Indeed.

I am 50% "Gib" Gibson, 50% Lane Meyer, 50% Hoops McCann. My sidekick now resides at a methadone clinic in Lebanon, Ohio.

In the sequel to that story -- played out so recently that I hesitate to mention specifics -- the very same girl calls one night to meet up casually for drinks, a bit tipsy from a failed date earlier that evening. I pick her up and we hit a local watering hole, where she mentions that a guy she recently dated is in attendance.

"He looks awful bent out of shape about something," I remark. "Pray tell, how recently did the two of you go out?"

"Last night."

"He probably didn't get the memo about the break-up, I reckon."

Shrugs. "I guess not".

Guy has about four inches on me and is in standard-issue two-sizes-too-small black tee (side note: it's 27 degrees outside) and distressed jeans. He approaches and we exchange gutteral salutations in the midst of a semi-pleasant, vapid and perfectly-uncomfortable conversation between the two of them. He walks off with the sort of look on his face someone might have after a really bad dental cleaning and leaves the bar shortly thereafter, and she spends some amount of time subsequently chastizing him for doing so "without at least saying goodbye".

I keep her and a couple friends company over drinks for the next two hours, which extracts some amount of toll on my posture, as she's a dangerous combination of petite and classic low-talker. As I walk off to hit the restroom just before closing time, she mumbles something about some spiky-haired fruitcup across the bar being "kinda cute". I return several minutes later, just in time to see her walking out of the bar with the Axe-coated lad. I fear that the irony of "not saying goodbye" may have been lost on the poor girl. (Ir)regardless, good times had by all.

Red-hot and the most certifiably scandalous bitch I know.