For hislittleangels
So, okay, maybe he was nervous. Just, you know, a little. Because it was that inconceivably crazy hot guy from the garage a few weeks ago, the one that had him drooling on his shirt like a moron. And to top it off, the guy knew about batman. And he could make pie. If he screwed this up, he would kick his own ass from now until he was fifty. On the bright side, at fifty, he might get another shot, thanks to the dude's hopefully jesting walker fetish.
It took him a good twenty minutes to find something to wear. Yeah, okay, jeans and a t-shirt were fine, but he didn't want to be all hey, I'm not taking you seriously and you're not worth dressing up for, but at the same time, he couldn't go dressy because it was just pie and some British show in his living room. Plus, he didn't want to look like a pretentious douche-bag asshole. He finally managed to settle on some nice jeans and a t-shirt beneath one of those oxford button-downs. That was, you know, good, right? Kinda a mix? Shit. He was so fucking gay right now, wasn't he?
He caught a shower, and left in what he thought was enough time to find the place. Evidently, one of the stupid roads leading to his suburb was a one-way street that rounded back out to the highway, so by the time he knocked on the door (holding a pack of cool-whip- for the pie, you understand, Ellen told him it's always nice to bring something), he was probably a good ten minutes late.
It took him a good twenty minutes to find something to wear. Yeah, okay, jeans and a t-shirt were fine, but he didn't want to be all hey, I'm not taking you seriously and you're not worth dressing up for, but at the same time, he couldn't go dressy because it was just pie and some British show in his living room. Plus, he didn't want to look like a pretentious douche-bag asshole. He finally managed to settle on some nice jeans and a t-shirt beneath one of those oxford button-downs. That was, you know, good, right? Kinda a mix? Shit. He was so fucking gay right now, wasn't he?
He caught a shower, and left in what he thought was enough time to find the place. Evidently, one of the stupid roads leading to his suburb was a one-way street that rounded back out to the highway, so by the time he knocked on the door (holding a pack of cool-whip- for the pie, you understand, Ellen told him it's always nice to bring something), he was probably a good ten minutes late.