i looked kind of cute when you were drunk
Obviously your lives have been empty in the absence of horrible details about mine. Believe me, this is a thing that I know. I know this. Be assured that I have been busily generating more horrible details for you to consume. Feast upon them. Rub them like butter on your exposed brains.
Know that the story I originally had prepared for you involved a facet of my endlessly hemorrhaging love live centered around an individual I will call "crazy porn girl." I use this term with affection. Close your eyes. Roll them around in your warm sockets and imagine what I might have told you about a person I'd seen fit to gift with such a title. Now open them and pay attention to me. Pay attention! That is not the story you will be getting, because, like a cable golf tournament, it has been pre-empted by breaking news.
Essential details are as follows: Last week I went to Dayton for a birthday party and three-dollar Long Island iced teas; drinks that, while formidable, were no match for my powerful liver. During the festivities, a woman--we'll call her "L" for the sake of anonymity and politeness--introduced herself by demanding a kiss from me and everyone else in my immediate vicinity. Apparently it was a contest that I won (those of you who have kissed me will be unsurprised), and we seemed to hit it off rather well. Gentle readers, know that I was careful to ascertain her relationship status, and, by her own admission, that status was "single."
Fast forward to last night. I attempted to call her (at her request) before I went to bed, but instead some dude answered. I didn't think much of it, as I could hear a party in the background, and a later text message said that someone had stolen her phone. I made a futile attempt to sleep.
Around 5 a.m., a man claiming to be her boyfriend called me and threatened, and I quote, to "eat my liver" if I did not stay away from L, the girl in question, never mind that she unequivocally told me that she did not have a boyfriend, and, I feel compelled to point out, started the whole thing. This dude called three times, only leaving off when I told him I'd call the police if he called again.
Seriously. My fucking liver.
No mention was made of fava beans or Chianti. Clearly he is not a mental giant, as he made his calls without blocking his number, which I now have. I have also deduced his first name using the magic of the internets. During his threats, he called himself "Omega." What the shit is that? I can't help but picture the skin-tight leotard that axiomatically must go with that name.
Happily, this incident gives me an easy and plausible out if this girl appears to be more trouble than she's worth, as now seems likely. To wit: She is in Dayton and has a crazy boyfriend/ex-boyfriend who tells strangers on the phone that his name is Omega because he "ends things," and I am "close to the end." Based on my cursory research, the data suggest that his name is Dave (Dave Omega?), and he is a ballsack. The most intolerable thing about all this is that, if one accepts the superficial truth of karma, it follows that I somehow deserve this bullshit. Probably I do.
--
A coda outlining the rest of the day:
7:00 a.m.- An employment rejection email arrives, assuring me that my educational background and qualifications are "completely satisfactory," but politely requesting that I fuck off.
8:30 a.m.- I rush out to a job interview, snazzy in my blue business suit, forgetting that I'm still wearing the sneakers I put on and neglecting to bring business shoes.
11:00 a.m.- Miguel and I are viciously mocked by a policeman who happened to be a pace behind us as we strolled past a sign informing us that "sidewalk closed." He probably wouldn't have, but I read the sign aloud in a singsong voice at high volume.
12:00 p.m. on- Beer and kung fu movies. On days that your life is anonymously threatened, however clumsily, you don't have to do anything else. It's in the Constitution. Look it up.
Know that the story I originally had prepared for you involved a facet of my endlessly hemorrhaging love live centered around an individual I will call "crazy porn girl." I use this term with affection. Close your eyes. Roll them around in your warm sockets and imagine what I might have told you about a person I'd seen fit to gift with such a title. Now open them and pay attention to me. Pay attention! That is not the story you will be getting, because, like a cable golf tournament, it has been pre-empted by breaking news.
Essential details are as follows: Last week I went to Dayton for a birthday party and three-dollar Long Island iced teas; drinks that, while formidable, were no match for my powerful liver. During the festivities, a woman--we'll call her "L" for the sake of anonymity and politeness--introduced herself by demanding a kiss from me and everyone else in my immediate vicinity. Apparently it was a contest that I won (those of you who have kissed me will be unsurprised), and we seemed to hit it off rather well. Gentle readers, know that I was careful to ascertain her relationship status, and, by her own admission, that status was "single."
Fast forward to last night. I attempted to call her (at her request) before I went to bed, but instead some dude answered. I didn't think much of it, as I could hear a party in the background, and a later text message said that someone had stolen her phone. I made a futile attempt to sleep.
Around 5 a.m., a man claiming to be her boyfriend called me and threatened, and I quote, to "eat my liver" if I did not stay away from L, the girl in question, never mind that she unequivocally told me that she did not have a boyfriend, and, I feel compelled to point out, started the whole thing. This dude called three times, only leaving off when I told him I'd call the police if he called again.
Seriously. My fucking liver.
No mention was made of fava beans or Chianti. Clearly he is not a mental giant, as he made his calls without blocking his number, which I now have. I have also deduced his first name using the magic of the internets. During his threats, he called himself "Omega." What the shit is that? I can't help but picture the skin-tight leotard that axiomatically must go with that name.
Happily, this incident gives me an easy and plausible out if this girl appears to be more trouble than she's worth, as now seems likely. To wit: She is in Dayton and has a crazy boyfriend/ex-boyfriend who tells strangers on the phone that his name is Omega because he "ends things," and I am "close to the end." Based on my cursory research, the data suggest that his name is Dave (Dave Omega?), and he is a ballsack. The most intolerable thing about all this is that, if one accepts the superficial truth of karma, it follows that I somehow deserve this bullshit. Probably I do.
--
A coda outlining the rest of the day:
7:00 a.m.- An employment rejection email arrives, assuring me that my educational background and qualifications are "completely satisfactory," but politely requesting that I fuck off.
8:30 a.m.- I rush out to a job interview, snazzy in my blue business suit, forgetting that I'm still wearing the sneakers I put on and neglecting to bring business shoes.
11:00 a.m.- Miguel and I are viciously mocked by a policeman who happened to be a pace behind us as we strolled past a sign informing us that "sidewalk closed." He probably wouldn't have, but I read the sign aloud in a singsong voice at high volume.
12:00 p.m. on- Beer and kung fu movies. On days that your life is anonymously threatened, however clumsily, you don't have to do anything else. It's in the Constitution. Look it up.