Tag Archives: drinks
I’ve read plenty of “inspirational” quotes telling me things like, “If it’s not okay it’s not the end” and “There’s no such thing as a true ending” and “Everything must come to an end sometime.” A lot of these sayings contradict each other but that doesn’t stop girlie girls from putting the words on pretty a background and posting them to their Instagrams.
Here’s my problem: I hate endings. I don’t know how to handle them. I very rarely even say goodbye to anyone. I always end the dinner or the drinks or the party by saying something like, “See you next week.” I never simply say, “Goodbye.”
I can’t handle the permanence of The End.
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Patrick was one of the first guys I messaged with who seemed really quirky and fun. We wrote to each other for a couple weeks before we decided to meet for drinks. Topics ranged from siamese twins to the arts. I was actually excited to meet him. Plus, his photo wasn’t so bad either. (Check the proof below).
Truth be told, I shouldn’t have fallen for that Instagram filter. When I went to meet Patrick for drinks, I was excited to see that he was tall and wearing a flannel. I was not excited to hug him hello and feel his man-boobs against my body. Mean? Yes. But also very surprising. Have you ever been caught off guard like that? I hadn’t. He had to have been an A-cup.
Increasingly disinterested in my date, I made friends with an older and married gay couple at the bar. They fed me a marshmallow and thought I was so charming. Patrick was impressed. I wanted to take both of these gray-haired gay men home with me. This is just further proof that I am a homosexual male.
I bought a drink and we talked. Mostly about siamese twins. Again. He seems quite fascinated. I couldn’t really carry a conversation about conjoined babies past what I’d already said in our online messaging, so I bid him adieu after an appropriate amount of time (as in, “I gave him a chance but now I need to say goodbye to Patrick and his girlish rack”).
I never heard from Patrick again. I was okay with that. That is, until he texted me three weeks later to ask if I got home safely. Yes, really. I could have died on the way home and he wouldn’t have known. I told him this. He said, “Yeah, I guess I turned the three-day rule into the three-week rule.” Sucks, man.