Nothing says procrastination better than a trip to a local bar.
I can’t even say it was an arbitrary choice. I spent fifteen minutes Googling gay bars in Rome—fifteen wasted minutes, I might add, since my command on the Italian language consists mostly of tourist phrases I’d picked up to help me on my trip and not the ability to read conversational reviews posted by other desperate gay men.
All right, the desperate part of that description is probably obvious transference on my part. It’s been a stressful couple of months. I’m not feeling as nice as I usually try to be.
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