Getting Home

So, not this week, because I've got shit going on, but next week, I'm going to walk home, to see if that's a viable getting home alternative. I'm embarrassed and tired of asking people for rides and what's the worst that can happen? I mean, jackasses, aside from the killer hobos. There are two likely worst-case scenarios. One is that I get to the 440 bridge and I chicken out. Well, a lot of people walk across that bridge and don't bother with the sidewalks. Every time I've walked across that bridge, I've not bothered with the sidewalks (granted, that's been a whole twice) and I'll just do it again. The other is that I get about to Starbucks and realize I'm too out of shape to walk up the hill. Well, big fucking deal. I'll sit at Starbucks until the Professor or the Butcher comes to get me. But, if it works out, that'll be nice. Well, except for all the walking and the being healthy and shit. Speaking of getting home, this morning, when I got to the office, it was just women. There's something really nice about an office full of women howling with laughter and teasing each other about their evening exploits. The most conservative of us drove a boy home last night, after an evening of two scandalous beers and karaoke with one of the other girls in the office. "She made me sing 'Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.'" "'Ride a Cowboy!" Do you even know what that means?!" "Yes." "Did you get his phone number?" "Yes." "Did you get smooches?" "Hey, we're taking this one small victory at a time." "So, why were you late?" "I had to call my mom." "Fuck, woman, you should have called my mom." "Oh, yeah, I'll just start calling random old women and tell them I met a boy and I like him." "You like him?" "Ooo, you said you like him." "Did you give him your phone number?" "Of course." And then the laughter and the blushing and the teasing.