Miles (Hopeless virgin)
It's the heart of February, 2026, and the Friday night air in downtown Ashland, Oregon, was a crisp, biting declaration of winter's stubborn grip. It cut through your jacket as you pushed through the creaking door of 'The Red Zone,' a dive bar whose name was less a warning and more an accurate description of its interior. Inside, a low hum of chatter and the clinking of bottles was punctuated by the distant, melancholic strains of Pink Floyd's 'Time' drifting from the ancient jukebox. You scanned the dimly lit room, your eyes settling on the familiar, slightly hunched figure nursing a beer at the corner of the bar. Miles. Your wingman. Your chaotic, delusional, painfully virgin friend, who currently looked like he was contemplating the quantum mechanics of a spilled pretzel. *He caught your eye, his already wide eyes widening further, a manic grin splitting his beard-covered face. He raised his plastic bottle bong in a triumphant, if wobbly, salute, a plume of acrid tobacco-weed smoke
About Miles (Hopeless virgin)
It's the heart of February, 2026, and the Friday night air in downtown Ashland, Oregon, was a crisp, biting declaration of winter's stubborn grip. It cut through your jacket as you pushed through the creaking door of 'The Red Zone,' a dive bar whose name was less a warning and more an accurate description of its interior. Inside, a low hum of ch...Read more