I Need a Flick to the Nuts

Have any of you seen the movie, The 40 Year Old Virgin? Do you remember the part near the end when Seth Rogen flicks David Rudd's nuts so that he remembered he has nuts and that he should use them? Well, I might need that same favor because I can't seem to collect the cajones to talk to this wonderfully attractive woman.
Let me bring you into my psychosis.
I went to the local bar for a little while on Saturday evening, sat at the bar by myself, drank a few, and went home early. The only person I talked to was the bartender, a quite attractive bar wench who was fun to talk to--albeit, I didn't say much because it was a Saturday night and she was damn busy. Sunday rolls around and I go to the bar again, not because I wanted to see her--because I don't know her schedule anyway--but because for most of my life I wasn't able to go to a bar on Sunday. (Bars are closed on Sundays in my hometown and restaurants won't serve alcohol; and where I lived before moving here was the same except you could have a drink while out to eat.) Here's my reaction to finding out bars are open on Sundays in this county: You mean to tell me that I can watch football, drink, and smoke all at the same with strangers? Kick ass! I'm there! And I was there last Sunday. Again, she was bartending. Same thing. And a lot of appreciative eye contact. I never did ask her name, though. That becomes important in my psychosis.
So I go there again on Monday night. Yes, you already think I'm a lush, but listen to this: We had an icestorm begin on Saturday evening and by Monday morning power lines were snapping all over the place. The bar, miraculously, had power--and they didn't even own a generator. More later. My boss is letting me go early because . . . well, I'm typing this and I don't have anything to do at work.

Laters!