Barry’s Pub, South Side. Saturday Night.
Two drunk 20-something Italian Stallions with big gold chains sit at the bar:
Italian Stallion: Wow, man. These texts that I send? They should be published in the New Yorker, or some shit like that!
[…]
Italian Stallion:[sadly] …Yeah…except I never finish them.
[Italian Stallion proceeds to show a woman he doesn’t know an incoherent text to a girl he is trying to “let down easy.”]

— Overheard by Rachel