Ever since I stopped feeling feelings and became totally dead inside thanks to my eager willingness in my early 20's to get worked like Jane Fonda's thighs by older, uglier, less intelligent men, I've viewed my dating "pool" (read: puddle), like a used car lot.
I'm really not looking to buy…mainly because I can’t afford the insurance, but I'll test drive a few so I don’t forget how to drive stick.
Besides, even if the paint job is scratched up and faded, it might have a great engine.
Or it will always smell like gas.
Either way, I’ve been forcing myself to at LEAST take a spin around the block.
There is nothing like a sophomore metaphor to kick off a tale starring a pale skinny-fat 36-year old man, and, of course, yours truly.
For the last several years I've been half-heartedly seeing guys, sort of clinging on to a past relationship that was actually only recently completely severed...and by severed I mean the band-aid that you have been slowly ripping off for five years finally loses it's sticky and falls off in the dirty wave pool at the water park…and unfortunately floats smack onto a dirty slut-whore.
This decapitation occurred during a time when I was sort of hanging out with this guy, we'll call him "Chevy" because Chevy's are semi-unattractive cars, but generally pretty safe.
Chevy is very nice, however Chevy possesses many qualities that I find extremely unattractive:
1) His skin is milky white
2) He has a high-pitched laugh.
3) The way he parts his hair causes a perfectly formed wave on the side of his head.
4) He is from the West Coast.
5) When he drinks, he talks about gay people a lot. This is accompanied by his unfortunate lispy West Coast accent.
6) Yes, I am a tad racist* against West Coast folk. I think they are an odd people.
7) He is skinny, but he has a gut, forming what I can only describe as sort of a pooch. A man-pooch. A mooch!
8) He doesn't really have anything that interesting to say, mainly because he's usually smoking pot or talking about gay people because he is always drunk.
I realize I am being very hard on the guy, but before you pass judgment, let's go to the tape.
Chevy invited me over to his apartment last night to drink wine and watch a DVD.
I should back up.
Chevy invited me to dinner last night to make up for the night before when, after begging me to come over at 1:30am (after I had been traveling from the west coast the entire day) he passed out in his chair, and left me standing outside of his apartment ringing his buzzer over and over again. And calling his cell-phone. And leaving threatening messages. Like, “Chevy, if you don’t pick up the phone, I'm going to burn your house down.”
He didn’t pick up and I decided to never speak to him again.
I changed my mind after receiving multiple groveling messages.
I don’t mind a man who begs.
I declined dinner because I’d rather shit than eat in front of people I don’t know that well. I decided to accept his second offer go to his house to drink wine and watch DVDs because I needed to get laid and I really didn't care by whom.
On my way to his house, the following texting exchange ensued:
Chevy: Can u pick up some ice-cream maybe? I have wine.
Me: Ok. What kind do you want? (Thinking: Do you want me to pick up your laundry too?)
Chevy: I’m easy. Something ben and jerrys but no cherry Garcia. I hate hippies. Whatever u like!
Me: I’m not going to have any. What kind do you want?
Chevy: u don’t like ice cream!?? Surprise me. Oo much pressure!
Me: no response.
I will touch upon the “u don’t like ice-cream?” in part II of this post.
En route to his apartment, I ran into three friends of mine who were having a drink outside at a bar near his house. We had a nice chat and I explained to them that I was picking up ice cream before I went to a boy’s house to drink wine and watch a DVD. One of the three sages informed me that there really wasn’t a place around to get ice cream.
She wasn’t entirely wrong.
Rummaging through the dirty bin at the dirty bodega across the street from his house, I did find some generic brand peanut butter and chocolate ice cream that wasn’t encrusted in freezer goo and texted Chevy to ask him if he liked chocolate and peanut butter (cause, you know, some people are deathly allergic to chocolate and/or peanut butter and I thought it might be unfortunate if he died because of me) which prompted him to text:
Chevy: Is it peanut butter pretzel? I love that!
I sighed. There wasn’t any other bodega in sight.
Stay tuned for Part II: "The Flab-ulous FornicatorWhat is Imodium Exactly?"
*I am also slightly racist against redheads.