For your amusement...or, just fucking shoot me now
Posted: Fri Jan 15, 2010 2:33 pm
The last few months have found me single for the first time in nearly 6 years. This places me in the precarious situation of wanting to seek out new girls to intermingle with. I was never very good at this in the first place, and now it seems as though it’s been a really long time since those sort of people skills were laid by the way side. In fact, I feel one of the major bonuses to a long term relationship is that you get to avoid the calamity of dating.
Never the less, I’ve pursued the opposite sex with the intensity of a bounty hunter after dangerous and lucrative fugitives. Long, profound and fire-water-fueled evenings have become common, as have sore cheeks and bellies from the punctuated laughter. Not to mention the intoxication that accompanies liaisons with new and intriguing women, each with their unique softness and aromatic lure.
Fast forward to last week, and the start of the new semester; I run into a girl who was in my modern Middle Eastern history class last term. We’ll just call her Falon, because well, that’s her name and it’s different and everyone should be aware of it.
Falon is really cute, and has limitless energy that I can only describe as “spunk”. I enjoyed being in class with her and figured I’d see if she would like to get together sometime. She agrees and we exchange numbers.
Several hours later, driving home in a veritable blizzard, Falon calls wanting to know if id like to go and get a beer. Within minutes, I’m directed to her nearby apartment where she bounds into my truck.
Instantly, I sense that there’s something “different” going on here. Then I realize the situation; she’s shitfaced. Completely drunk. Blato. And is talking all sorts of weird shit about her childhood; like how she had cancer several times and possesses the ability to cure herself of most any disease. This is when she drops, what should have been, a major warning sign: that she was fucking abducted by fucking aliens when she was four fucking years old!
She was only a little put off when I told her that I was “skeptical” of her experience, but was distracted by the fact that we were at the bar and could start (continue!) drinking. After the second beer, and further interesting conversation; a group of, seemingly, gay men came and sat at the table next to us. This must have been to Falon’s dismay, as she proceeded to tap the closest guy on the shoulder and tell him that she “loves gay people, but HATES FAGS” and that her “uncle was a FAG and died of AIDS.”
I have no idea what is happening at this point, all I know is that I have a drunk, hot girl that is being overly flirtatious with me and that we gotta go. Sure, shes crazy, but that’s part of the ride, right?
We make our way down the street to a hippy bar. You know, the kind of place where you could throw a barstool through a window and the staff would just say “hey man, that’s not cooool.” They’re closing early, but the super kind, hippy bartender says she’d be honored to serve us one while they clean up. I excuse myself to the lavatory, only to arrive back a few minutes later to find Falon screaming at the, obviously terrified, bartender. I quickly plop a twenty down on the bar for the two beers and usher my “companion” out into the street.
When we get outside, she says that she owes me a beer for the one that I just had to walk out on and convinces me to run down the street to catch last call at the local chain shitbox. I relent and as soon as were in the joint she starts yelling that she wants to do shots!
Shots done, Falon goes on to apologize for her erratic behavior and implies that she isn’t normally like this. At which point she confides to me that she's had a horrible day and that this is the four year anniversary of her father’s death. Within seconds, she is sobbing, with her head in her hands, standing at the bar.
I get it now, to steal a page from Priests book; she’s a badly broken wing. I actually start to feel bad for her and say that it’s time to go home. We begin the several block trek back to my vehicle only to discover, in short order, that my keys are missing. All the places we just were are closed and it’s still blizzarding. Falon freaks out and accuses me of trying to take advantage of her and all sorts of other lewd things. She insists that I “planned to get her drunk” and how I “conveniently” lost my keys.
In spite of my efforts to control my rage, this is where I snap. If she had been a man and spoke to me in this manner, I’d of been tempted to violence. Instead, I yelled at her, just as I was taught to yell at people as a soldier; the way I’ve been deprogramming myself from for the last several years: “I’m going to get myself out of this situation. If you want to be part of the solution, you’ll shut your fucking face hole and divert your eyes from me for the duration.”
For the first time, maybe ever, Falon had nothing to say.
The saving grace of the evening is in that my dear friend Horshack (he looks just like Horshack from Welcome Back Cotter) was willing to come and drive me and my date home, through the brutal Michigan tundra, and then back once my extra set of keys were procured. This took over three hours in his clapped out 1987 bald tire Toyota deathcage.
When I poured Falon into her apartment, she wouldn’t let me go until I promised to call her… I haven’t.
I breached my door that morning with a mere 12 minutes to spare before my alarm clock went berserk and I was off to work for another full day in the machine shop.
Never the less, I’ve pursued the opposite sex with the intensity of a bounty hunter after dangerous and lucrative fugitives. Long, profound and fire-water-fueled evenings have become common, as have sore cheeks and bellies from the punctuated laughter. Not to mention the intoxication that accompanies liaisons with new and intriguing women, each with their unique softness and aromatic lure.
Fast forward to last week, and the start of the new semester; I run into a girl who was in my modern Middle Eastern history class last term. We’ll just call her Falon, because well, that’s her name and it’s different and everyone should be aware of it.
Falon is really cute, and has limitless energy that I can only describe as “spunk”. I enjoyed being in class with her and figured I’d see if she would like to get together sometime. She agrees and we exchange numbers.
Several hours later, driving home in a veritable blizzard, Falon calls wanting to know if id like to go and get a beer. Within minutes, I’m directed to her nearby apartment where she bounds into my truck.
Instantly, I sense that there’s something “different” going on here. Then I realize the situation; she’s shitfaced. Completely drunk. Blato. And is talking all sorts of weird shit about her childhood; like how she had cancer several times and possesses the ability to cure herself of most any disease. This is when she drops, what should have been, a major warning sign: that she was fucking abducted by fucking aliens when she was four fucking years old!
She was only a little put off when I told her that I was “skeptical” of her experience, but was distracted by the fact that we were at the bar and could start (continue!) drinking. After the second beer, and further interesting conversation; a group of, seemingly, gay men came and sat at the table next to us. This must have been to Falon’s dismay, as she proceeded to tap the closest guy on the shoulder and tell him that she “loves gay people, but HATES FAGS” and that her “uncle was a FAG and died of AIDS.”
I have no idea what is happening at this point, all I know is that I have a drunk, hot girl that is being overly flirtatious with me and that we gotta go. Sure, shes crazy, but that’s part of the ride, right?
We make our way down the street to a hippy bar. You know, the kind of place where you could throw a barstool through a window and the staff would just say “hey man, that’s not cooool.” They’re closing early, but the super kind, hippy bartender says she’d be honored to serve us one while they clean up. I excuse myself to the lavatory, only to arrive back a few minutes later to find Falon screaming at the, obviously terrified, bartender. I quickly plop a twenty down on the bar for the two beers and usher my “companion” out into the street.
When we get outside, she says that she owes me a beer for the one that I just had to walk out on and convinces me to run down the street to catch last call at the local chain shitbox. I relent and as soon as were in the joint she starts yelling that she wants to do shots!
Shots done, Falon goes on to apologize for her erratic behavior and implies that she isn’t normally like this. At which point she confides to me that she's had a horrible day and that this is the four year anniversary of her father’s death. Within seconds, she is sobbing, with her head in her hands, standing at the bar.
I get it now, to steal a page from Priests book; she’s a badly broken wing. I actually start to feel bad for her and say that it’s time to go home. We begin the several block trek back to my vehicle only to discover, in short order, that my keys are missing. All the places we just were are closed and it’s still blizzarding. Falon freaks out and accuses me of trying to take advantage of her and all sorts of other lewd things. She insists that I “planned to get her drunk” and how I “conveniently” lost my keys.
In spite of my efforts to control my rage, this is where I snap. If she had been a man and spoke to me in this manner, I’d of been tempted to violence. Instead, I yelled at her, just as I was taught to yell at people as a soldier; the way I’ve been deprogramming myself from for the last several years: “I’m going to get myself out of this situation. If you want to be part of the solution, you’ll shut your fucking face hole and divert your eyes from me for the duration.”
For the first time, maybe ever, Falon had nothing to say.
The saving grace of the evening is in that my dear friend Horshack (he looks just like Horshack from Welcome Back Cotter) was willing to come and drive me and my date home, through the brutal Michigan tundra, and then back once my extra set of keys were procured. This took over three hours in his clapped out 1987 bald tire Toyota deathcage.
When I poured Falon into her apartment, she wouldn’t let me go until I promised to call her… I haven’t.
I breached my door that morning with a mere 12 minutes to spare before my alarm clock went berserk and I was off to work for another full day in the machine shop.
