1. Wake up. Proceed to throw up in the toilet.
2. Take a shower. Ensure that no puke is stuck in your teeth.
3. Take another shower. Trim pubic hair.
4. Receive text message from your other scheduled date for the day.
5. Cancel that date.
6. Pick up finger and toenail clippings from the floor of bedroom.
7. Chastise yourself for not working out more.
8. Consider wearing shoes with thicker heels. (the date is 5'9".)
9. Chastise your parents for being short.
10. Go to BevMo in San Mateo and buy remaining six-packs of Zima.
11. Check your cell phone every five minutes to make sure hot chick with the hot brain did not cancel the date.
12. Thank the lord.
Wish me luck. Also, keep your fingers crossed that dating season is finally over.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Stop Being A Child (a date pre-cap)
I think I'm scared of being in a relationship.
I haven't quite figured out why I would be scared (heartbreak?), but due to some really asinine thoughts I've been having over the past hour, I'm pretty certain that I'm purposely avoiding true emotional intimacy and simply acting like a child. This is definitely not a good thing, especially when you want to find a wife and make four beautiful babies.
In the past hour, I've had second thoughts about a chick I'll be going out with on Saturday. The reason is a new one in my litany of excuses and also quite a doozy. Some of my previous excuses/reasons have been: fat KFC arms, an underbite, hairy arms, use of emoticons, overuse of abbreviations, writing at a third grade level, poor driving, dislike of zima, taking more than five minutes to text message back, and a big nose. I had to stop at those ten things, otherwise I'd write about one hundred more. Note to self: Get over yourself.
Anyway, the chick I'll be going out with on Saturday is named Wendy. For all intents and purposes, she's seemingly a pretty ideal match for me. Wendy loves graphic novels and is in awe of my collection. That's pretty rare. Usually, the graphic novel conversation goes like this:
her: Wow, you have a lot of books.
me: Yeah, though the majority are graphic novels.
her: Uhh, you mean comic books.
me: No, I mean graphic novels.
her: ....
me: Okay, they're comic books.
her: (pulls her panties back up)
me: (looks down to see if the term blue balls is literal)
I've already discussed, with Wendy, ditching the Saturday date itinerary and instead, chilling at my house and reading graphic novels. I'm a fucking romantic. And a cheap bastard. Aside from the mutual love of comic books, she's tall - a 5'9" asian chick, to be precise. That's hot. I want my kids to be tall.
So, what's my big fear? I'm postulating a theory that she's related to me. I'm fucking crazy. I have no basis for this hypothesis. I simply have an irrational fear that she's related to me. I don't even have any family from her hometown. But I really, really can't stop thinking about how we might be related. Accordingly, I can't stop thinking about how our kids are going to have three eyes, eight arms, and two heads. It's weird. What the fuck is wrong with me? (Well, it's probably due to the fact that she's not that interesting, a little plain, and her writing has no passion or wit.)
On the bright side, dating season is back in full swing. I have three confirmed dates for this weekend and another two potential dates. Though, knowing me, I'll end up canceling a couple if the first date goes poorly. Or if Wendy is related to me. And we procreate. And she gets pregnant. And the kid is missing both knees. And has to walk around like a robot. And all his preschool mates make fun of him. And they call him robot boy. Which makes him point one of his eleven fingers and glare at them with all three of his eyes. And, in turn, he emits a red beam of death, eviscerating the bullies instantaneously. Yeah, dating season is back with a vengeance, along with rampant neuroses and flying semen. Women of the Western United States, I'm sorry.
I haven't quite figured out why I would be scared (heartbreak?), but due to some really asinine thoughts I've been having over the past hour, I'm pretty certain that I'm purposely avoiding true emotional intimacy and simply acting like a child. This is definitely not a good thing, especially when you want to find a wife and make four beautiful babies.
In the past hour, I've had second thoughts about a chick I'll be going out with on Saturday. The reason is a new one in my litany of excuses and also quite a doozy. Some of my previous excuses/reasons have been: fat KFC arms, an underbite, hairy arms, use of emoticons, overuse of abbreviations, writing at a third grade level, poor driving, dislike of zima, taking more than five minutes to text message back, and a big nose. I had to stop at those ten things, otherwise I'd write about one hundred more. Note to self: Get over yourself.
Anyway, the chick I'll be going out with on Saturday is named Wendy. For all intents and purposes, she's seemingly a pretty ideal match for me. Wendy loves graphic novels and is in awe of my collection. That's pretty rare. Usually, the graphic novel conversation goes like this:
her: Wow, you have a lot of books.
me: Yeah, though the majority are graphic novels.
her: Uhh, you mean comic books.
me: No, I mean graphic novels.
her: ....
me: Okay, they're comic books.
her: (pulls her panties back up)
me: (looks down to see if the term blue balls is literal)
I've already discussed, with Wendy, ditching the Saturday date itinerary and instead, chilling at my house and reading graphic novels. I'm a fucking romantic. And a cheap bastard. Aside from the mutual love of comic books, she's tall - a 5'9" asian chick, to be precise. That's hot. I want my kids to be tall.
So, what's my big fear? I'm postulating a theory that she's related to me. I'm fucking crazy. I have no basis for this hypothesis. I simply have an irrational fear that she's related to me. I don't even have any family from her hometown. But I really, really can't stop thinking about how we might be related. Accordingly, I can't stop thinking about how our kids are going to have three eyes, eight arms, and two heads. It's weird. What the fuck is wrong with me? (Well, it's probably due to the fact that she's not that interesting, a little plain, and her writing has no passion or wit.)
On the bright side, dating season is back in full swing. I have three confirmed dates for this weekend and another two potential dates. Though, knowing me, I'll end up canceling a couple if the first date goes poorly. Or if Wendy is related to me. And we procreate. And she gets pregnant. And the kid is missing both knees. And has to walk around like a robot. And all his preschool mates make fun of him. And they call him robot boy. Which makes him point one of his eleven fingers and glare at them with all three of his eyes. And, in turn, he emits a red beam of death, eviscerating the bullies instantaneously. Yeah, dating season is back with a vengeance, along with rampant neuroses and flying semen. Women of the Western United States, I'm sorry.
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