Stop your crying, you pussy

And if I had a chance, for one last time, to either kiss or fuck or go down on you, I’d say no to all of those and opt to just hold you close, the side of my face against your belly, listening to you digest, smelling the closeness of your skin.

And now that you’re so far away that even the prospect of smelling one of your slightly dirty t-shirts is out of the question, every little part of me is broke.

[TILT]

While you were piloting a two-beer buzz and entranced in your turn at the pinball machine, I took the liberty of gazing uninterrupted at your profile, my stomach gently bubbling with narcotized butterflies. I drank it all in, everything that was already burned into my brain. Your perfect and precise jawline, tiny nose, and freckles that were barely visible in the dim and noisy lights of the machine. 

If the world froze now, and said freeze lasted forever, none of us dying or moving, and somehow fine with it, never aging or breaking down, just stuck where we were…I knew that I wouldn’t mind at all, because then I’d never have to say goodbye to you, never have to look away, never have to refer to the admittedly perfect image of you in my mind that I have to content myself with for the majority of my days and nights.

“FUCK! It just goes right down the middle! What the hell am I supposed to do with that?!” You playfully shook your tiny fist at the machine and scowled a childlike scowl that was just another brick in the wall of me loving you.

You looked over at me and I held your gaze for an extra beat, smiling, trapped in your eyes. You smirked that little smirk of yours and every atom in my brain went off like a car bomb.

“Good game, kid”, I said as I stepped to the machine, brushing against your body, partly out of necessity, partly out of need. The night ended, as it always does, and I went home with your smell on my clothes, your face in my mind, and a sense of love so heavy that it may very well crack the goddamned Earth in two.

Dead DJs Don't Spin

In the bathroom hallway, which has a 2 watt bulb lighting it, some girl who was slightly more intoxicated than me was standing ahead of me in the two-person line. With no warning, she launched herself against the wall we were facing, pounded her fist against the flier that was on said wall, and yelled, "Oh my God!!!" (Ok, she was a lot more intoxicated than I was).
"Errr....what?" I had to ask.
She slowly turned her head towards me, in an almost ominous manner, and said, ""DJ AM? He's dead, isn't he?"
The flier was advertising some DJ night at the bar, and someone named DJ AM Gold was "headlining." My brain spun through its Rolodex of dead DJs and stopped on DJ Cam.
"I think DJ Cam is the dead one." I said this is normal, conversational tone. No snark, no snottiness. I wasn't even sure if I was right, but I knew she had to be wrong because dead DJs don't spin.
She glared at me for a second, pulled her still clenched fist off of the wall as the bathroom she was waiting for became available, and before she went in she mustered up about 15 tons of shittiness and said, "PSH! Sorry I can't READ!" and then slammed the bathroom door behind her.
What? Even my mental Rolodex was all, like, "Wait, what?"
I finished up my lackluster date and went home. Later on I looked up the dead DJ. It wasn't DJ Cam (sorry, homie) but was DJ AM. So, she was half-right, I was close, and she was still a psycho.

Attack of the Clones

She had your smile, and she had your nose, and I wasn’t ready to see you again. Even though it wasn’t you. But it hurt just the same, that sense of missing and loss. I would have told her to leave, to kindly fuck off, but she worked there and I was just ordering beers. So we chatted, and laughed, and she was easy to get along with cuz that was her job, and I was easy to get along with and, in a rare move, charming because I was pretending she was you. And at the end of the evening I left too big a tip and went home missing you more than I’ve missed you in years. Missing us, the banter, the comfort, the secret and not so secret desires, the devastation of saying goodbye to that connection.

All I wanted was a goddamned beer.

OkStupid, Part 74: Why I Don't Have the Internet

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[Message received on OkCupid]

Her: Pretty funny. ;) How can I not respond to this? Hmmm…yeah, we should definitely not have a drink together and talk about the bad bands we like.

-Theresa :)

[I had no idea who this was or what she was talking about. I had no recollection of writing this person. The problem was, I had been housesitting and drinking and had the internet available to me in the wee hours. I use my phone primarily for communication on Cupid, and since I have fat fingers and can barely type on the thing, coupled with Cupid’s idiotic messaging layout, I tend to not write much… ESPECIALLY if I’ve been drinking. But you give me a full-sized keyboard, three gin and tonics, and the internet, and some bullshit was bound to happen. So I had to go back and see what she was talking about]

:ORIGINAL, FORGOTTEN MESSAGE:

Me: Screaming Trees reference from someone who just sold me a newspaper with a headline telling me that black students are finally allowed to get into college in Tennessee? [I had no idea what that meant. After (re)reading her profile, I still have no idea what this is referencing. It’s like my brain just barfed all over the internet] It’s too bad you like socks, or else I’d offer to buy you a drink. [What?!] Don’t think me too forward, don’t be weird about it. We don’t need to hang out or anything. I’d just drop a gift certificate off at your favorite drink spot. It’s really a win/win situation for you. I’ll also leave you two slurps of milkshake, too. No more, no less. I need my dairy as well. [Again…what?!]

[Even in braille or solresol this would be the worst email ever sent. Why she responded to it is beyond my comprehension. But since she did, I had to write back…because I need the Last Word when I’m feeling like an unbelievably giant dipshit. It’s a symptom of Panic Mode brought on by Word Diarrhea.]

Me: Well I’m glad we can be mature adults about this. Look at that… through all of the bullshit we can still agree on things. We had some good times, sure, and they’ll always be fondly remembered, but we’re both still growing and learning and there’s so much to see and experience. Let’s not limit ourselves. Good luck to you, ma’am. Your drink ticket is at the bar, and Miami Nights 1984’s “Turbulence” album is a masterpiece. [Unsolicited music recommendations are about as useful as unsolicited emails from assholes]

-P.R.

[So I just broke up with her. Which made sense. I still stand by my decision. It was the best thing for both of us. Then, she wrote back, successfully snatching the Last Word trophy from my sad, sweaty hands!]

Her: Hi there! Wow, so generous with the drink ticket! I’m curious if it’s top shelf or well…clearly we’re both people of action and have no time for mediocre beverages. I feel as though I should leave a drink for you also, maybe see where it goes from there. [She’s clearly out of her goddamned mind] I mean, if we can both drink solo, I think we’re off to a good start. A good beginning of inebriation, at the very least.

Thanks for the music tip. At first glance, I’m baffled…but interested.

- T :)

[At this point I’m wondering if she is as drunk as I was. So I kept going. My only desire: to get the Last Word in.]

Me: You speak reams of sense, ma’am. For truly, if two people can drink apart, then there’s no telling what they’re capable of when it comes to doing other things apart. Going to college? Raising children? Detailing cars? Finding the best deals at WinCo? The possibilities are limitless.

In regards to the drink ticket, I only offer up top shelf with those, but for all other occasions when drinks are purchased, it’s strictly well…unless well is Old Crow and a couple of other brands of swill that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. In those cases, I go for middle shelf.

We may have to do this drink exchange thing at the same time, in the same bar. Past experience has shown that some bartenders refuse to honour such vouchers (good tenders of bar will honour them with a “u” because they are purveyors of class and take pride in their work). [The best way to get in the last word is to just keep going without taking a breath until someone passes out] I understand that this potentially complicates our vows to never be in the same room with one another, but I’m willing to face such a challenge.

Are you up for such things? [Worst “Asking Out on a Date” move EVER! The saddest Hail Mary ever before typed by human hands!]

-P.R.

[And that was it. I won… and lost. I don’t know what I did or accomplished. And this is why I don’t have the internet, and probably shouldn’t be internet dating, and maybe shouldn’t be drinking. Well, let’s not get carried away. Let’s kill the first two, then we’ll see if the last one can stay.]