Sometimes, I'm my own worst enemy.

A few Fridays back, I was at the bar doing my usual thing: karaoke and hanging with the guys, when this woman (a non-cougar, for those following at home) approaches me and asks if I want to dance.

Normally, I don't dance. But between the fact I was a little drunk, my friends were egging me on, and omg bewbs, I acquiesced.

We danced to some slow songs, and she kissed me on the cheek. I got her a drink and went back to her table to chat.

For a bright and shining moment, I am not some socially retarded malcontent and chronic fuck up. I'm smooth. I'm flattering and charming. I am Lothario in an Iggy Pop hat. Cyrano has nothing on me, save for a few inches of schnoz.

Did i mention that my romantic life is like a three stooges sketch? Case in point:

"I don't think I caught your name."

She giggles slightly. "My name is Candi. With an "I".

Uh oh.

"Hey..."

Don't say it.

"You know..."

Brain to mouth: abort! Repeat, abort!

"That sounds like a stripper's name!"

Abandon ship! All hands, abandon shi...Foot, what the hell are you doing?!

Foot: HAY GUISE WHUTS GOIN ON N DIS MOUTH???//

Candy left shortly after that.