A dear friend noted, on the drive to a New Year's Eve bash, that all of my stories ... and there are a lot of stories ... start in a bar. She asked me if perhaps that was something in which I might want to work.
I responded that I had enough stories involving church, passing the collection plate for the pastor's sick and dying Cadillac, and my father throwing a poodle at my head. I drink to forget those stories, and - in the process - acquire a few more.
Can I help it if people like to talk to me?
Case in point, last night - while minding my own business at the often mentioned popular hell-hole - a very attractive shrimp hit on me. It started off innocently enough with him asking me if I liked to f@!?, to which I replied, "Sure - why do you ask?"
What ensued from that moment can only be described as a calamity. Paul - like the apostle - proceeded to explain his theories about the universe, his three DWIs, and how he'll take it from pretty much anyone with a penis, as later evidenced by his casual comment that the 350 lbs. man on whose couch he was crashing last night wanted him, and Paul planned to put out. Not for the sake of the couch, or a particular interest in his large host ... but just because.
He called this morning to ask me out.
Meanwhile, in a moment of colossal weakness, mild drunkenness, and because he smelled really good ... I made a date with my ex.
That he is seeing someone else is neither here nor there. That he dumped me - unceremoniously, ignominiously, and tragically - a week before Valentine's Day, and via text message, is what really gets my goat. Frankly, I have half a mind to stand him up.
The other half remembers fondly how incredibly, surprisingly, flexible he is and that he has a prodigious amount of stamina for a man the same age as my mother.
Say what you will about me, but I do have my standards. He's paying for the cheap motel.
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