Rejecting A Stripper's Offer

It's not what you think.  It's not sex.  It's a festival she's attending and probably is hosting, right in Powderhorn Park.  Something like Burning Man -- that's the way she described it.  And she gave me her number and told me it'd start at sundown.  In other words, now.

Instead, I'm here on my parents' laptop, blogging my feelings about why I'm not attending this.  I mean, this is a hot stripper (well, ex-stripper -- she decided to quit "The Life" to concentrate on her business, of which this festival is related to, I think), with big enhanced tits and a silky Southern accent.  I should be setting aside my whole week for this.  Hey, maybe she'll be impressed with my taking her up on her invitation and do sex to me next time!

Actually, I didn't think about this until I was woken up by my friend's text at 8 o'clock, telling me the time we're meeting for dinner tomorrow.  That's when I remembered the thing.

And now I'm vacillating again.  Should I go?  Should I not go?  It could be fun ... but is it going to be weird? ... you might like it ... it's not like it's a burlesque show that's you pay for attendance, so it's not anything I can relate to ... but it's free ... but it's far away, in South Minneapolis ... so you're going to stay home two consecutive days? ... well, there's dinner tomorrow, and then these guys I met in Switzerland are coming some time this weekend, and there's the Guthrie show I want to go to, and maybe I should conserve gas because hey, I'm unemployed ... you didn't stay home two consecutive days last week ... uh. ...

And that's where I'm stuck.  I should be going.  I.  Should.  Be.  Going.  But I can't.  Finally, I'm making an excuse that I decided to write about my stasis instead of shaking myself free of it.  Inertia -- that's why I'm not driving down to Powderhorn Park to see some gorgeous hippie ex-stripper and her potentially loose hippie friends do some fire dancing or burning this man, and possibly have some fun and maybe prove to some beautiful woman I'm fuckable.

I'm saving myself some money and keeping my carbon footprint low because I decided to sit on my ass, but I hate every single second of it.

I should be going.

Better text her and apologize for my no-show.