This delusional concept of dressing up in your finest threads just to sit in some quiet, ridiculously-named, fancy establishment that has four walls and a few toilets and neatly-folded napkins, spotless silverware, and an overly-priced menu just to talk about some ******** that you pulled out of your *** when your arm was being stretched to the max trying to reach for the stack of crisp twenties that the ATM viciously spat at you is simply ****** up.
Yeah… that’s what I thought until I met her.
You know, “the one.”
The one that all the guys say you’re ***** whipped about.
That one.
She has her **** together. She is driven, goal-oriented, smart, funny, and **** in that hippie/bohemian kinda way, except that she wears deodorant and shaves her legs.
She even shaves….ha! I’ll stop. I’m just toying with ya. But she does shave.
She even has dimples, man.
Dimples.
And guess who the lucky son-of-a-bitch is that has the best table in the house sitting directly across from her, staring into those brown, puppy eyes??
My ***
Then, without warning, this horrible, invasive, mood-altering, uncanny, uncouth, bastard-of-a-question barges right in. It asks, “How did you end up with her??”
Suddenly I find myself in a western movie, and this bow-legged son-of-a-bitch walks in asking for me. The double doors behind him swing back and forth in rapid motion. I don’t want to cause a ruckus, so I do what any real gentleman does: take it outside and settle it High Noon style. I stare into his eyes (they’re brown too, but not like hers), and his eye lids begin to slightly twitch. I draw my pistol from my hip and shoot him right between those eyes; blow the smoke away from the heated barrel; spin my pistol around a few times; and in the holster it goes.
Problem solved.
She and I start jawing after the waiter with the long rod lodged in his *** goes to fetch our excessively-priced wine.
I swear he said his name is Skip or Kip or… ah who cares?
I continue staring into the eyes of the most beautiful woman in the world.
She begins to tell me about her bittersweet day, so I cross my arms and lean in a little. All my focus is on her and of course her **** mouth too.
God, she has beautiful lips….
She’s telling me about her day at work – at the vet, that is.
She’s a veterinarian.
Anyway, there’s this little black-and-white, speckled miniature dachshund named Teagan that has been staying at the vet for a few months now, and it’s made a full recovery.
She’s telling me this story with such great passion and zeal, but she’s frowning.
This wealthy, elderly couple adopted it today, and Teagan is gone.
She grabs my hand and apologizes for being such a “downer”.
“I sorry,” she says in one of those baby voices.
Is that a pouty lip???
**** Me...
Did I really just witness a pouty lip form before my very eyes??
Did she actually just talk like a baby???
Plain and simple, I don’t stand for that cutesy, baby ******** that pathetic material pedaled by those chumps who pull that “good guys come last” crap.
She’s awkwardly staring at me.
Before she can utter a single word, I bolt out of my chair, telling her that I’m suddenly feeling ill and need to use the restroom.
I whip around without looking and bump into our waiter who is bringing us our wine. It spills all over his pearly, white jacket.
He grabs my arm to break his fall, but we both hit the ground hard, right on our backs too.
All eyes are on me.
It’s dead, ******* silent. You could hear a mouse ****
What do I say?
I can’t just make a dash for the door without saying anything.
My mind is completely frozen, and I lie here, trembling.
Suddenly, my lips begin to part.
The words wiggle their way out of that tiny space between my lips.
“I sorry.”
…
. . .
. . .
. . .
**** me.