Pure Sausage, the Finest Ever Served

I went to a party in West Hollywood last night. It really sucked. These were the imbeciles that greeted me at the door, a sure sign of what was to come.
I imagined other scenarios going in, not necessarily that of coherent explanation, but better than observed.

Sausage fest gains new meaning when excessive, when the ratio eyed without count means there’s no need for actual headcount. The numbers are in, they’re staggering, you’re taken aback, not so much from the testosterone overload, but like a brick wall flying into you and the resulting recovery is bleak.
Tested a few theories to wilt the initial boredom blocking social interactions. One can never fear starting a conversation, because the opening leads into the direction you’ve chosen. And it shouldn’t be contemplated longer than a moment.

This was the only girl I talked to at the party, the only one of the five worth talking to.
Didn’t get her information, wasn’t really into the chase this night, instead opted for guilt free conversation and a few laughs. Looking around was absurd to begin with, unfathomable considering the source for this bash, the usual hit parade M.I.A.

I once asked where all the good women were, and now I’ve come to a startling conclusion. All the good women are allegedly unavailable. So now, infinite wisdom dictates that I need to go after taken women, institute the Better Deal Theory without delay.