stranger's used gum.
I'd hit rock-bottom, or so I thought, only to arrive home (alone) and have to use Goo-Be-Gone on my lady parts.
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