I should have known. I'm not necessarily the most romantically inclined guy among us, mind you. I spend far too much time working to really meet anyone.
So a girl met me instead. The girl next to me in English somehow became enchanted by my pure sexiness and mad lady charming skills. Not to mention the two tons of awesome that I drink for breakfast.
Anyway, she gives me her number on a slip of paper that basically reads "Call me and you'll get a treat." What kind of a level headed economist (or straight male) turns down the offer of a treat (from a good looking girl) with the small cost of adding maybe 5 minutes to my phone bill.
I went home, waited for her to get home, and rang her up. 200 minutes later she had me wrapped around her finger, begging for the gift. "First you're going on a date with me." I respond rather hesitantly. "Ok, sure."
How could it hurt, I say? What's the big deal. See, this was my first date. How was I to know?
The next day, after an elapsed 17 hours of coaching from female friends who somehow managed to find out that I was going out on this excursion, we met at the mall. She had decided the location and the time, what movie we were to see and where in the Food Court I was going to feed her the night before. She'd put lots of thought into this. We eat dinner. I spill Coke on my white shirt. White shirt. Not only is this my favorite shirt (it's all gauzy and has little leather threads on it. Sure, it may make me look "gay" but it's freakin' awesome) but I know that she absolutely loves it too. Now I have a stain on it. Brilliant.
While looking forward to the time I'll spent in a closed room attempting to spray hairspray onto the stain to take it out she drags me to the DDR machine. There was extra time and she wanted a show. She says "Do 321 Stars on 8x". She doesn't even know what that means, but her friend brags about it. "No, not Standard. Heavy!" Her friend lies a lot.
Now I was done sucking up the machine, my shirt was sweaty and stained, and it was time for the movie. Which sold out. So was our secondary choice. We were left with a movie that I just couldn't make her laugh in. Meet the Fockers. Now, don't go preaching to me about how funny it is. It's very funny. It sucked, though. I was intending on making her laugh by mocking the seriousness of Phantom of the Opera or Flight of the Phoenix (hey, they're stranded. It's serious stuff). I couldn't make jokes. Oop, the theatre is full so we get to sit in the front row.
Here's the unbelievable part. The girl who sits on my other side decides she likes me to. Slips me her number and a kiss on the cheek as we're leaving. Her boyfriend didn't like that.
As you may know I'm a non-violent person. I'd prefer to have someone try to beat the crap out of me than beat the crap out of someone else. That's what happened. Her boyfriend waited for me to leave the theatre and in the hallway out he jumped me. Next thing I knew I'm up against the wall being punched in the gut. This guy is probably a foot shorter than me, too, so it was just sad. I let him punch his arms out, receiving a few hits to the crotch and then smile at him. Apparantly he doesn't like people having a good time or smiling because he aimed right for my nose at this point. You must have seen my nose by now. It's visible from space.
I see a fist flying at me which sucks. Instinct takes over and I do exactly what I'm supposed to. I turn my head. A good firm blow to the jaw finally gets me to the point where I just won't take this anymore. I push the guy into the opposite wall and take him to the floor.
"Touch me again and I swear you'll be shorter than you already are." The only reply I get is a kick to the shin. My bad shin. The one I broke last year. He gets a tap on the shoulder from my foot and I walk off with a slight limp. I'm yelled at on my way out. Security escorts me out of the theatre.
Here's the best part. My date thinks I was actually hitting on the other girl to begin with. No chance for a second date.
Oh, and I found a rip in my shirt, too.
Q
So a girl met me instead. The girl next to me in English somehow became enchanted by my pure sexiness and mad lady charming skills. Not to mention the two tons of awesome that I drink for breakfast.
Anyway, she gives me her number on a slip of paper that basically reads "Call me and you'll get a treat." What kind of a level headed economist (or straight male) turns down the offer of a treat (from a good looking girl) with the small cost of adding maybe 5 minutes to my phone bill.
I went home, waited for her to get home, and rang her up. 200 minutes later she had me wrapped around her finger, begging for the gift. "First you're going on a date with me." I respond rather hesitantly. "Ok, sure."
How could it hurt, I say? What's the big deal. See, this was my first date. How was I to know?
The next day, after an elapsed 17 hours of coaching from female friends who somehow managed to find out that I was going out on this excursion, we met at the mall. She had decided the location and the time, what movie we were to see and where in the Food Court I was going to feed her the night before. She'd put lots of thought into this. We eat dinner. I spill Coke on my white shirt. White shirt. Not only is this my favorite shirt (it's all gauzy and has little leather threads on it. Sure, it may make me look "gay" but it's freakin' awesome) but I know that she absolutely loves it too. Now I have a stain on it. Brilliant.
While looking forward to the time I'll spent in a closed room attempting to spray hairspray onto the stain to take it out she drags me to the DDR machine. There was extra time and she wanted a show. She says "Do 321 Stars on 8x". She doesn't even know what that means, but her friend brags about it. "No, not Standard. Heavy!" Her friend lies a lot.
Now I was done sucking up the machine, my shirt was sweaty and stained, and it was time for the movie. Which sold out. So was our secondary choice. We were left with a movie that I just couldn't make her laugh in. Meet the Fockers. Now, don't go preaching to me about how funny it is. It's very funny. It sucked, though. I was intending on making her laugh by mocking the seriousness of Phantom of the Opera or Flight of the Phoenix (hey, they're stranded. It's serious stuff). I couldn't make jokes. Oop, the theatre is full so we get to sit in the front row.
Here's the unbelievable part. The girl who sits on my other side decides she likes me to. Slips me her number and a kiss on the cheek as we're leaving. Her boyfriend didn't like that.
As you may know I'm a non-violent person. I'd prefer to have someone try to beat the crap out of me than beat the crap out of someone else. That's what happened. Her boyfriend waited for me to leave the theatre and in the hallway out he jumped me. Next thing I knew I'm up against the wall being punched in the gut. This guy is probably a foot shorter than me, too, so it was just sad. I let him punch his arms out, receiving a few hits to the crotch and then smile at him. Apparantly he doesn't like people having a good time or smiling because he aimed right for my nose at this point. You must have seen my nose by now. It's visible from space.
I see a fist flying at me which sucks. Instinct takes over and I do exactly what I'm supposed to. I turn my head. A good firm blow to the jaw finally gets me to the point where I just won't take this anymore. I push the guy into the opposite wall and take him to the floor.
"Touch me again and I swear you'll be shorter than you already are." The only reply I get is a kick to the shin. My bad shin. The one I broke last year. He gets a tap on the shoulder from my foot and I walk off with a slight limp. I'm yelled at on my way out. Security escorts me out of the theatre.
Here's the best part. My date thinks I was actually hitting on the other girl to begin with. No chance for a second date.
Oh, and I found a rip in my shirt, too.
Q
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