01 February, 2012

Anybody here want to hear some bullshit?

So let's start from the beginning.
Since shortly before my birthday, I've been on a scotch kick. Fewer calories - hey, I don't know if I mentioned it but I'm thirty one, now - and a pint is cheaper than a twelve pack, so I figured I would switch from beer to scotch. The problem with scotch is that, since I nurse my scotch, it takes terrifically long for me to get a solid buzz on. Charlie without a buzz is Charlie without sleep. So it makes perfect sense that I'm wide awake for the following message in my online dating inbox at 0008CST, 25/1/12:
I rarely come across anyone who is so intense. And this intensity is purely based on writing about yourself. I'm curious if you're like that in real life as well.
The following exchange with... Hm... What shall we call her?
I've often named them after their professions but I already have a "Bartender". And then things got weird after I found out the Hairdresser wasn't an actual hairdresser and then I did sleep with an actual hairdresser but I had to name her after her haircut because the hairdresser who isn't a hairdresser is popularly known as the Hairdresser already (as far as I know, she's a fan favorite) and - I'm just saying: You can see my conundrum, here.
So Bartender II? No.
California? No.
Pomeranian? (She and her roommate each have a Pomeranian.) No.
But you know, I could name her after her dog. After all, she took her dog's name as her profile name.
So, the ensuing two hour exchange with Scully went well enough that we exchanged numbers. I didn't really count on anything coming from it, I've exchanged numbers with plenty of ladies via private message and sometimes something happens and sometimes it doesn't. For instance, I gave my number - in Spanish - to a pin up model who replied, "I don't speak Chinese." Considering you learn how to count to ten in Spanish on fucking Sesame Street, I don't know if I'll pursue the Pin Up all that aggressively. (Though she claims that she'd "flood [my] stache several times. [She's] a major squirter".)
Wednesday night, I'd settled in for a relaxing evening of... What was I doing? Probably looking at porn. Or maybe cat videos on YouTube. I mean, the internet has only two channels, really. And it's maybe a quarter after ten and I'm maybe on my second tallsy (I'd switched to beer after killing a pint of Johnny Walker Red) when the phone rings. Call ID says "Scully". (OK, it doesn't actually say "Scully" but that's what we're calling her.)
I answer, Hey.
"Hey!" she yells, "Are you there!?"
Yeah, what's up?
"I'm at First Ave!"
Right on.
"You need to get on your little bike and come up here and have a drink with me!"
Now, if you're new to these parts, I should probably tell you that being told what to do is not one of my past times, especially when the size of my phallic mode of transportation is called into question. Also, there's this. Essentially, what I'm getting at is if you want me to work for the pussy, I'm going to tell you to work for my dick. I've got a nice one. It's well-seasoned, it's experienced, it's been trained, taught, tutored, and broken in by the best. I'm also a grown goddamned man so I tend to not go loopy over the thought of some minge. Especially considering that I have a "casual arrangement" with a young lady a few blocks away. So when she tells me that I need to get on my "little bike" and go to the set of Purple fucking Rain to watch her get drunk with her roommate and yell over the music, making myself hoarse, just to have the relaxed get-to-know-you conversation? No, fuck you. You come to me. And if you turn that down? Guess what: No biggie. I gets mine elsewhere and I gets mine in ten minutes after I hang up the phone.
And here's what happened: The shit worked.
She was apprehensive about just coming to my house (I knew it was a strange thing to say after I said it but I forgot that SpyHouse is open until midnight) so we decided to meet at a public place. That public place being McDonald's.
Yes, McDonald's.
I know, I know. It wasn't my choice. I told her that the bus stop is right at the McDonald's and she lost her nut: "Oh! my god! I love McDonald's!"
For the first - and hopefully last - time in my life, McDonald's sealed the deal.
So I go down to the bus stop to wait for her - yes, outside of the McDonald's - only to see her pull up in a cab. She came over and asked me if the McDonald's was open and I said that I didn't think so and she said just as well and pulled out a McDonald's bag from her purse and offered me a cheeseburger. That should be an indication of how drunk she was: She made a Mickey D's run while she was on a Mickey D's run.
So we sauntered over to SpyHouse and had a nice little conversation over coffee that sobered me up a little (remember, I'd been drinking scotch) and did nothing for her until she asked, "Do you have any movies for me to watch?"
Now, where I'm from, a woman inviting herself over to your place at eleven at night to watch movies is code for fucking about to take place. It's why my "listen to some records" line works; nobody wants to sit around and watch a fucking movie just like they don't want to listen to some records; it's late, they're drunk, and they want some alone time with you and the ninety five percent probability that you'll fuck that they've spent cultivating all night.
So we come back here and, since my room is a horrid mess from not having to entertain guests in a long while, I show her up to the fanciest room in the house and grab my laptop. When I return to the room, she's already got the bed made up and is lying in it, purring, "Mmm... I love beds."
Could I have pulled something off there? Well, considering she was still dressed under the blanket, it was a bit early to tell so I let it go. I mean she really has known me for a grand total of maybe an hour and already she's in my house. OK. Things are too soon to tell. Sure, I've pulled within an hour of meeting before but I'm not a fucking sensei at it.
Soon we're both on the bed and, despite that she wants to watch some old campy exploitation movies, she has no tolerance for anything I put in the laptop, like Spider Baby (which I ejected three minutes in) or, I forget actually what the second one was because I had to pause it during the opening credits because her roommate and her were staging a multiple call argument over who's going to go home and feed the dogs.
Turns out Scully was going to go home and feed the dogs. "Sorry," she said as she put her boots on, "I gotta go."
That's cool, I said as I collected my laptop to return it to my quarters.
"Do you want to come to my place?"
What? Sure, yeah, where do you-
Looking in her purse, "Oh my god, are you serious, right now?"
"Ugh! [Roommate]'s going to kill me," she said as she dialed her roommate, "Hey, do you have the keys?"
This goes on for a while. Like a lot longer than anything that I'm willing to type out.
So we get to her place, about eight blocks from here (I'm the opposite of Ludacris in that I have hoes in not only one area code, but one zipcode) and wait for her roommate. Scully's inside the building doing fuck knows what at the apartment door while I'm outside smoking a square next to some guy doing the same when a car pulls up and this little blonde spitfire comes marching up the front walk saying, "Oh my god, you guys, I'm going to kill my roommate!"
Figuring this was Roommate, I followed her inside. Once inside the apartment, Roommate sees me and says, "Oh you must be him, you are cute, oh my god, [to Scully] good job, [to me] you are cute, damn, my name is Roommate, you're going to love me more than her, [to Scully] good job, did you see the kitchen? Look in the kitchen, I organized the recycling, [to me] see the recycling? Oh my god, you are handsome, I swear you're going to love me more than her, OK, bye!"
Scully puts Bridesmaids in the DVD player and, even though I think it's a great movie (it even has Roy from The I.T. Crowd in it), I just wasn't in the mood to start a movie this late. Not unless the movie was code for something. I took it that it wasn't as Scully's eyes were growing heavy. So I got up to go to the bathroom and...
It's like this: I don't tend to criticize the cleanliness of a person's house while I'm in their house (I did it with Dave and Todd because they had pizza box carpeting, if you catch my meaning.) but I couldn't help but mention upon returning to the living room that it was quite the adventure using Scully's bathroom.
"What do you mean?"
Well, I kind of had to climb over the trashcan to get to the toilet.
"Oh my god, is it a mess in there?" she asked as she got up.
Well, it's not that big of a deal it's just-
From the bathroom, I heard her call, "Oh my god! Are you serious, right now!?"
"Are those condoms!?"
"I mean - oh my god!"
Sure enough, I had managed to not see the three spent rubbers on the bathroom floor.
"I think I'm going to throw up."
Where's the broom?
"No! No no no! You're not cleaning condoms off my bathroom floor!" she said as she raced by me to grab the broom and dustpan.
It's not that big a deal, I mean, if you're going to get sick...
"No, I got it... EEEEEEEEeeeeeeeewwwwwwww, gross! I'm going to throw up!"
OK, give me the broom, I said as I took the broom from her and swept up Roommate's boyfriend's jimmy hats.
After about ten more minutes, she began to make a "floor bed" - basically a bunch of blankets laid on the floor - did not invite me down, and was busy playing with her Pomeranian (Roommate had taken hers out to her boyfriend's for the night), the same Pomeranian that I failed to mention had been trying to hump various parts of me since I came into the apartment. Scully remarked that it was impossible for him to hump anybody since he had been neutered. Bullshit, I know what a dog humping is. And so, even if I was invited on to the "floor bed", I would have to battle a hyperactive Pomeranian for the duration of my stay.
She's tired.
The dog's excited.
I'm not getting any tonight.
I showed myself out.
Thursday, I get a text message from Scully.
Um so that was really random last night. I'm pretty sure meeting someone when you're drunk isnt the greatest first impression! I was a little blacked out. If I said or did anything offensive.. I apologize :)
I texted her back that I actually thought she was pretty great and that I'd like to see her again.
We made plans for Sunday night to go to a bar that she likes but I hate.
Sunday came around and I put on a nice, cornflower blue shirt, a cheeky little nod to our first conversation where we quoted Fight Club at each other. And then I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And finally it got to be a quarter after ten. That seems like an appropriate hour to go out drinking. Thing was that I hadn't heard shit from her all day. So I sent her a text message, Hey, are we still on for tonight? The response...
Oh shit. I forgot. I'm an asshole. I just got done with work. How bout tomorrow night?
I thought it was a little weird that she forgot. And that she had just gotten done with work. She said she was off on Sunday. But, hey, whatever. Monday night, then. I told her I got off the clock at four on Monday and to just give me a ring.
And at 1329CST on Monday 30/1/12, I receive the following text from Scully:
Awkward, but I met someone and I want to see where it goes with him.. so I can't meet up today.
Aint that some shit? She stands me up one night and then flat out cancels plans the very next day.
Now, hey, I get it. We met one time and the event could only be loosely described as a date. We're not beholden to each other. I get that. My problem, though, is the dick move she pulled on Monday. In polite society, you don't cancel plans to make new ones, you make new plans around the preexisting ones.
It's like this: Georgie disagrees with me on close to everything. That woman could argue with me over the fucking Magna Carta. She doesn't just like to play devil's advocate, she fucking lives for it. Ask her sometime, she'll deny it, and she'll deny it precisely because she's playing devil's advocate. There aint a goddamned sweet thing this woman won't take a contrarian position on for contrary's sake. So you've got to know that when I relay the shenanigans of the Sunday night stand up and the Monday afternoon blow off to her and she makes a face and says that that's a dick move - I mean she literally said, "That's a dick move." - that Scully's pulled a dick move. When you have Georgie taking my side without hesitation or debate, what you've got is a newly established universal truth. It's like this:
Things Georgie and I have agreed upon without hesitation or debate on her part that are now universal truths:
  1. The Wire is the greatest television show in the history of the medium.
  2. Fried chicken in a box was meant to go with mac & cheese.
  3. Jon Stewart is funnier than Stephen Colbert.
  4. What Scully pulled was a dick move.

1 comment:

  1. Thank god someone else thinks Stewart is funnier than Colbert.


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