You’re a Lumpy Space Princess – Part 2

R.B. Winters
R.B. Winters
Larrymore, Late Night, Russian 1 Comment

#Hangover Sunday

#Hangover Sunday

The Russian made the executive decision to have a small holiday party that was perfectly timed as a change of pace was needed from the bar scene. It was also beneficial as I’ve been doing my best to not drink beer with it’s delicious calories and carbs that magically erase time spent at the gym. This is easier to accomplish at a house party than it is at a bar – the bar always has a beer special that I can’t resist.

Stopping at Ricky’s Pup Up Shop to grab the Russian’s kitty a bow tie, I made my way to Astoria. The Russian has many fun friends to play with; over a giant decanter of Cougar Town we ate Larrymore’s meat pit and made generally mockery of all things. The conversation fell on Grindr and stockpiling messages. Now let’s recount the people in the room: the Russian, Larrymore, Me and two couples. Both couples have been together for gay light-years and appear to be happy. But one couple is actively on Grindr, which makes no sense to me if they’re “committed.” One partner has over 2,300 messages, which seems like a recipe for crashing the app. This gives even more pause to the idea of being on a hook-up app; why are you there if you’re not going to talk to anyone? This question remains open to the public, I have no answer.

Once the couples exited, the Russian, Larrymore and I remained to finish the wine and provide me an education in Duran Duran music videos from the early 80’s. They are my musical mentors. And wouldn’t you know it, right in the middle of our lesson, Late Night sends a text. Long story short, he wanted to hangout. It would be logical for me to rejoice with excitement, but instead I was annoyed, he was a day late in my mind. I like to go out on Friday, not Saturday…which is when he tends to go out…minor details.

In support of Cougar Town drinking... A filter was applied to make this photo less tragic.

In support of Cougar Town drinking… A filter was applied to make this photo less tragic.

This brought up an old question with my friends, “What does he look like?” I don’t take photos of people so I’ve never been able to answer the question. But at this moment the question was asked when we had easy access to a laptop. I pulled up his LinkedIn profile. See, I make a point of not locating people on Facebook because it is inevitable that there will be something there to piss you off. Can anyone say that Facebook stalking someone has ever turned out well? With LinkedIn you more or less see things you already know, there’s nothing personal and nothing that can set someone off; the perfect site for the self controlled stalker.

Sadly, the LinkedIn photo didn’t really answer the question because it’s sort of artistic black-and-white business. The Russian located Late Night on Facebook with ease giving him a review as “hot,” a positive in my mind. After scrolling through the photos I pushed the laptop away not wanting to get a look at the Facebook page, why open Pandora’s Box?

Late Night told me to text him once I was back in the city. Which was my intent, but on the long train ride home at two in the morning I found that fun voice in my head getting me worked up. It wasn’t Late Night pissing me off, it was me pissing me off. Back to this need of structure and schedules my mind started processing how the evening could work out: Arrive home around three, send text, have to leave home and head Downtown, arrive around four, fall asleep, wake up late in the morning, stress out over waking up late, rush home, have a frenzied day of catch up to recover lost time. Just thinking about it is exhausting. So what ended up happening was: Arrive home around three, face plant on bed, fall into a wine coma, wake up hungover at an appropriate hour and go on with my day as planned.

Late Night sent a text this morning to confirm my lack of text the night before. I’m not entirely sure of the point of his message, we both know I didn’t text, though if that mattered he could have sent a message upon leaving the bar. Not that I would have heard the phone, when I’m passed out it’s like waking the dead. Like a goo television show, we are ending the weekend at the same point where it began, with nothing changing from the unscripted plot of life.

I can sum it up to the Lumpy Space Princess video the Russian showed me at his party: At least it’s material for my trashy novel for ladies.

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