Wednesday, May 5, 2010

An Open letter to my Last Date

Dear Veronica,

I feel like our date last weekend went really well, and that we had some good chemistry. I’ve tried to call you a few times over the last week, but the fact that the number you gave me is six digits too long is leading me to suspect that you might have given me some sort of fax number by accident. That, or you typed out “metallica rulez” onto the keypad of my phone in between trying to steal it. I really hope it was the fax thing.

Given, our whirlwind romance does not have what could be called the “strongest foundation”. I too, was hesitant to look past our less than romantic meeting, namely me drunkenly answering craigslist ad in which you inexplicably managed to misspell more words than were technically in the request. A chance meeting in cooking class, that is not. But, in my drunken 3 am desperation and your being “tootally Hrny’ I like to think we found a crude yet beautiful connection- for a moment, I was the Richard Gere to your Julia Roberts, the John Cusack to your whoever-the-hell- he-was-in-a-romantic -comedy with, if they were both significantly less attractive and smelled of gin, vomit, and failure.

Yes, I was hesitant when you demanded I meet you in the bathroom of a Wendy’s on the edge of town- not even the Wendy’s itself-just the urine soaked, vaguely rapey bathroom that smelled suspiciously of meth. And yes you were late, by exactly 6 hours and 43 minutes, but I stayed in that poor man’s crack den because I felt that we had shares something special- that and I was still a little drunk and really wanted to see some boobs. But when you showed up, you redeemed all that the moment you walked in- specifically by taking out your vagina. Like, right away. That was awesome- almost awesome enough to warrant overlooking that you had brought your kid. I mean, he seemed nice at everything, but when things got hot and heavy, that wide eyed, cool aid stained face of his became a tad distracting. Though the issue was cleared up slightly when you clarified that he was your designated driver. And as the fluorescent lights of that bathroom glinted of a vagina that I can only describe as “grumpy”, I got the irrefutable feeling that fate, in its mysterious splendor, had brought us together for some deeper reason- beside your stated one of “shutting up and getting all up inside you”.

Where I really felt like we connected was sexually- mostly because that’s really the only thing we did. True, you did start vomiting up what looked strangely like cat hair before we could do the deed, but we did manage to squeeze in 6-9 minutes of hardcore, world class finger banging. Although I don’t think I can legally call it fingering, and it barely fits under the parameters of fisting. I think what you had me do to you was less foreplay, and more me using you as hand puppet. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, I’m just saying that if I’d really tried, I probably could’ve worked you mouth to sing while I drank a glass of water. And I like to think that I did a pretty good job; I ‘stopped being such a pussy” about you clawing at my neck with your long, bobcat like nails, and I even powered through your sons frequently questioning of “why are you hurting mommy” and “are you two going to play the pay the landlord game”-no small task. It was so heartbreaking I almost felt bad hitting him (I figured that if we were about to begin a relationship, I should begin filling the role of father figure to him as soon as possible). Why, I even overlooked the fact that when I removed my arm its skin was stained a deep, charred black- as if the very skins cells themselves had committed suicide.

And then Veronica, you were off into the lingering shadows of dawn, your child driving you home on what I can only assume is a stolen golf cart. You left me only with a kiss, a knife wound, and the vague feeling that your name isn’t Veronica- mostly because your child called you Janet while the two of you were robbing me. But you know, Veronica, I’m not perfect either. I’m young and foolish, prone to pretension and the sins of my generation, and have been told by many that my head is shaped eerily like a 1984 Honda Buick. And I know that if you can look past all that, well then Veronica, I can look past the fact that no matter how many times you say you’re twenty six on a craigslist ad, it doesn’t change the fact that you have 4 fucking cesarean scars and a face that looks like one of the Golden Girls on a crack cocaine binge.

So please, Veronica, call me. Partly because I’d like to see you again, but mostly because I think I might’ve lost my watch in you, and it was a gift from my grandma.

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