You were thinner, I was funnier on OkCupid. Alright, and thinner. I seduced you through my gmail. Meeting at the bar where I used to be mayor. That weird first look. Not horrible. How many characters later I think we're connecting. Are we connecting? I tell you about absinthe. Relay the wiki facts. Make it sound mysterious. Magical, like a potion. Order a glass.
Ugh I hate the taste of licorice. That's Pernod? Pretend to like the taste. God, why did I talk about it so much? This tastes like kerosene and black jellybeans. Try to focus on you in your little houndstooth pea coat. It's hot in here, crowded, you should at least take off your Dr. Who scarf from ebay. Coat off, you're gonna stay awhile. Love the tat sleeves. Thought they were real for a second and almost bailed. Your shampoo smells like a breakfast yogurt cup.
On Thursdays this place has an 8-bit turntablist. Skritch Or Die. I tell you he's great, but he's not actually great. Just average. Is there enough of that sort of thing for there to be an "average"? Can horrible have an average level? Talk about mario and sonic and Halo Modern Warfare just isn't the sameiness. Talk about dog dreams (lots of buttholes) and Chinese dumplings and Shaq's twitter just isn't as good as it used to be.
I'm committed to the absinthes, barely drinkable, barely buzzed. I try to make the switch to drinking them ironically, but can't quite pull it off. Continue to earnestly drink them. An hour of your favorite youtubes, described in exquisite detail. Wishing we'd sat at the Jenga tables with the couches in the back. Stories about your friends and how hilarious they aren't. Guess you had to be there I would never say because I want to get a hand under your shirt.
More absinthe. Your eyes, your face, fading into a green-colored, Oscar Wilde, postructuralist fun house of Bieber baby Funny or Dies and Maoist diatribes against Barack Obama. Searching for some sort of meaning, separately, together in the screens of our smart phones. A couple of over-aged, overgrown, over-fed, hypertext Holden Caulfields encountering phony force fields. Starting to get overwrought and full of myself. Reel it back. Awkward epochs following the airing of divergent views on the subject of blowjobs.
Bathroom break. A chance to level out. Pound a beer to get that awful taste out of my mouth. Why are you gone so long? Dumping? Contemplating your secret, farty smell. I think this is going pretty well. Another beer. Text the friendzone girl from work named Diablokobe. Are you ditching me? No, there you are, tangled up in a pub crawl sargassum of Good Will paisley elbows and skinny jeans. Hey, dude in the toasted-buckwheat Nehru jacket, make some room for my girl. Sorry, didn't mean to imply ownership of your sexuality.
I'm drunker than you are. Getting loud. I'm calling bands you like "gay" even though I hate it when people say things are gay. Modest Mouse? Are you kidding me? Your profile said Neutral Milk Hotel. What's next? Vampire Weekend? Pomplamoose? You do like them!? Ugh!
You're mad, accusatory. They aren't even close to being similar. I try to explain why but I get distracted by being so drunk. You change the subject to movies. Ask if I saw Inception. Of course I did. It was TERRIBLE. It was GAY. Conversation breaking apart like a shuttle with a bad heat shield. I didn't know your brother was gay.
Shots! Let's do some shots! My last-ditch attempt to salvage the night by drowning it in a bad broth of Jägerbombs and tequila. Goading you into drinking. Is that wrong? Is it illegal to want girls drunk now? I start to worry about date-rape scenarios. I seem like exactly the sort of thing you will regret in the morning. Screw it. I'll data-dap my barback-app and get you something sweet. A mojitotini on the beach.
Out on the street. A hundred dollar bar tab. Tomorrow...hahaha...wait hang on. Oooh, gonna puke. No, no. I'm fine. Tomorrow...hey, tomorrow let's go get some Vietnamese. There's this place with 4.5 on Yelp. Have you ever...no, not like Thai. They have these sandwiches...uhhh...pork sandwiches. Sharing a cab. Can't remember what the sandwiches are called. Phong Duc? He's taking me home first. How do I talk you into getting out with me?
Making out. Yeah. This is the best. This is what I was waiting for. The cabbie is watching us in the mirror, like my dog used to stare at me when I was trying to jerk off. Power through it. Hey, your boob. Hey. Heyyyy. You want to...uhhhh....hey you want to get out with me and ooOOHHH WHATTHEFUCK YOU JUST PUKED INTO MY MOUTH. RIGHT DOWN MY THROAT.
Staggering out of the cab. To-the-chalkboard boner issues, the mouth-feel of your upchuck. I swallowed some for sure. This isn't even my block. Is this Wrigleyville? I'm confused by all the Christmas lights that steakhouse has in the trees out front. Should I check-in on Foursquare? The cabbie is yelling. You're wiping with a tissue a thousand times too small to clean up all that oatmeal-colored mistake down the front of your coat. Two guys with mops cleaning up an oil spill. Paying the cabbie to take you home. You mutter something about stopping with the tequila.
Cab pulling away, you lean your head out the window and tell me to call you. Your number is in my phone. No way am I calling you. I'll never get over the sight of that gut-gravy covering your rack. You puked in my fucking mouth. You're disgusting. You're horrible. I could never imagine having sex with you and now I can't help it I'm imagining having sex with you. It's great. Dammit. I hate myself, this life, this world.
Decent rack. I'll call you tomorrow, Kaylee26. And the next day. I'll leave message after message wondering why you won't call me back.
It's because of my BO, isn't it?
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
With an average of 40 IPAs added every day, it can be difficult to taste them all
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