A few Fridays back, I was at the bar doing my usual thing: karaoke and hanging with the guys, when this woman (a non-cougar, for those following at home) approaches me and asks if I want to dance.
Normally, I don't dance. But between the fact I was a little drunk, my friends were egging me on, and omg bewbs, I acquiesced.
We danced to some slow songs, and she kissed me on the cheek. I got her a drink and went back to her table to chat.
For a bright and shining moment, I am not some socially retarded malcontent and chronic fuck up. I'm smooth. I'm flattering and charming. I am Lothario in an Iggy Pop hat. Cyrano has nothing on me, save for a few inches of schnoz.
Did i mention that my romantic life is like a three stooges sketch? Case in point:
"I don't think I caught your name."
She giggles slightly. "My name is Candi. With an "I".
Uh oh.
"Hey..."
Don't say it.
"You know..."
Brain to mouth: abort! Repeat, abort!
"That sounds like a stripper's name!"
Abandon ship! All hands, abandon shi...Foot, what the hell are you doing?!
Foot: HAY GUISE WHUTS GOIN ON N DIS MOUTH???//
Candy left shortly after that.
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2 comments:
Was that not an appropriate thing to say? It's nicer than what I would have said.
You are my hero. In a sad way.
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