In case you're new here, let me just go ahead and tell you about my fear of men. I lack social skills on even the best of days, and when forced to interact without the use of such awesome mediums like booze or drugs, you can be sure as shit that I am going to act like one awkward mother fucker. I get the nervous stuttering chatter, hand sweats, and body temperatures typically associated with menopause. Take all that and times it by a trillion when I am talking to a guy that I find attractive. Here's the thing- I'm really fucking picky. I know this would seem contrary to my normal behavior, but let me explain. I'm usually drunk. Yeah, that's about it, actually. I use alcohol to lower my own standards. Oh, Jesus. That sounds pretty fucking pathetic when I write it down. Oh well, blogs are for the truth, am I right people?
Aaaanyway, so here's how our tumultuous romance began. A few months ago, after I had tried unsuccessfully at "No Drink January" (I know, right? It seemed failproof.) I started walking almost every day to the nearest booze-shop near my house to pick up cheap wine. It just so happens that it is a ten minute walk to the Plaid Pantry, where they sell this glorious semi-palatable wine for three fucking dollars. A nice surprise for my unending quest to chip away at my credit card bill (yes, at least $5,000 of which I can attribute to last summer's proximity to trendy bars). So after a few times swallowing my shame and purchasing the wine (and alright, sometimes pretzel M&Ms), (and yes, usually 2-3 bottles), I began to notice that the guy behind the counter was incredibly good looking. And he usually liked to small talk while in the throws of our 1.5 minute transaction. Aaah! Now I have to small talk with a hot guy AND fucking multitask??? The terror of doing so almost stopped my Plaid Pantry trips altogether, but alas, his knuckle tattoos called to me. "Stare at my sexiness," they would say to me, "Try and figure out what I say without looking too obvious..."
This banter went on for a couple months before I left for New Zealand. When I got back, a month later, I was excited to revisit where we had bashfully left off in our stupid back and forths. The first trip to the ol' PP was... a let down. But I went back anyway because my alcoholism and frugality forced me to. So about a month ago, I go in after a reeeeally long shift, and knuckle-tats looks a bit more terrified than usual. "So..." he begins, "Tomorrow is my last day..." Hmm. I'm never one to get blatantly obvious remarks. "Oh, really? Where are you going?" Blah blah blah something about train hopping and I miss most of it because the icy glares from the customers waiting behind me are too heavy to ignore. I'm done paying for mommy's brain bleach, and now we're just standing there sort of awkwardly staring at each other. So I did what any good high school girl would do- I said "have fun" and ran the fuck out.
I don't know what caused me to do this, because like I said, I'm scared of interaction... but I went in the next day. Call it the "mustering of courage" to end all "musterings of courage". So, knuckle tats is standing in front of me with like, really shaky hands and gives me some speech about "in the interest of not regretting anything before I leave" and FINALLY asked me out. I walked away, elated, and immediately called my Dad, sister, and bestfriend/exboyfriend (am I the only girl with this problem?) because this date was waaay overdue. I had already explained to most of my family members that yes, I was in love with a boy who had knuckle tattoos and they were just going to have to deal with our future tattoo'd babies.
Our first date went predictably how I ruin all future relationships. I get kind of drunk and then pretend to be the coy, shy, unassuming yet alluring and sexy version of who they want me to be. This is because my normal self- obnoxiously witty, loud, perverted, and at times crazy and abrasive (alright straightforwardly abusive) immediately scares off any and all potential suitors, from experience. I swear to God I am such a dude sometimes. My favorite move is to say, "Do you want to come back to my place for a beer?" And when they balk and say something about moving too fast, I reply with a version of "There will be no funny business, I promise." But men are men and inevitably we end up in bed where I have to coax them down from the 'are we moving to fast' ladder. The next week or so we spend at my house enjoying each other's company and drinking too much. He decides to delay his trip by a week so we can spend more time together. Aw, how fucking adorable.
I usually give the lust-meter about a week to fulfill it's purpose before realizing that really... I just like attention... and I'll take it from just about anyone in small doses. After the initial phase one wears off, I am typically feeling smothered to death and am in desperate need of about a weeks worth of candle-lit alone time and deep breathing. Does this happen to anyone else? You realize that after the first week you actually have to get to know one another? There had been a couple of times hanging out where he would say things and I would literally just force my good sense to ignore them, because if I thought about them hard enough it would ruin everything about our inevitable two-week time limit. However, most of that first week was spent talking about how we'd liked each other for so long, checked craigslist missed connections, told our respective friends about one another, watched each other from afar blah blah blah you are like so dreamy, no YOU are. After we ran out of things to flatter each other with... well we actually had to talk. And let me tell you... we had nothing in common. I mostly talk about soccer stats, my dreams of traveling the world, and nasty/politically incorrect jokes, while he wanted to talk about fighting for the working class, being gender neutral, and killing cops. You can see where conversation might be limited.
To his credit, he did let me take him to his first Timbers game... unlike the last fucking asshole prick douchebag cuntrocket (what? I'm not at all upset that he cheated on me with a stripper) I dated who refused because "he didn't like soccer." (Man, it was so black and white, why did I hang on for so long? Because I'm a fucking moron for dating anyone who doesn't at least appreciate the beautiful game. Unless you are a GODDAMN sounders fan. Then you can go ahead and cut your dick off while drowning yourself.) Knuckle Tats replied, "I'd love to see something that makes you so happy." See? There were redeemable qualities. While the last idiot couldn't bare one fucking 90 minute game to understand one of the most important and influencing factors in my life, K.T. actually chanted through and ultimately enjoyed his first game. He showered me with affection and compliments. He read some of my nastier and degrading stories and thought I was funny. He is a very sweet, well-meaning boy... we just happen to be perfectly wrong for one another.
Now that I've built him up a bit, let's take him down a peg or two. Knuckle Tats has a flair for the dramatic. Although this may have been obvious when he could literally quote to me thousands of songs about cop murder and anarchy. Ohhh my god. He has accidentally misspelled tattoos and the word "fuck" written on him. While waiting in line for the Timbers match, a camera went by shooting footage for ESPN or something, and K.T. immediately pulled a bandana out of nowhere and had it tied around his face in seconds, scared that somehow ESPN would give a flying fuck about who he was. Did I mention he is a vegan? Now, I have nothing bad to say about vegans, but it does make it a bit difficult when having to spend every meal with them... I like cheese. I have nothing morally wrong with how cheese is procured and made. So sue me.
We talked a little about how I should write a story about our little 'meet-cute', and how adorable it was going to be. Anyway he left, and a couple of weeks ago when I was attempting pretentious sobriety, Knucks got real drunk and started texting me all this bullshit. Here's the thing- we dated for... maybe two weeks? It's not like we're getting married here, sunshine. Shit like about how he "doesn't know how to talk to me" (which I assumed was obvious) and also managed to somehow make it my fault. Alright, fucko, I'm sober, at work, and do not appreciate fucking texts that are clearly meant to spark up some sort of drama in my life. No fucking thank you. So I did the appropriate thing (for once), and did not text back. Around midnight, and past my bedtime, however I finally broke down and said, listen- stop texting me. I do not appreciate this unwelcome drama. To which he replied "Later, dude" and then promptly DEFRIENDED ME ON FACEBOOK. Are you fucking kidding me? Are. Youfuckingkiddingme. So here's how this little story came to be, with the twist I'm sure he won't appreciate, and to further prove that relationships are dramatic and men are children. Hooray!