Here's a little hump-day evening pick-me-up for you. I went out with a guy last night who, while absolutely a perfect gentleman, was about as interesting as talking to my cat while watching paint dry. He seemed nervous about everything from ordering wine to thinking about what he was going to say next to, I don't know, existing. I also think he lied about being 32 because he mentioned something about all of his friends who, "have been in the city for 20 or 30 years." Even if you happen to have gone to college here in Nuevo York, that time span isn't really realistic.
The best part of my night was getting back to Dumbo and seeing that the pizza place downstairs was still open and willing to serve up some super healthy carbs and cheese. I digress. The point is I'd already deleted his number out of my phone and forgotten about him until:
Is that normal? Is this something people generally do? I can't stop laughing. I was fine just pretending it never happened. Anyhow, to all of you, good luck, you know, with the things.
Vennifer.
"...in a hushed whisper like a golf announcer, 'The date has now started to hollow out every piece of bread from the basket and pile the rinds up on his bread plate like a squirrel collecting for harvest.' PS that really happened last night. Why does he do it? Because 80% of the calories from bread are in the crust." ~CB. Some things in life are too awesomely bad to not chronicle and share. This is a collection of them from my own adventures in dating.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
Crazy Sauce
I was working on something about all the ridiculous back and forth in the world of online dating. And while I do believe that one will ultimately be funny, as it directly involves both Alvin and the Chipmunks AND Harry Potter, something has come up which needs immediately attention. It's this:
I'm sorry, what? I don't even know what to do with this one. I mean, I obviously want to go out with him for the story, but I think it's going to have to be my final story. I think it's going to be my final story because this lunatic is obviously going to make a skin blanket out of me. And while Casey is always prepared to order a champagne tower and mardi gras Indians for my memorial should I happen to meet an unfortunate end, I don't yet have a working will that will legally bind my parents to bury me in New York and donate all my remaining assets to Hillary's future superPAC. Stay tuned, though. It can't take too long.
K, enjoy the weekend, yall.
Vennifer.
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