Bad Dates: 2nd Runner Up
Nice to meet you!After a series of bad dates, my friends decided to set me up on a blind date with a guy we'll call "Brian." Brian lived about 8 hours away due to his job, but I decided to give it a chance anyways. After our initial conversation on the phone I was blown away! He was successful, kind, caring, volunteered with children, and even ate lunch with his grandparents every Sunday. We talked frequently and two weeks later, we decided it was time to meet. He agreed to drive the 8 hours to come see me. When I opened the door I was shocked and soon realized that the pictures he had sent me were easily over 5 years old. Although dressed in a nice suit, he looked very different and had gained enough weight to make another small child. I quickly excused myself and went to the bathroom to compose myself. When I went back into my living room, there was Brian stark naked, jerking off! I said, "Um, excuse me?" Then he stood up and said, "I drove eight hours to see you, now get on your knees and show me your skills!" At first I thought he was joking, but when a naked guy with a hard-on stares at you, it quickly becomes apparent that they are not kidding. I ran into my kitchen and grabbed my mace and told him to get out. He thought I was kidding until I picked up my cell and threatened to call 911. He pulled up his pants and left, but ever since then I've refused to be set up!
- K.T., A Safe Place
Bad Dates: 1st Runner Up
How many of your responses started with the next sentence?
So I met this girl online. She seemed ok when we Instant Messaged and she showed me a picture. She was short, had a pale, round face, and dyed Auburn hair. I wasn't that attracted to her, but I wasn't looking for anything serious, so I agreed to meet up with her just as friends. She told me she was afraid of traffic and asked me if I could meet her closer to where she lived. You can't really live in a city of 6 million and be afraid of traffic, but everyone has their thing, so I agreed. I asked her for directions to the Mexican restaurant we agreed to meet at, and she didn't do the usual "Go 5 miles, turn left on Main Street" kind of directions. It was all landmarks and road names. Something like, "Go until Jones exit and turn right. Go until the McDonald's and take a left."
So I leave over an hour early just because I don't know where I'm going and would rather be early than late. So I take off down the interstate and keep waiting to see Jones exit. I keep driving and driving and driving until I'm no longer in the city anymore. I drove so far that my cell phone lost reception! Eventually I saw the Jones exit and tried to follow the rest of the directions. We were going to meet at a gas station because that just screams "romantic," now doesn't it? I called her when my cell phone started working again and said, "Where is this gas station? I've been in the car for an hour and fifteen minutes! You didn't tell me it was this far!" I was trying to maintain my cool, but I definitely felt like she'd mislead me as to how far away this date was taking place. She told me I was close and that she was already waiting there for me for an hour. What? Why? I wasn't late.
So I pull into the gas station moments later and tell her that I really have to use the bathroom. After all, I'd been in the car way too long at that point. As I'm walking into the station to use the bathroom, we're still on the phone. She asks what I'm wearing so she'll recognize me. I say, "A grey T-shirt." She says, "I see you!" I immediately whip around to see a small, African American woman behind me. What the hell? I was worried about this, but not as worried as the African American woman was since I whipped around so fast and locked eyes with her. I realize it's not her, but what a weirdo she is for saying, "I see you" like she's a super spy! I tell her I'm hanging up to go pee.
When I come out of the bathroom, there is a much heavier version of her leaning up against the wall right outside the bathroom door like she's Humphrey Bogart level of cool. Well, honestly, I would consider her Hump-free Bogart, but whatever. Anyway, I'm again weirded out by this, but I introduce myself. I am still trying to maintain my cool, so I ask where the restaurant is. She says, "Not far. Maybe like 20 minutes. Can you drive? I'll leave my car here." Now, I'm all for chivalry and being polite to women, but did she not realize that I just drove over an hour, she drove 10 minutes, and that she knew where we were going while I did not? I agree to drive because I'm stupid and we get in the car.
As we were driving, it turned very dark. The street lights had totally disappeared. That should give you an idea of how rural this journey had become. She started telling me about the "business she owned" and how it's made her enough money to drive "her dream car." I guess she had an H3, although I didn't see one parked at the gas station. She went on to say that people actually stop her on the street to have their picture taken with her Hummer. After another 20 minutes of driving – yes, 20 more minutes of driving - and listening to her talk about this "business she owned" and her fucking Hummer, we arrive at what had better be the World's Best Mexican Restaurant.
We go inside to put our name in and I say, "Two for dinner, please." I'm not the best looking guy in the world, but just to let you know what kind of girl I'm with, the cute hostess actually looked at me, looked at my date, looked at me, looked at my date, looked at me confused, and said, "Really?" I nervously nodded and hoped that my little ball of fire date didn't catch that. She didn't.
We went outside to wait. It was late Fall, so the restaurant is decorated in that manner. There are old corn stalks, hay bales, pumpkins, and similar things spread all around. Other people are waiting outside, and I go to sit on a bale of hay. My date says, "Scoot a cheek." My cheeks were already scooted, but I made a half-assed (pun) attempt to move over a bit. The thing was, with her width, there simply wasn't enough room for the both of us on that bale of hay. She awkwardly sits down and halfway sits on my lap. I caught her before she fell off, and moved over so I was hanging off the bale so she didn't have to sit on me.
While we waited, there was a couple of teenagers on a date sitting across from us on some hay. They were fascinated with their new digital camera and laughing and having a good time. My date yells over to them, "Hey! Take our picture!" I naturally wonder where her camera was since I hadn't seen it, so I was a bit confused. However, I wasn't as confused as the teenagers once she repeated, "Yeah, you. Take our picture!" She wanted them to take it with THEIR camera! How does that make any sense? Was she going to order them to email it to her later? I wave off the teenagers and tell her I'm camera shy. She says, "Well I'm not." I tell her to get a picture by herself then. She tells me I'm no fun.
We finally get our name called and go inside to sit down. We sit at a table she requests as her favorite, which is a tiny little spot right by the kitchen door. Maybe that's for a speedy delivery? When the guy with the free chips and salsa comes walking up to our table, she says, "Uh, hi. Can we have someone who speaks English, please?" My eyes open to triple their normal size and I turn to look at him to apologize to him with my face. He says, in perfect English, "I speak perfect English. We all do. Your server will be with you shortly. What can I get you to drink?" I wanted water, she wanted Coke. This comes into play later.
When our server comes over, my date knows just what she wants without even opening the menu. "I'll take a bean burrito with extra lettuce, extra sour cream, and extra sauce. And can I have a cup of queso and a side of bean dip?" I say, "3 chicken tacos, no cheese." My date informs me that she could never eat like that. Eat like what? A human being?
While we're waiting for our food and having a one-way Hummer talk, her phone rings. She picks it up and starts talking. "Yeah, we're here...he's cute, kind of looks like my ex boyfriend...no, it's going REALLY well...I'm not sure if I'm going home tonight or not...I'll call you in the morning...ok, great, thanks for calling." I tried to pretend I wasn't there listening to every word, but at the tiny table by the kitchen door, you don't have any choice. She tells me that she always has a friend call her in the middle of a date so if the date is going badly, she can pretend there is an emergency and leave. I really should have had that same plan in place before I left the house that night. By the way, the part where I look like her ex? That hurt.
The bean dip and queso arrive just in time because if I had to hear about how she signs autographs as a Hummer driver again, I was going to pass out. I mean, who cares about fucking Hummers?!?!? They look like garbage and get terrible gas mileage at a time when gas is ridiculously expensive. Aren't you actually anti-bragging by droning on and on about having one?
She grabs the salt and starts shaking it on the chips. Shake, shake, shake, shake, shake. She put so many shakes of salt on those chips that conversation actually died while she was doing it. Enough time should not elapse during a salt-shaking where nobody knows what to say. Finally I say, "I hope I like salt!" She said, "Oh, I do. I LOVE salt!" I say, "No...I hope I like salt!" She lets out a "Hmph" and a look at me like I've been annoying her all night with my quiet listening and grabs the basket of chips and slams it on the table a number of times to settle the salt, drawing looks from the rest of the patrons an the cute hostess who came out to see what was going on. "There! Happy now? The top chips are yours." Did she mean the top chips that were now broken? The ones that still had a salt mine worth of NaCl on them because they were oily when she salted the hell out of them? I guess so. So I say, "It's ok, go for it." And go for it she did!
I'll be honest, I eat quickly. However, I don't eat rudely. She started dipping chips into the bean dip, then into the queso, and immediately into her mouth. Got that? IMMEDIATELY. In fact, she was moving them so quickly toward her mouth that when she slowed for entry, momentum was carrying beans and cheese off the chips onto her fingers. Don't worry though, she'd just lick it right off as if it was no big deal. I'm slowly sucking water out of my straw and listening to her chomp away, slurp her Coke, and tell me about all the boys that enjoy her company. I sit back and marvel at what I'm seeing, and then it happens: one of the chips was overloaded with bean dip and when slowed for entry, a giant blob of beans lands right on her boob. 
This makes for a great lapelShe checks out the situation briefly, then reaches across the table, puts her finger on top of my straw to trap water in it, pulls it out, and then releases the water on the bean-dipped boob. She calmly puts the straw back in my water, starts wiping herself off, and when she sees the look of horror on my face, says, "What are you, a germophobe? That's how we do it in the South. Get over it."
The truth was, I couldn't get over it. Any of it!
And then our food arrives. I can't really make out her burrito from the 2 inch blanket of extra toppings totally covering it. She then takes 4 fingers and starts pushing all that extra lettuce, sour cream, and sauce off the burrito. She then grabs the bean dip with that sloppy hand and pours it over her burrito. Same with the queso. She then uses her hand to scoop the things she pushed off back onto it all. What difference it made to have the bean dip and queso UNDER the extras is beyond me, but this is the same person who just used her bare hands to do all of this, so asking questions is moot at this point.
Again, I eat quickly, but even while she did all the talking and I had 3 tiny little tacos, she beat me done. And then a miracle happened: The bill came! Maybe they always have that kind of service, or maybe they were sick of her being there insulting, bothering, and grossing out everyone – either way, I didn't care. Before the bill is on the table 2 seconds, she pushes it towards me. I like to think I was raised a gentleman and I certainly don't mind paying for dinner, but what was that shit? Don't assume I'm going to, you rude bitch! But truthfully, I was so ready to get out of there that I stood up and walked to the front with the bill. I would have paid it had it been $200. I make a face at the cute hostess like I just ran over her dog. I really was sorry about bringing this girl into their establishment.
We get in the car and I'm about to break the land speed record to get her back to the gas station. However, I don't know what country we're in at this point, so I ask how to get back to her car. She asks if I am calling it a night and insists it's still early and we can go do "whatever I like" with emphasis on the word "whatever." I give her the same bullshit we all give with, "Oh, I'm kind of tired, have a long drive home, and have to get up early." She sighs and asks me if I'm sure. Oh yes, I'm sure. I'm sure. She tells me to turn here and there, but I don't recognize any of this as being where we came from. Then she says, "Well, you wanted to see it and there it is. My business." She points over at an orthopedics store in a strip mall. With a conflicted mind, I say, "That is your business? Wait, what the hell? I need to get back home, why did you bring me by here?" She tells me how I seemed really interested in it. I guess that will happen when you don't say plop about something someone blabs on about for an hour. After turning around, I have to ask, "Wait, how in the hell do you own a store that sells Dr. Scholl's?" She says, "Well, I don't own it; I work for my dad." What the hell? Since when does "I have a job someplace" equate to "I own that place"? Whatever. Where is 6th gear? I need to get this girl back to her car!
As we're driving back on the dark road with no lights, conversation has lulled. I reach down for my water in the console between us, but her hand is on top of it. I say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I just wanted some water." She says, "Are you sure that's what you were going for?" Uh, yes. I'd rather hold hands with Captain Hook after he visited the grindstone. This opened the door to a rather awkward conversation when she said, "So what is your plan when you drop a girl off? Do you usually give a hug or a kiss?" I say, "Well, since I am not looking for a girlfriend or anything, I'm more of a handshake or hug kind of guy." She waits a few seconds and says, "I guess what I'm asking is if I'm going to get a kiss tonight." I almost ran off the road. I tell her, "Well, I don't want to give anyone the wrong idea or lead them on, and I guess I hadn't really thought about it, but now that I have, I guess probably a handshake or a hug." She informed me, "In the South, it's customary to kiss the girl goodnight." I ask, "On the lips?"
We pull into the gas station where her car is and she asks if I'm going to walk her to her car like a gentleman since it's dark. I agree and pull up about 3 feet from her shitty, trashed-out little Honda. I open my door, take 1 step, and we've arrived. She starts stalling for time and then finally says, "Well, goodnight..." with her hands locked behind her back as she sticks her neck out and up towards my face, giving me the green light for those wormy lips. Evidently she wasn't giving two shits about what I said not 3 minutes beforehand. So now with the handshake option gone, I have to go with the hug. Fuck! So I give her the same hug you give anyone you don't really want to be hugging. I turn my head an extreme amount to the side, bend down, thrust my crotch back as far as it'll go and pat her on the back twice before standing up. I tell her goodnight and get back in the car as she stands there looking at me. I wave goodbye.
Before I even got out of the parking lot, my phone rings with a blocked number. Guess who it is. "You are so rude! I can't believe you! You are no Southern gentleman! I told you that ladies expect to be kissed at the end of the night!" At this point, I no longer fear her having a hidden knife to stab me with if things don't go her way, so I say, "Fuck! I told you more than once that I didn't want to lead you on and you weren't getting a kiss! Just because you want one doesn't mean it's going to happen. I drove a 3 hour round trip to go to some shitty Mexican restaurant out in the middle of nowhere, where you embarrassed us both, listened to you tell your friend how I was taking you home, paid for your dinner, but now I'm going home. End of story." I'm such a bad ass when I'm on the phone.
When I get home, my Instant Messenger away message had failed me. She'd started writing to me about 10 minutes after I dropped her off and hadn't stopped in the hour it took me to speed home to safety. The first half hour was mostly caps lock city: "YOU LEAD ME ON! YOU'RE NO SOUTHERN GENTLEMAN! I REALLY THOUGHT WE HAD GOOD CHEMISTRY!" The only chemistry I noticed all night was the salt on the chips and her contaminating my water. The next half hour of her instant messages were evidently after she had taken her medicine because it was all apologies and telling me how she was sorry and she really hoped I'd come back down to go on some more dates with her. And how we could go for a ride IN HER FUCKING HUMMER! Argh! Fuck Hummers!
Bad Dates: Winner
I met this girl a couple months back. Come to find out she's kind of crazy. And dumb. And has no problem telling me about all the guys she's fucking. And dumb. And drama, drama, drama. And dumb. She's a "bartender" at a steakhouse. Read: server. She is also one of those people who has a few extra pounds and some boobs to go with it, which she will not stop talking about. Evidently, guys love her boobs. Girls love her boobs. Guys tell her that her boobs are perfect. Girls with boob jobs tell her that they wish their boobs looked like hers. Her boobs stop traffic. Her boobs cure cancer. That sort of thing.
One day she called me and I happened to be 3 blocks from where she was, so we hung out and it wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be. Eventually, I kind of forgot about her. She called a couple of weeks ago and asked me to meet her for some food/drinks at Outback Steakhouse. Fancy, I know; hold your jealousy. So I get there and she's late. I figured she must have forgotten her digital watch and can't read a regular one because she's dumb, as I may have mentioned. She eventually shows up and sits down.
"LIKE MY HAIR!??!!" (please note her volume here.) I don't notice it to be any different. That shit is way-too-jet-black just like last time I saw her. I must be an idiot, because come to find out it was now "blue black." The only blue-black hair I can think of is from old comic books like Superman or Wonder Woman. Though when I called her Superman, she got pissed. Superwoman? No better. Still pissed.
Anyway, she says, "OMFG, I HAD THE WORST DAY!" Except she said "oh my fucking god" but I was too lazy to type it until just now. So I say, "Why was it so bad?" (Are you picking up on the difference in our voice volume? Good!) She says, "FIRST OF ALL, I'M FUCKING PMSing. SECONDLY, I SPILLED A BUCKET OF ICE AT WORK."
Me: "..."
Me again: "..."
Me finally: "...is that it?"
She says, "YES, FUCK, TODAY SUCKED!!!"
I say, "Well hell, if that is a bad day, your life is going to be the worst ever. It gets much worse than some cramping and spilling a few ice cubes."
So long story long, she orders a drink. A 20-sometihng oz. Newcastle that's gone in about 3 minutes...and so are the next 4. I have a gin and tonic that I'm nursing since it's like 4:30 pm. She says, "DRINK UP, MOTHERFUCKER, I'M NOT DRINKING ALONE!!!"
So now after about an hour of her "life sucks" talking, she's too drunk to drive home. She asks for a ride back to her place while she sobers up. Fair enough since her life would "suck" even worse if she got a DUI. So I drive her about 5 miles to her house. I have to go pee, so I head to the bathroom. In the toilet, there were 3 things:
- one giant dump
- an even more giant wad of toilet paper. Yellow.
- a huge, blac....er, um...."blue-black" hairball she'd swept up and put in the toilet on top of it all.
Technically, there were 4 things in the toilet if you count "stench" as being in the toilet. I will leave that decision up to you.
So I run out of that bathroom like it's on fire. Normally, bodily functions don't bother me but the giant yellow wad of toilet paper with the hairball on top of it pushed me over the edge. In fact, I would bet that Dehydrated Urea Yellow is not even available at any Sherman-Williams paint store because NOBODY would like that color. So now I'M the yelling lunatic: "JESUS! EVERYONE POOPS, BUT MOST OF US FLUSH IF WE MIGHT HAVE COMPANY!"
In what some might call a wild role reversal, she calmly goes, "What? I haven't shit today. I haven't shit since yesterday morning."
!
!!!!!!
That meant she had just kept peeing on top of it for a day and a half with no flushing! So she smoothly says, "The toilet is broken. You have to take the top off to flush." I refuse.
She goes in and flushes. 10 minutes later, in the middle of a mean episode of Judge Joe Brown where I swear I knew the defendant, I went pee. And I flushed. About that time, she breaks out a new fifth of gin. So she says, "Make us a drink" and I make myself one and me only because she's had enough. My drink was maybe 1 or 2 ounces of gin; I have to drive home still and don't get drunk anymore, especially while it's still light out on a Thursday, for hell's sake. She then makes herself one...I'm not shitting (nyuk, nyuk) when I say that she put 3/4 of the rest of the bottle into a cup and by the time I knew, it was gone within 15 minutes. So that is about 3/4 of a fifth. Let's see: .75 x fifth x the speed of light = Forget the math - it's a lot of gin.
So now I'm fucked! I can't give her drunk ass a ride to her car, and I'm not waiting 15 hours for her to sober up. So I am watching the last few minutes of that Judge Joe Brown episode while I finish my drink, getting ready to leave. Then she goes, "Want to see this girl I'm going to fuck?"
That's a pretty random question when you're watching Judge Joe Brown reruns featuring some guy you know, so I say/ask, "...ok?"
She shows me some girl online who looks 15, but is actually 17. I am looking at this girl's website and she's that typical Goth chick. You know, the kind that says that nobody understands her, the kind that uses 2 colors (black and pink) in every outfit she has, the kind that has a limited vocabulary, but fantastically employs words a butcher might use: tear, cut, shred, slice, grate, chop, rip, etc. The girl I'm with eerily says, "She's into cutting during sex."
So now I know that she is drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrunk because no sober human being would tell someone that if they were in their right mind.
I say, "I wonder how you even know you're into cutting during sex when you're 17. I mean, I'm not surprised with self-mutilation, but it can't be that common for it to carry over into bed at that age."
She says, "Would you ever cut me?"
I quickly say, "No."
She says, "This guy I fucked the other night cut my lower back."
So I say, "Well great!" I start looking for my shoes as I nervously nod. Somehow I'm now with Jane the Ripper. I'm out of there!
She says, even more eerily, "If I let you fuck my ass, would you cut me?"
I start laughing and say no. We haven't even ever come close to kissing, but she offers up the anal? So I go to put my flip-flops on to get the hell out of there. I find one right away, but I don't see the other one. I'm sitting down on the edge of the computer chair with my head down, kind of visually scouring the floor. She comes up from behind me like a ninja out of nowhere, yanks my hair back, and bites the hell out of my top lip, right side. I have never been bitten like that. I instantly taste blood.
The immediate response one has to pain if you're a mobile human being is kicking the shit out of someone, right? I mean, purely a biological "save me" response, man or woman - your brain doesn't discriminate in that case. So in one motion, I stood up about .00000001 seconds later and just kind of grabbed whatever I could of her to get her away from me. It happened to be a handful of Superwoman hair, and I pushed her away...in a way that was probably too hard, but it was just 100% reflex at that point so I couldn't really help it. She's drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrunk, as you may recall, so she tumbles back into her bed, which is up against the wall.
<SLAM>
Here face slides down the wall, leaving a big makeup smear. I didn't even notice she had that much on. Maybe it was a Christopher Lowell perfect contrast of "cheek rouge" and "wall eggshell white" that just really shows up. I am still not sure.
So now in my mind, I'm like "WTF!?!?!? How did me being polite and giving her a ride home turn into domestic violence?!?!" So now I'm REALLY ready to go. But where is my other shoe? And why is she giving me the look like she just LOVED what I did?
She starts panther-crawling toward me and says, "Oh fuck yes. It's like that, huh?"
But it WASN'T like that! At all! I was just getting her the hell away from me as blood filled my mouth!
So I say, "Where is my other flip flop?"
She says, "If you fuck that girl with me, I'll tell you." This statement confused me since she said it as if it was about to happen. Was the girl there in the closet, ready to go?
So I told her to just give me my shoe so I could go. She then runs (somewhat) by me to go into the bathroom. On the way in, she eats shit over an electrical cord she had stretched across the room. Of course she's wearing a skirt and her no-panties look really came back to bite her in the ass. Not losing one bit of pride somehow, she quickly Army-crawled into the bathroom. She's in there like 2 minutes and starts yellling, "Matt! Matt! Matthew!" That was confusing because Matt is not my name. I thought there was someone outside her bathroom window or something. She goes, "Matthew, come in here. I can't trust you out there." Then I realized she meant me. So I get to the bathroom where I'm assuming she has my shoe since she had jogged past me to get there. The door is locked.
She yells out, "I CAN'T FUCKING TRUST YOU!!!!" "SCOTT! GET IN HERE!!!!"
Scott? Still not me.
What an orgy this has turned into! Me, her, Matt and/or Matthew, Scott, the cutting chick she believes is in the closet or whatever. Amazing!
So I go sit down to wait it out. I'm not going to break the door in for a $1.25 flip-flop, for hell's sake. She comes out a bit later. Her left breast is totally out. I don't mean a nipple slip. I mean that one of the boobs that she is CONSTANTLY bragging about is totally out of her top. And to be honest, they look ok in a bra/top combo, but bare? No thanks, lady! It was in terrible shape and soooooo not the magnificent boob she thinks it is.
So what do I do? I mean, she isn't going to respond to commands and I'm not going to go put it back in her shirt. How would I? Just stuff it in there like I'm packing for Summer camp last minute? I don't think so. So I just let it be. What else could I do?
She goes to sit down on the arm of her chair. I know it's a mistake, but it's not my decision. The chair tips over sideways and she hits her head on her end table about as hard as I've ever seen anyone hit their head. Just a HUGE collision. Much huger than how I wrote it just now. As a good Samaritan, I go to help her up...I bend over...AH HA! My flip flop! It was right there under the chair! So I don't finish picking her up; I drop her and pick up my shoe instead. I look over and she's not moving, but it looks to be more of a drunk, passed out stillness vs. a head trauma stillness. I'm fine with that.
I say, just to have technically have said it, "Want a ride to your car? I have to go."
She says, "Oh, Matt, I'd fucking crash and kill me and that chick."
That's all the confusion and clearance I could ask for!
I left her a note on her computer (I couldn't find a pencil/paper). I said that I offered her a ride, thanks for hanging out, and that my name wasn't Scott or Matt, or Matthew.
Then I get a phone call at 3:58 am. 3:59 am. 3:59 am again. Then one from a blocked number at 4am, as if that would fool me! Every call left a long message. I'll summarize:
"I just woke up. My head hurts. How could you leave me here? What the fuck is this note? I don't know you're not Scott." Huh? Double negatives confuse me.
The 2nd call: "I don't know what the fuck I did, or what the fuck you did, but why was my tit out? If you fucking looked at my tits while I was passed out, I'm going to be pissed off!" A breast? Big deal! Keep in mind that I'd already seen her goodies that exploded out of her skirt during her first spill over that cord. But shhhh...that'll be our secret. Well, unless she reads this.
The 3rd message was a combo of the other 2. She was still drunk, no doubt. Over the next 24 hours, I got 6 more voice mails and probably 6 text messages. It was mostly rambling, 
Warning: Will Bitebut the strange keeper of them all was when said, "I could have been fucking George Washington with his teeth and not known." I'd think she could tell the difference; he's a cold bag of worm food and dust by now. And did she mean he had wooden teeth or that she'd fuck him with his own wooden teeth? The world, luckily, may never know.
So, she left me a final message saying how I was cool and she was not going to like losing me as a friend and that I don't know the real her. The real her? I can't even imagine what she's like once she gets comfortable around someone! I thought the message was about over until she pauses and ends it with this gem:
"Oh, and I'd better not be pregnant." <click>
