Dinner at some weird but utterly nice Japanese restaurant with co-workers (and bosses) Jakob and Jennifer. Admit a few pints went down and then they surprised me with Tuesday-night birthday party.
Five guys with somewhat concurrent birthdays rented the entire 7th floor on Thompson Hotel, formerly known as a place for top executives to bring prostitutes someone said, where they offered a spectacular evening. Tons of friends, more drinks and loads of Swedish music (four out of the guys were owners & founders of [Swedish] production shop Your Majesty – but looked like rock stars everyone of them). Perfect set u for a spectacular evening.
Obviously I failed. First thing I noticed as I started talking to this guy was his really lousy breath. It stank. Hideous. He insisted on ordering my first drink and I thoughtlessly let him. Doubtlessly it was a coward ambush. A Spicy Margarita later and my breath smelled as bad as his. I hid in a corner and talked on-the-side with people for the rest of the evening, or obscurely and awkwardly covered my mouth when forced to face them, as if silently saying, “HA, that’s funny yeah it’s just my cheek that itches, keep talking go ahead. I’m a great listener.”
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