For my 100th entry, I wanted to write about something very important:
It happens all of a sudden. You're out with your budskies and you have a chance encounter with a total superman hottie. Things escalate as the night progresses and pretty soon, you're back at the guy's place hooking up with him.
Flash forward to the next morning...or...the next day...or...later on that night...or...even 20 minutes later when you snap into the realization of what you just did and decide to get outta there faster than a gazelle on the Serengeti!!!
However much later it is, the journey home is never cute. At this point, you're the Hot Mess Express and you're train just left the station: homeward bound. For some reason, you feel like strangers passing on the street automatically know that you just had sex and are being judged for it. That any encounter you face on the quest to su casa must be dealt with like a vampire to sunlight. You are wearing clothes that are either wrinkled from being tossed on the floor, ripped in the heat of passion, stained/soiled for...well...I won't go there, or just simply the clothes you had on the night before. With makeup smeared on le ladies and roll-in-the-hay bed hair on guys, sometimes after just doing the nasty you are just a disheveled, disoriented state of affairs. Especially if that means you have to pick up the pieces of your life and take your sorry ass home.
How bad can the walk of shame really be?
My thoughts are this:
if you come home shirtless, with your belt unbuckled, carrying your shoes in one hand and your wet/stained underwear in the other, then you really must've just done something truly shameful.
And I love you for it, you hot Los Angeles mess!
#walkofshame
