Thursday, October 20, 2011

Breakfast Date


OK, I already posted today. But I just realized I’ve been in my bed for 12 hours straight. Not only does this need to be celebrated, but I also need to feel like I’m accomplishing more than just extreme (awesome) slacking. In my (very weak) defense, I was supposed to have a date tonight (that’s right, people actually want to spend time and money on me), but he had to reschedule…I am, not so secretly, ecstatic. So you get a bonus post and I get to feel less disgusting. Let’s talk about this date I went on yesterday morning. Now, I’m not explicitly against breakfast dates. Usually I prefer them to come after a sexual encounter as a defense against awkward exit strategies, but I digress.

Some back story: the security guard at my hotel has a pretty public crush on me. He asked me out to dinner and I figured there was no harm in hanging out with the guy (except that his name is Mike. Har har, universe). He had to reschedule the dinner and he decided we should get breakfast Tuesday morning after we both worked overnight on Monday.

Now, I appreciate the fact that this guy is so into me he wanted to go out ASAP, but seriously, me in the morning is not pretty; if I’ve been up all night, I’m downright irritating. I used to work 3pm-7am every weekend and my mom can vouch that I tend to ramble incessantly until I finally crash out. So, these are the conditions we’re working with when we get to the IHOP yesterday morning.

Everything is OK. We sit down. Do the whole ordering thing. Then…we’re just sitting there. It’s like he spent so much time working up to just ASKING me to go out with him that he hadn’t gotten to how the actual event would go along. So, he’s not speaking and I’ve got words ready to burst forth in a never ending stream of nonsensical, unrelated verbiage. I had, at this point, been awake for 17 hours; 8 of which, I had been working. I let ‘er rip. I don’t know what part of my brain thought “Hilarious Sexcapades” was the correct topic choice for my first extended conversation with someone who wants to get in my pants, but there it was. When I stopped and looked at him expectantly, all he had was “wow” so I just kept going. Finally, I looked at him and told him he needed to contribute a funny or embarrassing sex story. He was a good sport about it and shared an anecdote in which he got caught having sex in a Taco Bell bathroom with an employee while she was on break. Not bad, right? This is where he decided to become a conversation terrorist:

            Me (enthused with his actual contribution): “That’s pretty trashy, huh?”

            Him: *laughs* (good sign, right??) “It was actually with the girl I wound up getting pregnant with my son that died.”

            Me (searching frantically for an escape route): Uhm………..yeah, I can’t come back from that *awkward laugh* it’s on you now man.


            Him: Why can’t you come back from that? I’m over it by now. I’ve had my mom die and my little sister die too, so stuff about death doesn’t bother me anymore.
           
            Me: Well, I was talking about funny sex stories and you bombed me with super sad shit. I can’t follow that.

            Him (pointing at tattoos): I got this one for my son, this one for my sister, and this one (brace yourself, this isn’t going where you think it is) when I lost my testicle.

            Me: Uhm, wow. How did that happen?

            Him: Oh when I was in the army I fell down the stairs in full gear and landed on top of my weapon and my testicle popped.

I couldn’t even hold it together, y’all. I just laughed. It was mean, yes. I apologized for laughing, while laughing, but there was no stopping it. I laughed so hard I cried, like other people probably thought he was dumping due to the amount of tears. This man fell down the stairs and popped his testicle…I didn’t even know testicles could pop! Then I had to ride 45 minutes out of town with him to give him a ride home (how come everyone who is attracted to me is without a vehicle??) and it was awkward as hell. I’m slap happy with sleep deprivation and trapped in a car with a terrorist.

That is the story of my breakfast date; I think they should stay in their place: hung over mornings with people you didn’t plan to see naked.

BUT my pimp hand is strong so when I dropped him off I continued on to Jacksonville and met up with a guy I’ve been trying to make plans with for a while. What’s his name? Oh, I think you know. Mike, obviously. That meeting wasn’t as eventful.

I’ll regale you with the saga of The Mike Curse soon, I promise.

5 comments:

  1. Very funny stuff. I almost laughed out loud at my desk. AV

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  2. That is some funny stuff!

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  3. What kind of tattoo does one get to commemorate the losing of a testicle? Better yet WHY would one want to commemorate such a thing? -LJB

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  4. It appeared (in my VERY brief viewing) to be some sort of iguana/lizard hybrid. On his inner thigh. I don't really understand the logic behind commemorating something like losing a testicle with a tattoo. I love tattoos, but what the actual fuck?

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  5. I have an amendment to my above assumption about what the tat is; I was informed it is, in fact...a chipmunk holding an acorn. I'm not joking.

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