May 23rd 2013
So I like your face and you like mine.
THAT’S GOOD SHIT.
Often times, boys and girls make this spontaneous decision on a rather hourly basis and SOMETIMES they like each other’s faces well enough to go on what we like to label as a “date”.
What kind of nonsense is running through the guys mind? The girls mind? While this episode of romantic awkwardness is going the fuck down.
Well. I’m going to tell you. Starting with the chicks.
Here we go.
Olive and Penny Erikson present:
So You Wanna Take Me On A Date: The Panic Diaries – Girl Edition
How did this even happen?
Last thing I remember I’m at this bar. And I’ve got tequila eyes. And I’m telling some trick he has nice hair.
And he likes that shit.
So we make jokes about toupees and hand grenades and next thing I know
Numbers are exchanged.
And he asks me to “grab a dinner or a drink sometime”
And home slice ACTUALLY follows through
Now I’m scampering around my room wondering if I should wear red or black
I’m going maroon.
Happy medium mother fuckers.
Alright. Remember. Deodorant AFTER you dress yourself. Remember how much of an asshole you looked like at Olivia’s birthday party? WHITE STREAKS EVERYWHERE! Thank god for the contrast feature on instagram that highlighted those bad bitches quite nicely in every fucking photo uploaded that night. And furthermore, printed and placed in the apartment photo frames FOR-E-VER.
Alright dress is on. Make up looks HOTT. Spray some perfume.
Spray that shit again.
Want to smell irresistible as fuck.
He should be here any minute.
3 minutes later.
I’ve now browsed through my Facebook newsfeed 8 1/2 times and seen 10 pictures of instagrammed feet. Pre-game getting out of control over here.
“Hey thanks for letting me borrow your Christmas socks last week!” – Penny ” 8:02pm
BE GONE PENNY.
I’ve got another text.
“Here” – Jerry 8:04 pm.
Long gone are the days of flowers at the doorstep, a ring of the doorbell and adjusting your dress right before you open the door JUST TO SEE his bright and shaven face. Nope. This generation is WEAK. This text says “Here” aka “GET IN MY CAR I AIN’T COMIN TO YOU.”
Alright here’s my thing with the commute to the car. Like. The fuck kind of face do I make?! If I smile I look like an asshole.
If I don’t smile I look like a football player.
If I walk too s l o w I’m making it painfully awkward for both parties involved. If I sprint too fast homeboy might just drive the fuck away.
Fast-paced walk. Slight wave? Tousle of the hair? I look PRECIOUS.
We get in the car and I go for the unnecessary side hug. Like, can’t you just wait bitch? Nope.
He’s seatbelt stricken and I’m just given out free hugs in a maroon blouse.
Yeah yeah good to see you too. Yup. My day was good. Oh I smell nice? Thanks I suppose (EXTRA SPRITZ FOR THE WIN)
Small talk small talk. Something about the weather. An apology for comparing toupees and hand grenades at the same danger level the last time we chatted. Not cool. Oh we’re here already? Lovely.
We walk in. Reservation for 2.
The hostess guides us to our seat.
One booth seat and one chair…I can tell we’ve both made separate internal decisions that the booth is where it’s AT. I walk a little more swiftly to secure my position on this cushioned cloud of comfort. But the tricky bastard pulls the chivalry card and offers to “pull out my chair.”
Well played sir. Well fucking played.
He’s now sitting like a king on the cushions of comfort.
We both order a drink. I kind of want to order a beer and look like a guy’s girl and I also because I really dig a good pale ale.
1. I need to look like a fucking lady and get something adorable
2. I need liquor for this shit. Hard…liquor.
Dirty Martini please.
…And don’t be shy.
The waiter hands us the menus. He’s kind of hott. But like I can’t. Because Jerry’s here.
Alright let’s see here.
Well shit. On the one hand I feel obligated to get a pile of lettuce but on the other hand I really want some fucking chicken!
“Chicken Salad.” NICE COMPROMISE, self. With a side of french fries? DONE.
They fast-pitch a basket of bread on the table and I’m now I’m telling Jerry about the latest shenanigans of my pet golden doodle “Snacks”
Thing is though.
I really want this pile of carbs and Jerry’s already face deep in the damn basket! There he is, swiping a weak amount of butter and chewing the damn thing. STOP ASKING ME ABOUT SNACKS AND JUST LET ME EAT SOME BREAD.
He pounds another slice
And another. Smiling and nodding as my eyes gloss over with malnourished jealousy.
Now there’s only one slice left.
And I somehow segwayed to the time Snacks got his feet stuck in a grocery cart at the local “Dino Mart”
“Uhh Yeah no snacks was fine just a mild fracture lolol okay now tell me about you! Do you have any pets??”
(Well done. Your turn to snack (no pun intended)
I go in for the last slice
Hott waiter comes over and tears away the basket and replaces it with our entrees of choice.
Whatever. Chicken Salad in my face. LET’S DO THIS.
Jerry has no pets but he proceeds to tell me a lot a bit about himself.
Just got a promotion you say?
Like to do fundraisers for kids with disabilities you say?
Think your mom is the BADDEST bitch in the world you say?
Awesome. I like it. I’m buying it. Probably because I’m going apeshit on some chicken salad over here.
What’s that? You…you want a fry?
Carb. Loading. Whore.
I half smile and say “Sure! Of course!” Homie is paying for this potato stick anyway.
Conversation is going well. And fantastic news! We’ve migrated from talking about my dog Snacks to our goals and aspirations. NICE.
I make a joke. And he laughs. That’s right compadre, sense of humor over HURR. I cannot believe I just said the word “hurr” in my head. Anyone else think it’s interesting that the ghetto translation of here is also interchangeable with hair? Here? Hurr? Hair? Hurr? Fuck yes versatility.
He just told me something really heartfelt and I was too busy deciphering the difference between “hurr” and “hurr” in my head.
Half smile with a blank stare. Twofer, son.
Here’s to hoping he doesn’t reference this heartfelt shit later.
But just in case he does
“Another dirty martini please!”
I need to pee.
And I need to pee bad.
But Jerry’s going nutso talking about his charity of choice and trick isn’t taking ONE SINGLE BREATH.
4 minutes later.
I might die. I may…actually die. MOVE IT ALONG JERRY.
Once we both reconvened at our once deserted table,the waiter straight from sexville asks us if we want dessert. I mentally say FUCK YES.
But give Jerry an elongated stare instead of answering the waiter because I clearly am incapable of responding myself.
Jerry says no thanks, we’ll just have another round of drinks and the check.
20 minutes later.
I’m fucking trashed. And Jerry’s lookin a little less classy himself. I’m back to deciphering the difference between “hurr” and “hurr” internally. Like, what if one was to use it in the same sentence? “I’m getting my hurr cut over hurr”….hmm…I suppose that still makes sense
…also, where am I?
Jerry asks if I’m okay. That I’ve been dazing off and laughing to myself…
Not at all a contributing factor as to why I’m still single.
He eventually collects the check and I do the awkward “thank you” and look around aimlessly and deep in thought as he calculates the tip.
Eventually he dethrones himself from his cushions of comfort and we walk out of the restaurant and high five the waiter and hostess on the way out.
Alright maybe that was just me.
I wait for him to open the door but…no cigar. Apparently chivalry only exists when booth battles are involved. We get in the car. He turns on the music. He thinks he’s playing it cool by blasting lil wayne. But really everyones uncomfy because
1. We’re not cool enough for this
2. No one is talking but lil wayne and he’s saying this:
“Gagging and choke like ho put the dick back in your throat
Still packing fo sho
Yeezy Weezy off of the heezy fo sheezy”
And I’m all starin out the window like:
We arrive back at my place. Jerry says he had a good time. And other than the carb and cushion theft I can’t say I had a bad time either. Am I tripping balls due to potent dirty martinis? NO DOUBT.
He leans in for the kiss.
I start to internally panic.
Part of me is all like “Do I like Jerry? Should I do this?!?!?!” And then my frenemy dirty martini is all like “Lolol. For sure”
I obey the martini. And this shit ain’t bad. Not bad…at all…
I do a little…”feel around”… to see exactly how…drunk…Jerry is.
Jerry’s fucked up.
Homeboy ain’t coming inside.
That’s enough of that Jerry. Have one less whiskey ginger next time and then we’ll talk about a trip to pound town. Unleash me from this seatbelt so my maroon blouse and I can eat cheetos in my bedroom in privacy.
Call me sometime. Or don’t. I don’t care. Hahahaha.
But seriously call me.