Wherefore art thou, oh hard to get memo?
I went on a date last night. A second date to be precise. On the way home from the first date, I fell over and lost pieces of my palms, knuckles and knees to the pavement.
Last night was, hmm, how do you say?
Worse.
But like, in a good way.
I think.
My poor mother, concerned about the fact that I am a very bad judge of character, asked me to make sure to call her Sunday morning to let her know I am alright.
Sunday morning.
I’m not sure what possessed me, but after the umpteenth pint, (perhaps that was what possessed me), I decided that about 12 midnight qualified as ‘Sunday morning’ and so I asked homie if I could borrow his celly. Well, actually no, let me back up a bit. At about 12 midnight I decided to tell homie that both my mother and I were concerned that there was a very large possibility that he was a psycho and so I must call her right now to let her know he was not a psycho and also, could I see a piece of ID?
I saw the ID and he handed me his phone so I dialled my poor mother. I have no idea what I said to her, and she was too sleepy to remember, but she is certain that I was shitfaced because I allegedly said “love you!” at the end of the conversation. I never tell her I love her unless under extreme duress, like say, she is threatening me with a knife. Apparently when she, stunned, told my father that I had said I love her, he asked if I was blasted? I’m so expressive.
So anyway, it gets worse. Not content with using his phone to speak to my mother, I then force him to speak to my mother. Yep. To his absolute credit he didn’t even skip a beat. They had a brief conversation and then he handed the phone back to me which was when I uttered the immortal words. A little later I smacked my face on the corner of the table. It really hurt. Jesus I am a loser.
Oh yeah, so at some point we left that bar and went to this venue - live rocks and the rolls music. There were some ladies singing and they were whatever and because he is whomever, we went backstage and sat in the stairwell talking.
So he’s talking and I am sat there watching him sideways and thinking, “god, I wish you’d just, like, shut up.” I didn’t mean it in a bad way though. Anyway, so he’s talking and I’m watching and remember how I’m like, totally sexually frustrated? Yeah. So I grabbed his face and planted a huge kiss right on those talking lips which immediately stopped talking. Then, with never a word said, I got up and went off to continue watching the band.
A few minutes later he came out front too and asked me if I just kissed him. “Maybe,” I said. Maybe? Yeah, maybe.
The next thing I know there’s like totally a gated alleyway somewhere near that venue and we are like totally in that alleyway kissing. Yeah! And I’m like getting totally randy because I’m like in total need of getting laid and I’m thinking, hey, this guy’s alright, right? And I’m all like, “I’m totally in an alleyway kissing someone on the second date, this is so seedy.” And he’s all like, “but I spoke to your mother!” And, you know, somewhere in Tank’s warped subconscious, this completely evened everything out.
Yeah so anyway, after however long of being in an alleyway we figure out how to get out, (thank you random stranger who showed us the buzzer, because we were starting to get worried), and I get on a night bus and make my merry way home.
I haven’t heard from him today. And I’m guessing that somewhere, probably in some other alleyway, there is a memo I missed about playing hard to get. And because I’m like totally losing my grip, I wish I had his telephone number because I like totally want to re-enact that scene in Swingers were Jon Favreau goes mad on her answer phone. Luckily(?) though, I don’t have it, although I suppose I could always get it from my mother…
