An unrelated piece of graffiti art.
SO, I went on a spontaneous date with the dude from the previous post (the conversation on the bottom).
The scene: I was sitting in my room enjoying my usual form of entertainment – watching a couple of guys yell at each other on the street below to see if it would turn into a fight (oh Footscray) and eating popcorn with this spicy salt stuff I bought at the Asian grocery – when he invited me for a drink.
Under normal circumstances I’d tell him I was busy (with fun glamorous plans of course – must maintain the ruse that I am too cool to spend a Thursday night doing any of the things I just mentioned). But, if I’m honest I really didn’t care because I didn’t know him at all and he can think whatever he wants. Plus, I was intrigued because no man has ever told me that I seem “hardly like an axe murderer at all,” assuring me at the same time that HE is not a murderer (bonus!).
He sent a car to come pick me up, which was awesome and slightly sketchy in equal measure. (Text: “send me an address and in 15 minutes you’ll see a black car.”) It certainly didn’t help his credibility as a certified non-murderer, but when I thought about other, even shadier circumstances under which I’ve gotten into strangers’ cars (midnight South American border crossings in unofficial taxis, I’m looking at you), grabbing a free ride to a bar called Mr. Wows Emporium seemed like a perfectly alright thing to do. It was an Uber car, by the way, not a personal limo – I’m not suddenly starring in a Jennifer Lopez movie or anything.
Although: he did invite me to get on a 6 am flight to Cairns to go scuba diving, which is kinda movie-ish. It sounded exciting so I actually went to his house in another mysterious black car and seriously considered going until I remembered I had a) a trip planned with a couple of friends for the long weekend, b) a job interview scheduled for the next morning, and c) an unfinished scuba certification due to an unfortunate case of what may or may not have been dengue fever last year.
He actually was quite charming and funny, though a bit dorky. I wouldn’t exactly call him normal (ed. note: the goal was a NORMAL date, Fiona. YOU HAD ONE JOB). To wit: he says the style of his room was inspired by Scandinavian heroin addicts (I hope to God he means in the movies). He claims to know the names of the U.S. vice presidents in reverse chronological order (why??). Also he lives with an actual genius that spends his spare time fencing and crocheting characters from his favorite video games. (ed. note: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK FIONA, WHERE DO YOU FIND THESE PEOPLE? SERIOUSLY.)
But he was incredibly confident, and confidence is attractive. I was, of course, immune to this because of my iron will and the fact that I’d said, in so many words, “I’ll go to your house, but don’t get excited because I’m not going to fuck you” before getting in the second mysterious black car.
SIKE! I slept with him anyway. I was supposed to be a woman of mystery and everything, and I SO did not plan for that (to the point of not shaving my legs, ew), but my willpower is feeble in the face of all that romantic shit girls (me included) like. Ya feel me? Anyway, I suppose it’s good to sample the merchandise before you find yourself on date #10 with a guy who can’t get off without looking at a Nickelback poster, or what have you.
Anyhoo, the whole thing went so fast I don’t even really have an opinion.
Except for REGRETTING NOTHING! Haha.