Crap, this must be a Taylor Swift Song

R.B. Winters
R.B. Winters
Bar, Birthday, Bull Shit, Dating, Friends, Late Night 0 Comments

In books we get to select our own adventure; presented to you here are two beginnings. Pick your pleasure, but know they have the same ending.

[Beginning A]

Taylor Swift, with her catchy hooks and constant relationships, must not be having any sex. Otherwise, she’d probably be writing much more Alanis type songs. However, her hooks are incredible at capturing douche bag guy moments when you want to kick someone square in the nuts.

[End Beginning A] [Beginning B]

When a storyline on a favorite show is resurrected, it’s one of the most exciting things. What you thought was done and gone has been brought back for your glutenous enjoyment. It’s nothing short of amazing.

[End Beginning B]

During my weekend birthday fun with friends, I sent Late Night a text to ensure he would be home from the beach on my actual birthday for birthday sex. It’s all I wanted. He then said, “Don’t make plans, I’m taking you to dinner.” I won’t lie, the idea excited me, this would be our official second date. Damn am I dumb, and slightly cliché. See, almost every year something goes wrong on my actual birthday. That’s why I celebrated so hard prior – and all of that was amazing. I should have known something would blow up in my face.

Official birthday: late Night begins text messaging and asking what I’d like to do. Slightly disheartened, I now had to make suggestions. I found a place that looked good for drinks. We continued to message, he wanted to sneak in a happy hour with friends, which was fine as my butt was firmly planted on the sofa. He also mentioned his friend was “spinning” in HK, less thrilling as it suggested we would be out late. After circular conversation he asks again what I want to do, to which I reply that I want a margarita from Patron. We agree to meet up at 9.

Upon arrival, I order a margarita the size of my head – whatever, I’ll do what I want. I let Late Night know I’ve arrived, he says they are finishing up but I can meet them. I decline, as I have about zero interest in meeting his friends or pretending to be nice on my day. Plus I had told myself since we were going to keep doing whatever we’re doing that Late Night needs to meet the real me, not the cute (fake) me that he knows. He arrives as I’m on my second drink – thirty minutes seems excessive to keep me waiting when it was your idea to come out. Here was our first argument, Late Night says we didn’t agree to meet there. I clarified when I provide a name and address to which you don’t object that equals confirmation.

We move on, he asks if I’m hungry. I say I can eat, but want to grab drinks. So we go to a place a few doors down that he picks, where I order and he says he’s not hungry. Now, I’m annoyed as I don’t want to be in a restaurant when we could be out having fun. But these are the things I learned that makes me realize we are incompatible as friends:

  1. Doesn’t like Anna Faris
  2. Doesn’t get my sense of humor
  3. Thinks being weird is weird (weird is great – normal is boring!)
  4. Didn’t find my commentating of the neighboring table amusing
  5. And thinks all I do for work is sit home and read email

Insult anything you like, but I work myself to death. I literally almost reached over the table to punch him in the face. He chad to see I was pissed as he argued I wanted to bar hop and wasn’t respecting that he had a 10 a.m. interview. All I wanted was to have a few drinks, get laid and go to sleep. Why the hell were we arguing in a restaurant? Plus, if you had an interview why suggest we go out after your happy hour. We could have had early drinks, banged one out and been done.

Pissed we left and I wanted to call it a night. He pushed to not leave mad and have a last drink. We did, to which I paid, and he wasted the drink. God, let this night end. The silent cab ride to his place was still filled with the hopes of birthday sex. Though that was extinguished as now Late Night had a stomach ache and was asleep within five minutes. I pushed myself to get to sleep – the sooner I did, the sooner I could leave.

Getting up extra early his dog really made it better by biting the back of my leg as I’m trying to exit in silence. Animals usually like me, so if this dog is such a dick to me it has to mean something. Of course, I’ll go back for more, but it really seems Late Night just wants to pick fights with me for amusement. They only happen when pulling my words out of context or adding phrases that weren’t there. it’s pretty much bullshit.

So, Taylor Swift, your next single should be something along the lines of:

We are never ever ever having sex together.
You go pay the bar tab, talk to that guy, while I leave.
Cuz we are never ever ever having sex together….until I get the itch again.

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