I’m Such a Hypocrite

     I have been asked out on a date by a coke dealer, and I don’t want to go because he’s a coke dealer. 

     That’s the punch line, let me tell you the story.

     Last week Dad and I had a heart to heart about how he thinks I should start dating again. And I want to make the disclaimer that right now, by saying What's-his-face (formerly known as Wonderboy) didn’t break my heart that bad, but Burning Man had my heart so wide open, it may have been the bat that broke the camels back. The romantic tales of Realme have been a little bleak the last couple years. So. Ok, Dad, you’re right. Lets get back in the saddle. The gates to the race open... and... I step out... nothing... I think I expected something immediately after the decision was made. The thing that’s equally awesome and not awesome in my life, is I always get what I ask for serendipitously, but it’s never how I want it. I know the Gods have a sense of humour. But don’t worry. So do I. 

     So I went to this house party, had a good time, met a coke dealer, swapped contact info, and carried on with my evening. I don’t do a lot of blow. Maybe a bump every couple months or so, but it’s not like that shit goes bad, and I don’t like being a mooch. Whatever. Have a good time, go home, carry on with my week. A few days later, he text’s me “Hey, what’s up?” I responded the next day with a not much. He just kept texting. Lots of questions, very engaging, lol, and we were having two way conversations. It wasn’t just a flood of questions, he told me lots about himself too. He was articulate. I value that. Anyway, we were texting for about an hour last night and he suggested we go for drinks. I put him off until tuesday because I have mid-terms. I was trying to tell myself that it's just a social. Don't be so assumptive. Then he signs off by sending me an emoticon of a rose. Oh dear. 

    I do not want to go on a date with a drug dealer. My standards are higher than that. Ha! I am such a hypocrite! I. Am. A. Prostitute. So why am I so much greater than he is??? I can’t answer that question. And until I do, I will agree to go out with him on Tuesday. I am going to reserve judgement. Frankly, I don’t even remember what the guy looks like. The only time I talked to him was when we were swapping contact info. Which brings me to the point of, why didn’t he talk to me at the party!?!?! There were only four girls there! If he’s got some expectations, he’s going to be greatly disappointed! Just because I happened to get drunk, received a lap dance from this hot little thing in a Daytona outfit, and get a tattoo all at a house party, doesn’t mean that you’ll be getting any easy action. If only there was a non-awkward way to lay out my dating strategy with him. Maybe I should just chill out until I meet the guy. If you listened to the audio clip; this is the road. I know. 

     Can I just say, I’ll bet dollars to donuts (yeah, I went there) that coke dealers don’t have the same troubles getting a date that escorts do.  

     By the way, I woke up in another man's sweat pants with a tattoo on my ass Sunday morning. Yes it was a drunken decision which mostly wreaks of regret (the tattoo, not sleeping with a SPD), but I always wanted to know what a tattoo felt like, sooo... and also, the fact that I don't have any identifiable marks on my body, kinda concerned me. Now I have a tiny little heart on my ass. Looks more like a triangular mole than anything else... I blame Capt'n Morgan. He's a persuasive asshole. 
    I realise that my having a tattoo as an identifier mark is completely redundant if I don't tell my mother about it, but if you'd met my mother, you wouldn't tell her either... maybe if I made it look more like a real tattoo, and less like a purple mole...