May 31st 2013

Boobs and ass.

Indeed, these are the initial ingredients responsible for my abrupt appearance in any decently attractive chick’s general direction.

Hi there. Nice…physical existence.

True, the success rate of prolonged lingering, choking for conversation, and laughing up a goddamn tornado every time this hoodrat laughs at her own jokes –  (just for the sake of boob starin and ass grazin)  is alarmingly low.

HAHAHAHA That’s HILARIOUS. But yeah no I don’t know how my hand got there.

BUT.

Every once in a great while, bitch really DOES have a decent personality tucked in her spandex dress. And then. AND ONLY THEN do I analyze my desire to buy her French fries based on the combo of her face, bod and tits.

…I mean wits.

(No wait. Tits is right)

NOW.

Let’s say I do decide her face to wits combo is the fucking jam.

And LET’S SAY I ask said chick on a goddamn date.

…And she says yes.

DAMN FUCKIN RIGHT.

Well then, my friends,

Let’s just say…

Game.

Fucking.

On.

GAME. ON.

But listen.

Treating a lady to a date ISN’T EASY SHIT.

Bitch is expensive..

Hygiene’s required.

Effort is mandatory.

And believe it or not I’m trippin BIG BALLS over here.

What do I mean?

What am I thinking?

Let’s break this the fuck down

Olive, Brandon and Bentley Cooper present:

So I Guess I’m Taking You On A Date: The Panic Diaries – Guy Edition

Fuck.

How did this even happen?

Last thing I remember I’m at this bar. And I’m fucked up.  And I’m getting down and dirty like a true gentleman on the dance floor with some hoodrat like this:

Fuckin smooth.

And suddenly

We go back to the bar for last call. And get all deep over a whiskey ginger.

I ask for her digits.

She says yes.

Makes sense.

So I tell I’ll pick her up this Thursday at 8.

And now here I am.

Alright. Dates at 8. I’ve got one hour…

So yeah I’m just gonna keep on doing this:

7:20 pm.

7:30 pm.

7:45 pm.

Alright let’s get this shit over with.

Grab a shirt.

Smell it.

Smell it again.

Grab another shirt.

Needs ironing. Fuck that shit.

Keep searching.

Find another shirt.

Smell it.

Die a little bit inside.

Now original shirt doesn’t seem so bad.

Drown that shit in cologne.

Perfect.

7:51 pm

Do an absurd amount of last minute push ups. Give no explanation to roommates.

Nothing weird going on here. Carry on.

You’re good to go.

WAIT.

Deodorant.

Highly doubt I can use pit stains to my sexual advantage:

Said no girl, ever.

Drive over to said chick’s apartment. 5 minutes late. ON PURPOSE. Only because my friend’s cool older bro told me once to “Make  hoes wait.” So yeah I’m doing that.

Think about how it’s bullshit chicks never chip in for gas.

So much for equality.

8:03 pm.

I have arrived. Made her wait 3 minutes. LIKE A BOSS.

Think about going to the door but decide to air guitar instead.

Compose text “I’m here.” Send.

That’s right, trick. You want free french fries AND booze, you can walk your ass to me.

I’M BUSY.

WAIT- STOP THE AIR DRUM

-Cue in the panic –

What does this shiela even look like? I barely remember from the other night and now I have to solely rely on my drunk self? Yet here I am in my car ready to pick her up

…Fuck it.

Back to air drumming

She gets in the car. She smells like fucking sex and cake. I fucking LOVE cake.

(chock a win up for my drunk self. Must have worn my good set of beer goggles that night. Because, you know, those exist.)

Let the small talk.

Begin.

Rattles off generic list of small talk questions.

Pretend to listen like this:

But think about the score of the game instead.

Arrive at the restaurant.

“Hello. Yes. Reservation for 2 under Jerry, please.”

They don’t’ know who the fuck I am.

Fantastic.

Play it cool.

Play it real cool.

I’m no fuck up.

Tell her they’re clearing off the table. And hope to hydrate her with a tall glass of booze instead.

(Hope this bitch gets the happy hour priced beer. Say domestics, say domestics, SAY DOMESTICS)

“Yes a dirty martini please. And…don’t be shy.”

 No dessert for you.

They finally call my goddamn name and lead us to our designated seating arrangement

But wait.

As

the

seat

gets

closer

I realize seat one has a majestic view of the city.

But seat 2 has a straight shot visual to the fucking bathroom!

SWIFTLY! THINK, JERRY! THINK!

FUCK NO AM I STARING AT BITCHES UNLOADING ALL NIGHT! THAT VIEW IS REGAL! SECURE THAT SHIT!

Make moves to the chair facing the bathrooms. Then say:

“Hey, let me pull that chair our for ya.”

“Ohh. Thank you.”

Bitches love chivalry.

(She ate that shit up like those full-priced martinis)

Now have a regal view with a hot lady friend as the forefront

I ROCK.

Waiter walks over to our table.

Not at all intimidated by his ripped biceps and perfectly coifed hair. Must be gay. Totally gay. Definiteellyyyy –

Suddenly I see a not so discreet exchange between my date and temporary servant

Good times.

(That fucker just lost 10% of this tip)

Waiter passes out the menus and after an extensive silence warranted by our intense decisions, she tells the waiter she’ll have

“The Lobster Primavera with an arugula salad on the side”

Shoulda gone to Denny’s.

I order the Tuna Tartar and send our servant on his way. (…Aka he just walked away)

Now she’s talking about her labradoodle named “Snacks” as I go ape shit on the free bread. There’s never enough butter for this shit.

I’ve now eaten 8 pieces and wonder if I should leave a slice for her.

Nah.

Eh she’s probably on a diet or some shit anyway.  Besides, chicks love talking about themselves. Anyone who has seen 40-year-old virgin knows that.

She finally finishes her story about…

Yeah I’m not really fucking sure. (but we’re out of bread, WAITER!)

But now it’s my turn and I’m going to town reciting the list I concocted with my friends about my mind-blowing successes to impress the pants off of her. Literally.

(Here is the hail mary pass, praying I didn’t use this exact same list last night to get her here)

“Yeah definitely love giving back to the community.  Animal shelters are my jam.”

“My mom is such a lovely lady. I hope I meet a woman half as great as her one day.”

“I make a fuck ton of money”

She interrupts and says she needs to use the lady’s room.

(Thank god because that was the end of the list)

I take her sudden urgency to pee as a result of the intense anxiousness she’s felt about my volunteering work. I continue to embellish it dragging this longer and longer…I’m TOTALLY NAILING THIS.

She’s no longer at the table.

I see her sprinting towards the bathroom in a sheer panic.

I’m. Awesome.

Now I’m in the dreaded bathroom lull. That undesired time period that’s too short to invest in any sort of activity but entirely too long to play it cool.

8:54 pm

(Checks phone. No missed text messages.)

8:57pm

(Checks phone again. Still no missed text messages…)

9:02 pm

(Checks phone again. Not a single message missed. That’s cool, that’s cool. Everyone probably knows im on this date…)

9:06 pm.

(Checks phone again. No messages. I’m lonely as shit.)

9:07 pm

Bitch finally returns.

What takes women so long in the bathroom I’ll never FUCKING know. It’s a goddamn chamber of secrets that sometimes warrants females to attend in packs. Make them transform into something HOTT in a matter of seconds. And sometimes they exit with fucking CANDY. Some weird conspiracy is going on. I can feel it.

Whatever.

Waiter comes back and wants us if we want dessert. I can feel homeslice staring at me from right field.

Trick already lost dessert with that happy hour trick she pulled. She likes alcohol? Game on. Time for a power play of booze. Must cloud decision-making and sobering up via dessert ain’t worth it.

She asks about my family. I decide to break out the sympathy points and tell her about my heart-felt relationship with my disabled cousin Clint. Just to show her I have a soul. Because.

Bitches love souls.

Waiter brings over the check. I become completely flustered at calculating the tip. On the one hand I want to break out my phone calculator. But shits embarrassing. Can’t look like a fool. CAN’T DO IT.

Finally cut losses, actually writes “20%” on the tip line. Wait. No…“10%” Asshole.

We exit the restaurant and approach the car. I can tell she’s slow motion approaching the car in hopes that I’ll pull a chivalrous move like I did back at the seat pull.

Fuck that noise.

Now we’re both in the car and I’m selecting a jam to set the mood for the remainder of the evening.

Let’s see her. Well.

One of the few things I remember from the night Is her face down/ass up to lil wayne. Putting him on will definitely spark some old memories.

Play song “She Will” Lil Wayne.

The following lyrics begin to play amidst the car ride silence:

I tell her now gon’ pop that pussy for a real nigga

I already know that life is deep, but I still dig her

Niggas is jealous, but really I could care less

I’m in Hell’s Kitchen with an apron and a hairnet!

Reconsidering my choice.

Reconsidering it a lot.

We’ve arrived back at her place. This part is CRUCIAL. She’s fucked up. I bought her lobster and arugula. (which, btw she didn’t even finish or take a take-out box, non-appreciative bitch). I WAS CHIVALROUS. Once. Hoping she’s thinking about my cousin Clint. And the heartwarming shit that goes along with that.

I go in for the kiss. I GOT THIS.

Never mind. I’m fucked up too.

I can imagine our make out looks a lot like this:

Nope.

Don’t get the invited in.

Drive home laughing. Never calling this bitch again.

Minus next Friday at 4:01 am.