The story they've been wanting me to write.
For a couple months now my friends (and mother!) have wanted me to write out the following story for their own personal amusement I'm sure.
Here goes:
Back in December this company I'm freelancing for had a kick-off party at a bar downtown. The timing couldn't had been more perfect, as it was precisely 12th days after I had my heart's little pieces shattered into a thousand more. Drama aside, on came the fishnets, the heels, the skirt, and out came the VISA card. The goal was to get very very drunk and very very much make out with someone. In all, the night was successful.
I ended up in some boy's apartment that had floor to ceiling windows and a view to kill... and I ended up staying there the night... and a good portion of the morning because the boy remembered how I took my coffee and went to buy me some. After the coffee was consumed, and the chatting about various film and theatre producers subsided he started to argue with me about how Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals are the best ever and Broadway has no idea what it's doing. To prove his argument he started blasting aforementioned Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals and trying to tell me that I had no idea what I was talking about. I pulled on the skirt and heels and left.
Upon arrival back at my apartment my roommate took one look at me and said, "I was worried about you. When I left you last night I knew you were in pure walk-of-shame dress." We laughed out loud.
The next day I ended up in the emergency room, with a minor medical incident that left me missing that Sunday's Redskins game. Misery.
Two days later I got a voicemail from the boy saying that he had a really good time and was I free for dinner later that week. I deleted the message and put the phone down.
Dinner? Like, dinner dinner? Dinner with a boy is not usually on my agenda when I wear fishnets to a bar. But I'm not usually one to say no to any opportunity, really, so I texted him back, sure. (I hate talking on the phone) After a series of texts the date, time and place was set - all by him. Proactivity = A+.
I showed up at the restaurant in question - a pretty hip tapas place south of 42nd street (where I rarely go). On my away he called. He was running late. Profuse apologies. I said no worries, and saddled up to the bar with a Sangria. When that was over he showed up, flustered, apologetic. We got out table and sat down.
After a few minutes of awkward conversation he said, "I feel like you're mad at me"
"Well," I said, "I'm not. You need to get over that."
"I'm really sorry I'm late"
"I don't care"
That's pretty much all we talked about for the next few minutes until he actually, no joke, I am not lying to you, said to me, "I feel like you were a lot more fun and interesting the last time we hung out."
Seriously.
Now, New York City is a pretty rad place. Great places to go pretty much all the time. Great restaurants, bars, et all. The problem is is that New York is kinda crowded, and downtown New York restaurants are really crowded on Thursdays so crowded in fact that it is physically impossible for you to grab your bag and walk out of the room. So I was stuck. Stuck with a total asshole loser who was not nearly as attractive as he was when I was completely wasted.
So that was that. The worst date of all time. It wasn't even 1/10 of a block before I called my roommate and told her what had happened. In under a half hour I was home, with a glass of wine waiting for me.
***
Now flash forward a couple of weeks to New Years Eve weekend. My trouble-maker friend Laura is in town from DC and we're sitting on my couch terrifically hungover at 4:30 in the afternoon when my phone rings... and it's the boy. (Every modern woman knows it's important to keep certain people's numbers - and sometimes locations where you met them as a reminder - in your phone so you know when NOT to answer) I scream, out loud, at the top of my lungs, and throw the phone at her.
"What a fucking moron!" I scream at her and we both double over in laugher.
A somewhat tragic story, sure, but enormously comical no doubt.
A note to the males: If you tell a girl that she was "a lot more fun and interesting the last time you hung out," she's probably not going to have sex with you ever again. Even if the sex was good.
Here goes:
Back in December this company I'm freelancing for had a kick-off party at a bar downtown. The timing couldn't had been more perfect, as it was precisely 12th days after I had my heart's little pieces shattered into a thousand more. Drama aside, on came the fishnets, the heels, the skirt, and out came the VISA card. The goal was to get very very drunk and very very much make out with someone. In all, the night was successful.
I ended up in some boy's apartment that had floor to ceiling windows and a view to kill... and I ended up staying there the night... and a good portion of the morning because the boy remembered how I took my coffee and went to buy me some. After the coffee was consumed, and the chatting about various film and theatre producers subsided he started to argue with me about how Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals are the best ever and Broadway has no idea what it's doing. To prove his argument he started blasting aforementioned Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals and trying to tell me that I had no idea what I was talking about. I pulled on the skirt and heels and left.
Upon arrival back at my apartment my roommate took one look at me and said, "I was worried about you. When I left you last night I knew you were in pure walk-of-shame dress." We laughed out loud.
The next day I ended up in the emergency room, with a minor medical incident that left me missing that Sunday's Redskins game. Misery.
Two days later I got a voicemail from the boy saying that he had a really good time and was I free for dinner later that week. I deleted the message and put the phone down.
Dinner? Like, dinner dinner? Dinner with a boy is not usually on my agenda when I wear fishnets to a bar. But I'm not usually one to say no to any opportunity, really, so I texted him back, sure. (I hate talking on the phone) After a series of texts the date, time and place was set - all by him. Proactivity = A+.
I showed up at the restaurant in question - a pretty hip tapas place south of 42nd street (where I rarely go). On my away he called. He was running late. Profuse apologies. I said no worries, and saddled up to the bar with a Sangria. When that was over he showed up, flustered, apologetic. We got out table and sat down.
After a few minutes of awkward conversation he said, "I feel like you're mad at me"
"Well," I said, "I'm not. You need to get over that."
"I'm really sorry I'm late"
"I don't care"
That's pretty much all we talked about for the next few minutes until he actually, no joke, I am not lying to you, said to me, "I feel like you were a lot more fun and interesting the last time we hung out."
Seriously.
Now, New York City is a pretty rad place. Great places to go pretty much all the time. Great restaurants, bars, et all. The problem is is that New York is kinda crowded, and downtown New York restaurants are really crowded on Thursdays so crowded in fact that it is physically impossible for you to grab your bag and walk out of the room. So I was stuck. Stuck with a total asshole loser who was not nearly as attractive as he was when I was completely wasted.
So that was that. The worst date of all time. It wasn't even 1/10 of a block before I called my roommate and told her what had happened. In under a half hour I was home, with a glass of wine waiting for me.
***
Now flash forward a couple of weeks to New Years Eve weekend. My trouble-maker friend Laura is in town from DC and we're sitting on my couch terrifically hungover at 4:30 in the afternoon when my phone rings... and it's the boy. (Every modern woman knows it's important to keep certain people's numbers - and sometimes locations where you met them as a reminder - in your phone so you know when NOT to answer) I scream, out loud, at the top of my lungs, and throw the phone at her.
"What a fucking moron!" I scream at her and we both double over in laugher.
A somewhat tragic story, sure, but enormously comical no doubt.
A note to the males: If you tell a girl that she was "a lot more fun and interesting the last time you hung out," she's probably not going to have sex with you ever again. Even if the sex was good.
posted by AllDeTime at 2:46 PM
2 Comments:
So just so we're clear, your mom wanted you to post a story about you being a drunken slut? (Not that there's anything wrong with that!)
I can't believe you called me a drunken slut. One day you're giving me crap for having feelings, the next calling me a drunken slut. Why are we friends?
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