Worst Date Ever: Dude Edition
I encountered this guy in a chain restaurant. So I was already pissed. We exchanged some pretty serious fuck yous over his drunken douchery. And because I'm such a pristine lady, he was escorted out. Months later, in an 'only me' twist of fate, I ended up his manager. I knew him immediately but never said anything because he didn't seem to recognize me, and he was actually a likeable enough guy. Then we did that whole after work drink thing and it came out. From him, not me. Turns out he did know who I was and apologized for his atrocious first impression. He was going through things, blah blah...A casual friendship ensued.
Until one day he called and asked if I would see Nine Inch Nails with him. (Um, duh.) Then he wanted to be sure I understood that this would be a date. (Um...OK, sure.) I'd like to point out here that this was the With Teeth tour, so we were all grown adults by then. And I was no longer his boss, thank g-d for him.
The plan was to make a day of it--hang, pregame, dinner, show. The day of, he calls and asks me if I can pick him up-his car had crapped out. I missed the red flag, well because, shit happens. I get to his apartment in the middle of a very serious game of World of Warcraft. I sit quietly with minimal interaction so as not to shatter his brow-furrowing concentration. Like an hour later we head to my place. Where he proceeds to get so stoned he can't even talk. Like slack-jawed, fucking comatose, stoned.--So much for the getting to know you better time.
When he's finally able to utter a few syllables, we head out for dinner. I use this term loosely. I wasn't looking for four star dining, I'm a fairly low-maintenance gal, and we were doing NIN after all. But I thought there would at least be a bar involved. So we end up at Jersey Mike's. Yep. Where my knight in shining armor orders himself a sandwich, pays for it, then walks away from the counter to sit down. By the time I get to the table he's ripped through half his food like a savage. Mayo down his arm, shit dripping from his elbow. Talking (I think) with his mouth full. The only thing getting me through this was knowing I'd be just feet away from my future ex-husband Trent within the hour.
And then there we were. Two lines formed--boys and girls. Pat downs and bag checks. Girl line of course took eons because girls carry stupid shit around with them at all times. I finally get through the door and Casanova is nowhere to be found. Maybe he went to get a beer? I walk the perimeter of the coliseum with no sign of him, so I find my seat. There he is!! Already sitting and texting away like he couldn't be bothered by his surroundings. For. the entire. show.
As we walk out, a Maxim magazine cover approaches. Legs-a lot of them, boobs-a lot of them, blonde hair-a lot of it, blue eyes-both of them. Guess who this walking sex stick turns out to be... My handsome, attentive, romantic date's girlfriend. And there I stand with my good personality, in my combat boots and hair I hadn't brushed in a week. (Don't get me wrong, I can hold my own. But there was really no contest here, and I have no problem saying so.) A few mumbled words and glares were exchanged and before I knew it, Maxim was asking me for a ride.
We left Cyrano standing on the curb, and discovered we had a lot more in common than just horrible taste in men. We became fast friends-rarely ever talked about him-and went on to have even crazier stories to tell than this one. To this day she's one of my favorite people. And him? No idea, and as I started writing this I realized I can't even remember his last name...
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