I try not to laugh as I watch Phil stroll in with a t-shirt that says “Original Gangsta”. No doubt about it, Phil’s a dork, but I find him funny. His story about a clown who had an addiction to bananas is amazing, and so is his story about watching Bigfoot nosh on a ham and swiss sandwich and sip on a piña colada at a bar on Fairfax. I almost fall off my stool from laughing so hard.

2 hours go by, and I am now drunk off my ass. Six martinis will do that to a girl. Thankfully, Phil has to only carry my butt four blocks to what is now known as “Casa Ninja”, aka my pad.

As I wait at my front door for a kiss, Phil just talks on and on about my stupid cupboard ninja. For half an hour, I stand in my front door, my lips longing to touch his, and Phil is talking about ninjas. I’m in purgatory.

Good God, why am I stuck at ninjapalooza with a guy who wants to talk about ninjas as a girl, only a half a foot in front of him, is losing a buzz, and slowing wanting him to go.