Bits and pieces, because I can’t gather my brain enough to compose a decent post.
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For years my drink o’ choice was – this is a Judgment Free Zone, right? – Dr. Pepper and vodka. Why? Beats the shit out of me, other than Julie drank vodka and people expect you to, like, mix it with something when you drink it? I tried the cran route – gag – and clear soda? Blech. I’m not a soda drinker, with the exception of *drumroll, please* Dr. Pepper, so… a Drink Was Born.
We’d go to this little shitty bar with little shitty tables and a little shitty jukebox and little DELICIOUS plates of nachos and the one girl bartender whose name I can no longer recall would see me and do a guy-nod in my direction as she reached for the vodka and I’d do a guy-nod back at her and that was that.
But then I moved, away from that little shitty bar in that shitty little town and I hadn’t had a vodka-Dr.-Pepper since… until recently when I happened to have both those ingredients. “What the hell?” I figured, and mixed one up.
Not the same without the nachos.
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I have friends coming in town soon. I texted my brother to ask for good restaurant suggestions and his reply was “Have you started deep cleaning yet?”
Thanks for ruining my excitement, Brother.
Will BFFF and her Husbando give a flying fuck if the rug in front of my kitchen sink has been freshly laundered? No, no they will not. But IS said rug freshly laundered? You bet your sweet ass it is. In fact, I might just serve breakfast off of it one morning.
Also, in “preparation” I completed a Wal-Mart run reminiscent of previous party hosting panic-induced trips. I swear to you I did need a new air mattress. But throw pillows for the couch? What the hell kind of crazy came over me? I’m out of control.
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He took me to a Caribbean restaurant in some fucking hipster “neighborhood” that in all actuality is just three blocks of one street and also FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT VENTURE MORE THAN ONE QUARTER BLOCK NORTH OR SOUTH OF THIS ROAD OR YOU WILL BE BEATEN AND MURDERED AND THEN BEATEN AGAIN POSTMORTEM.
He was babbling on about fried plantains and I was trying not to anxiety-sweat through my dress. I wasn’t hungry – do people get hungry on blind dates? – but I politely ate whatever shit was placed in front of me. Nibbling all dainty-like, not because I wanted to appear to be a lady but because I didn’t want a reversal all over the tropical birds painted on the table.
What did I order? I do not know, and it does not matter, because he ordered the fish and the fish arrived WHOLE and then he took his fork and poked at an eyeball and held it up and popped it in his mouth and I died. I fucking died and we never went out again.
(for the record, it wasn’t just because of the fish eyeball. He was also a douche. I assume the two aren’t related, but who knows?).
the sloppy copy 