A lot of people out there think that my job is pretty fucking sweet. But it’s not that simple, you know. I mean, remember that pansy ass Pratt? Fuck him. My point is that I was a fucking good find.

And I take my job seriously. That’s why I went to this new art-fag hangout called RESTAVRATSIA. I mean, this place was so fucking gay that even art fags don’t go there. Or maybe it was so fucking empty just because it’s new. Higgins doesn’t really understand the fucking psychology of an art fag, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, this place is trying to use the fact that they couldn’t afford to finish their remont to their advantage. The entry door still hasn’t been lacquered and inside the bar all sorts of pipes and shit are exposed. It’s a pretty fucking big place, with a couple of rooms and wood-burning stoves all over the place. They’ve got a thing for playing Sinatra’s and Ella’s greatest hits albums.

At least the drinks are pretty cheap, except for the long list of Scotch they keep on hand. I guess the connoisseur might appreciate all that, but I prefer a fucking bottle of bourbon any day to some drink that guys in fucking skirts make. I don’t have any problem with those Scots, but the fucking dresses are a bit fucking much.

Restavratsia’s service sucked balls. I mean, not only did all the waiters have these weird-ass butt pirate black bandannas on, but it took forever to get a drink. I can’t imagine what would happen if the place was fucking filled with flaming turtlenecks.

I only stuck around there long enough to finish my drink. I mean, fuck, what am I going to listen to “My Way” the whole fucking night? I still had plenty of time to kill before I went to check out some fucking thing billed as the expat after party at GERTSEN. That shit only started at 3 a.m.

So I figured why not check out CLUB XIII. I haven’t seen any Eurotrash for a while and was wondering what was new. The club is still recovering from Halloween I guess, cause they had all these fucking zombies and spiders everywhere.

I still can’t tell one fucking techno shit song from the other. I mean, the only way I can tell the difference is the price. Judging by that and the members-only policy, I guess Club XIII is considered pretty fucking classy. But what the fuck do I know.

All I know is I saw this whore that I fucked from Night Flight on the way in. She pretended she didn’t recognize me (I guess that means she had the night off), but she couldn’t ever fucking forget Higgins. The night I fucked her I was slobbering drunk, I mean really shit-faced, and couldn’t even fucking get off. But that isn’t even the good fucking part. She felt like she had filled her job requirements and started trying to kick me out (it was her place). Before she could even fucking get me out of the bed, I started pissing myself. I had been drinking beer that night and you know what that can mean. I turned this fucking slut’s bed into a Jacuzzi! Man, I’m sure she remembers me.

I’m getting sidetracked. XIII was alright, but there were some hefty asses there last weekend. Besides, they have too much attitude for me. Anyway, I still had to go to fucking Gertsen.

What can I say, it was pretty much like Restavratsia—big, lots of rooms, and fucking empty. I don’t know why they called it a fucking expat after party. Fucking the new Hungry Duck (now sadly deceased), that was a fucking expat after party. But at Gertsen there were no cheap bitches, no piss-covered bathrooms, and no rock-n-roll. What the fuck is expat about that?

I was the only fucking foreigner there and there were no single chicks anywhere to be seen. Well, at least Gertsen was cheap, and they gave me some fucking free sushi. I mean, I usually don’t like Jap food, but when it’s free I can’t complain. I should have planned ahead, because they have a big old fucking sauna there, but I didn’t bring any sluts with me. Whatever. I just chilled on one of the fucking couches in one of the rooms and drank. That night there were no bitches in my future. Even Higgins doesn’t always prevail.