I had a pretty horrible date on Friday with this guy... and it was kind of my fault. He was a creepster and I should have known it from a get-go when we were sitting at a bar and he was fidgeting in his bar stool, telling me about an all-night rave that he went to in Detroit a few days ago. Now, I've been to an occasional rave myself.. but at his age of 29, I'd advise him to keep his mouth shut or talk about, oh, more age-appropriate activities, like drinking scotch with his co-workers or flying to Vegas for a best friend's bachelor party.
Of course, the vodka tonics I had the stupidity of consuming kicked in at the most inopportune time, and I thought that the rave story was rather "charming". So we go dancing afterwards and he proceeds to get sloshed and then complains at the end of the night about a $60 dollar bill. First of all, it's ONLY 60 dollars. Second of all - duh, the drinks are not, and will never be, free. Not to you, creepy 29-year old who attempted dancing on an empty dance floor and clapping your hands as if you still were at an all-night rave. I was not drunk enough then to not feel the wave of embarassment from the raised eyebrows of the bartenders when you were making a fool of yourself. Trust me, a 60 dollar bill should be the least of your worries.
Unfortunately, I took pity on the guy after all and let his sleep it off on my couch in apartment because he was in no shape to drive. On a side note, I really should stop going on dates to establishments near my place, because somehow, mysteriously, everyone always ends up mentioning how they are "too tired to drive" or had "one too many to feel comfortable driving".
The next morning I walk out of my room and what do I see? Yeah, he's still sleeping on my couch, two empty beer bottles on a coffee table in front of him. The freeloader found my Coronas in the fridge and decided to drink them, after I fell asleep in my room. He also found my frozen pizza I keep in my fridge for snacking emergencies, threw the remains of it out, not into a trash can, but into my bin of art supplies that was stored nearby, ate the remains of my bacon and oh yeah, when my best friend called me at 3 in the morning, he answered the phone, told my friend that "She's busy" and hung up.
Of course I found out about the phone call later, after he left and my friend called once again, sick with worries. When I woke the freeloader up, however, the only thing I was pissed about was him drinking my beer and eating my pizza.
"You should probably go get you car," I told him, after poking his side a number of times before he finally woke up.
"What time is it?"
"It's almost ten... you should go get your car or it will get towed," I didn't even know where exactly he parked his car, nor did I really care. I needed him out of my apartment pronto.
I finally did get him out. Thank. God. No more of this, no more vodka tonics. No creepy dudes that eat my food at ungodly hours of the night and make my friends think that I have been left dead in a ditch somewhere.
Of course, I receive a text message from him later on in the day, "Anytime you wanna hang out just let me know. Again thanks 4 letting me stay at ur place. Ur an amazing woman." Anytime I wanna hang, huh? How about never? Does never work for you?
After he left I had this feeling like I wanted to scrub my entire body with a bar of soap or with an industrial size ultasonic cleaner (but those are more expensive...) and just spend the entire day soaking in a bath tub. I felt like his germs somehow transposed themselves on me and were now crawling and multiplying on my skin - always multiplying, never sleeping as if they were at an all-night rave.
As I was nursing my killer hang over, I got to thinking about all of this. Why am I such a serial dater? Why do I not go with my gut instinct and just end my dates early when I know they are going down into a gutter? Frankly, I am still getting the skeebie-jibbies just thinking about the 29-year old and his creepy ways - and those are not the kind of memories I want to be making. I can honestly say that, if I could turn back the hands of time, I would NOT go on a date with the over-the-hill raver. I can also honestly say that vodka tonics are now the latest additions to my list of no-no drinks - taking their well-deserved place right next to tequila.
The only good thing about my lazy, non-productive Saturday, spent, interchangably, between contemplating hurling my insides into my friend The Toilet and spending my time on a couch in a semi-coma, was a text from Mr. January. But that's a whole another post in it of itself.
After all, in all of the array of bad and forgettable dates, in a medley of guys who do not call me back and the guys who call too much, Mr. January is the only man capable of breaking my heart. And for now, I kind of like it that way.