I have no idea what my problem is. This club is hoppin! Important-for-the-moment people dancing to music that doesn't suck and some pretty hottilicious guys milling about too. And I look good. Damn good Doyle had said. My hair isn't doing any flat-hair thingies, my bra's not showing, no zits have popped up on my face in the last few days… but no one's talking to me. And this sucks the big. I'm sure the dark cloud I'm carrying around over my head would make Angel very proud, but its *not* doing much to help my social life right now.

Angel. Where is the big broody boy anyway? Oh right, of course. He wants to be left alone and is surrounded by a gaggle of women. It makes me feel slightly better to see he's driving them away one by one, probably as they spoke and he just stared at them like they had three left breasts or something. At least some things don't change. But still, he's being entertained by someone which was more than I can say for myself at this point.

Even Doyle is chatting up some unlucky girl at the other end of the bar. She seems to not mind it either, I mean, not terribly. I think I even caught her laugh a few times. Well, why not? Doyle's funny. And I don't even mean funny looking and funny smelling, though he is those things too. He's also a funny dresser. But he's funny too. As in sense of humor does not need a major overhaul. Pretty much the only part of him that doesn't need a major overhaul.

Why the hell did I drag those boys out with me in the first place? Lets not mention the fact that I know one of the bouncers is gay, and we had a better chance of getting in here with Angel lurking in the background. I suppose the big good-for-nothing-but-kicking-ass vampire is good for something other than kicking ass. He's also pretty good at attracting a drove of admiring girls that he doesn't want to talk to. I don't exactly suck at that either, I mean, attracting a drove of admirning guys, except tonight, apparently.

So I'm just gonna throw down my fourth? Fifth? Rum and Diet Coke and sit here like a big old wallflower. Sheesh. Is my dress blending into the barstool? I'm telling you, this sucks the big. At least I'm becoming pleasantly numb. At least bars have alcohol. And at least I don't get carded. I think I would if there was a woman bartender, but there never is. This is the first night I remember in a long time that I've had to buy all my own drinks.

I must have mascara running down my face or something. There's no other explanation.

Oh good, Doyle's coming over. I mean that as sincerely as possible. I may be seen talking to a short, fashion victim loser, but at least I'll be talking to someone. Maybe I can get him to dance with me. I mean, I'm drunk, and he likes me…right?

"Doyle, you like me right?"

He just kind of looked at me like Angel looks at people. The you're-moving-your-mouth-but-I'm-not-quite-getting-what's-coming-out look. Of course, Angel's face could freeze in that look and I probably wouldn't notice. I don't usually see Doyle get that deer in the headlights expression for very long at one time. And of course, it fades.

"Course I like ya, princess!" he exclaims, taking residence on the barstool beside me. He looks at my drink and frowns, signalling the bartender for another. He probably wouldn't do that if he knew that I won't be able to stand on my two legs once I'm forced to get off this stool. But I'm not going to be the one to tell him.

I guess I haven't said anything in a while, because he puts his hand on my knee. "I like ya a lot."

I'm not surprised at all, the touching, the low voice. The guy's always trying to get me into bed. I want to know if he likes me likes me. Like, as a person. Not as a potential do the horizontal mambo partner. Its hard to tell with Doyle. I mean, you know Angel does, because if he doesn't like you, he just won't put up with you. I mean, unless its important to someone he cares about -- he's not a total bastard -- but there's really no one that fits that description in Angel-land any more.

Did I mention I don't really miss Buffy?

So, you know, Angel tolerates me, and I even make him smile sometimes. I think that means he likes me. I know I surprise him a lot, which I kind of like to do. I mean, not that I have any intention of ever getting with anyone who isn't…alive, it's nice to keep the hotties on their toes. But I always wonder about Doyle. Cause as much as he likes to hide it, he's a really nice guy. I don't know if its that Irish hospitality or what. According to Doyle, everyone's good enough to be your drinking partner. And sometimes I wonder if he thinks I'm just hot, or if he really thinks I'm funny and smart and all those things girls want guys to think of them before their bra size.

Why do I care what Doyle thinks? Couldn't tell you. But I just feel like I do.

"Do you like me, like me, or do you just like me cause you want to sleep with me?"

It's gotta be the alcohol talking. At this point, I could care less what I say to him. He's surprised again, and he kinda looks at me like he's sizing me up. He's figuring out how much I've had to drink.

"This is my sixth," I say, pointing to the drink the bartender just sat down in front of me. Sixth is a really hard word to say when you're drunk.

That might have been the clue. The slurage. He just puts some money on the bar and helps me off the stool. Shit, standing up is hard. So I just lean.

"You didn't have anything to eat since breakfast, did you sweetheart?" he asks.

Well, now that you mention it…

Before I have any idea what's going on, we're somewhere in the vicinity of Angel, and Doyle's talking to him. I hear something like, "Cordelia stepped on a skunk so I'm faking a gnome." I'm not so far gone not to realize it's "Cordelia's drunk so I'm taking her home." But it's funny anyway.

Apparently The End.