This is the story of a girl and a boy.
Though I should warn you this is not a love story.
This is a loathe story.
As in I loathe the very remembrance of his image burned in my mind.
The man raped my soul.
I was at work one day when who should walk past me?
But the soul raper himself.
Can I just say the way you have your hair, well it, it just looks lovely.
I blushed, in all modesty, of course.
He seemed a handsome fellow.
They all do when they cleverly sport beards to hide their ugly mugs.
Actually, do you think you could help me? I'm looking to get a fragrance for my aunt.
So I showed him several different kinds and he made up some elaborate story of needing to send it to her and then he asked me what my name was.
So I handed him my business card.
Actually, can I get your number? I don't really have an aunt I need to buy perfume for I just thought you were cute and wanted to talk to you.
My very own Meet Cute happening at work.
Merry Christmas to me.
But I didn't give him my number because that's considered quite the professional no no.
So I told him he could email me and one week later, he did.
A cleverly worded note he suggested a day and time and place for our rendezvous.
And I. Was. Thrilled!!
How romantic!
How delightful!
How magically unexpectedly lovely.
Shudder.
Soul Raper used the word lovely so many times on our date I may never enjoy the word again.
You look lovely.
This stew is lovely.
Some girl he met in Belgium was LOVELY.
My fucking nightmare of a date?
LOUSY.
I get to the pub first and it's a place I love that I'm a regular at.
So I tell the waitresses what's up and we're all giddy and giggling over my prince prospect.
The place is pretty packed but there's a booth in the corner with a Reserved sign.
For us, of course, he'd planned in advance.
Not really, but it seemed like some adorable coincidence.
There was a romantic corner booth saved just for us!
C'est magnifique!
Clearly we were about to star in two very different screenplays.
My first warning sign was the second he sat down he was not as cute as I remembered.
The beard was gone and he had very nondescript features.
You know how in every romantic comedy there is a peculiar looking guy who plays the funny side kick to the handsome leading man?
Well this guy was definitely miscast as my leading man.
The dick prick side kick was his area of expertise.
He then proceeded to violently spew his narcissistic bravado all over my vodka press while my eyes darted around the bar desperately trying to plan an escape route.
Talking with Soul Raper was like being out with Gaston.
Only without the dashing Disney sex appeal.
He interrupted me when I tried to talk, insulted the greatest review I've ever received in my acting career, disregarded my sincere compliment with a snide, Yeah, I've heard that before and bored me with tales of his latest South Park viewings.
If my life were a reality tv show I would have thrown my drink in his face and used a bunch of expletives to tell him where he could shove the rest of his evening.
But my mother raised me well and I was determined to remain a lady.
A lady who was delighting over the words she'd use to write about such a disappointing date.
He didn't pay.
And his Napolean Complex reared its ugly head when we stood up to go and he hissed my heels were sure tall.
What a fucking waste of my Miraculous bra.
Lucky for me I left the bar right as my la fee verte was getting off work.
So I met up with him and went home with a few hickeys as a souvenir.
Next time some weird looking side kick sits in front of me?
I'm downing my vodka and heading for the door.
Life is far too short for anything less than a handsome leading man.
No comments:
Post a Comment