Dinner -- one of my favorite restaurants, mainly for their narcotic sangria -- went terribly. First off, I cannot stand dating a smoker. Call me needy, but tolerating their constant stepping out is unnecessary if it bothers you. You should actually take this opportunity to meet new people, preferably someone more compatible. Made to wait alone at a bar or a wedding or, the worst, an office party is inconsiderate. After all, your smoking phase -- before you realized it was mainly insecurity -- was not having something to do with your hands, a distraction and a prop, but now there are cell phones. It's especially annoying when she wanders back with a satisfied swagger signifying how magnetic she's feeling about herself due to the two lesbians she met and are now in tow. Podunk girl in the big city, that's all she is, except she believes she's street smart being from St. Louis and all. She's never been to California. The womanly one is suspiciously incomplete, something scarred going on beneath that dress, but the butch is cool. She worked at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley, and our conversation is better than any I've had with Lori lately. Of course it's centered on music, but still, mentions of her son are peppered in, too, until it becomes so involved that she asks to switch seats with Lori, who is showing signs that she might not be as pleased with herself anymore. Serves her right. I admit I was indulging this conversation in spite of Lori, because this is only our second night together and I wanted to get to know her. While she's in the bathroom, the butch says I'm pretty cool but my date is a crazy bitch. How right she is. The sangria flows on, and the butch fetches a paper to scan together for a show. We decide on Slim's; we'll hop in with them. Lori makes it clear she'd like a word. I can't explain my satisfaction hearing that she doesn't want to go. She gets particularly pissed when the butch plants one on me out of exuberance for meeting someone she could talk to about music. Before we say goodbye, she gives me her number and says next time I'm in the city to call her for a good fuck. In the cab I announce my victory. I won. She's disturbed. Fuck her; I am too. What an awful first night out together in such a great city. It can't be any more obvious this is doomed between us. She's under my thumb. So why -- WHY? -- did I proceed with a long-distance relationship for the next two months? The only explanation I can come up with is that I'm dumb.