Wednesday, September 23, 2009

i love meat.

apparently my image needs some fine-tuning. i had a date last night, and in the week leading up to this glorious, unprecedented event, everyone and his uncle said, after giving their congratulations and asking the battery of veiled background questions, "don't be a dirty slut." or some derivative equivalent. ain't that a motherfucking bitch? to take it a step further, at a party a couple nights ago my goddamned friends were placing bets on how long i could hold out before having sex. there's even a pool, folks. get in while you can before i fuck up the spread. literally.

so those eharmony commercials really make me want to stab my goddamned eyes out, with all those slo-mo shots of people hugging and that lifetime movie soundtrack. fucking gross. and there are never any black people in them! not a one! don't negroes need a high-tech matching system, too? one of my friends goaded me into signing myself up, and in the back of my mind i was all "just think of it as a social experiment." you know, to retain my street cred. i can tell you why there are no blacks in the goddamned commercial: that 8,926-question questionnaire you're forced to fill out. black people ain't doing that. that shit was harder than the motherfucking ACT. it took me six weeks to finish that bad girl. that's a good way to separate the wheat from the chaff, i suppose. you have to really want it if you're willing to devote the better part of a day to honestly answering questions about your living skills and communication style.

i've never second-guessed myself more in my entire life. am i really calm during an argument? what skills are most important in a partner? (that partner shit always makes me laugh.) they ask everything except what you ate for fucking breakfast. which they probably should, because if he likes eggs and you like french toast? SUREFIRE DISASTER.

i answered all the personality questions and wrote some jazzy little profile business and put my hot ass picture on it and kicked back and waited for my future ex-husbands to start flooding my inbox. because that's the other trick; you don't search for potential stalkers, THEY SEND THEM TO YOU. which is just perfect for a lazy sack of shit like me. if they could dispatch someone to my apartment to look through all the shit that would be even better. and by default these are supposed to be people you'll dig based on whatever info that doctor dude and his minions gleaned from that in-depth psychological profile they compiled based on the answers to multiple-choice questions that may or may not have been completely honest.

and while i'm trying to be an asshole about it now, there must be something to all that nonsense because i met a rad and hilarious dude with whom i made an actual date. you read that right. a bonafide date. (i really really really wanted to write boner-fide and leave it, with no explanation. obviously, i wasn't raised right.) and that shit was last night. i'm up early posting this garbage because i had heartburn and diarrhea from the thirty-seven pounds of filet mignon i ate at dinner, but it was well fucking worth it. we went to fogo de chao, BECAUSE I ENJOY TASTY MEATS, and i felt bad because he was sick and tired and came out in a torrential downpour anyway, just to bask in my evil glow. seriously, he almost vomited at the table. but i appreciated his effort, especially since i was a good girl and did all that torturous first date shit: got my nails painted, got my eyebrows waxed, ironed my good jeans; it only goes downhill from there, ironing ain't really my regular thang, so hopefully he wasn't too delirious to notice.

dude really was sick. like, i went to the bar and got him an orange juice sick. we should've had a paramedic two tables over just in case sick. and you whores know how i feel about germs, but i would have licked his spoon after he'd used it because thank god for a fucking gentleman who almost dropped dead at the table just so i wouldn't be disappointed. isn't it about fucking time someone worried about disappointing me? i've dated dudes who would bail over a hangnail or a stubbed toe. so even though i wanted to excuse myself to the bathroom and call the CDC to ask about bird flu and ebola virus symptoms, i didn't. i risked it and did the next best thing: ate. a lot. of meat. he couldn't eat, or talk, so i overcompensated on both counts. i've never talked so fucking much in my entire life. and i was nervous and sweaty, to boot. humidity does not equal "cute samantha." so i blathered on at him about anything i could think about while he valiantly tried not to pass the fuck out.

i've never felt so sexy and engaging in my entire life. all my jokes kind of fell flat. so then i just ate giant chunks of steak and tried not to think about the impending stomachache. i didn't even get drunk. half of a poorly made mojito, and that's it. the night wasn't bad, it was just unsettling. i like to know that i've hit it out of the park, which is impossible to do when the other team is on the injured reserve. maybe he didn't like me and had an emergency petrie dish of bacteria in his car. insta-flu! that'll scare this bitch off! i was home and in bed (alone, ahem) by eleven-thirty, doubting thomases. the night ended with a handshake, and not the sexy kind. i'm turning over a new leaf. andy, apparently my only respectful friend, bet two months on me and i'm going to try to win it for him. and then make him buy me a six-pack. AND A STEAK.