High Horse
I need to get a skinny European boyfriend so I can call him my Blonde Flat White.
As I have finished dinner I realize that I cannot become a rapper, because if I nervous-vomit before my rap battles I have no explanation for why there is celery in my mom's spaghetti. I don't think this is something that other rappers would just let slide. I certainly wouldn't.
"Bitch, did you have papaya in- what...Shepard's pie?! Hell naw, I don't play with this."
She might be a culinary genius.
I do like the play on texture.
It's been really hard to get myself into writing lately. I have a lot to do. I have three group projects that I don't completely understand. The amount of interaction I am being forced to sustain is becoming overwhelming.
Outside of that I've been trying to foster good, consistent people-seeing in an effort to aid my socialization. I'm feral and I need puppets to play with to prove I can come inside the house.
Before I go into this- Fall TV is coming back, and I have a few notes for you.
9-1-1: Connie Britton is gone, and so should you. Or- Jennifer Love Hewitt =/= Connie Britton. Her story line was the heart of the first season, and you can feel her absence. It doesn't help that they have her cocky firefighting boyfriend living in her house and talking about her constantly. The show was "brave" enough to have a #metoo moment in the second episode of their two-part premiere, but if I am looking for some 'ripped from the headlines' drama I'll stick with SVU because they've had 19 seasons to learn to do it right.
I Feel Bad: is another Amy Poehler produced female-led comedy...except is it? Technically, definitely. But Sarayu Blue's matriarch is almost constantly taking advice and direction from her supporting cast of weird start-up gaming artist bros. I know it's based on a book, so I'm assuming it's based on someone's personal experiences, but her propensity for feeling bad seems entirely warranted considering how much of the first two episodes side-lines her for sight gags featuring her parents, children and coworkers. Maybe I'm getting to comfortable with media trying to speak to me as a millennial, but I just can't relate to this one.
This has all been a preamble to my own epic saga of an encounter with the absolute worst human being last weekend.
I keep having flashbacks about small details I had forgotten.
Like his joke about taking girls to BJ's Brewhouse. For hugs.
I feel like you can get where this is going by that statement.
Anyway, Friday night I went out with a friend of a friend I wanted to get to know better. We went to Lola's, a dive bar that I recall very well from my black-out nights of my early twenties, but that I don't actually remember. There was the standard dim-lighting that is meant to foster bad decision making. If you can't see your decision, then it's probably a good decision. You can't examine your glass, or what's in your glass, or who's around your glass. The ceiling is lined with molding underwear and bras, which I am sure was someone's clever anarchist concept. The patio kind of looks like Houston has earthquakes and they built a bar around a site deemed too dangerous to repair. I was skeptical about the kind of evening I would have the moment I realized I wasn't 23 anymore, and not once have I held the desire to wear victory rolls.
But two drinks were 6 dollars, so fuck it.
As we settled into small talk this FoF mentioned that she had invited a friend of hers to join us that was not a mutual friend. Just after she breaks the news an average white guy walks up, and I am convinced that no night has ever been improved by an average white guy strolling on the scene, this would not be an exception. He introduces himself, but he has a weird smile and keeps licking his front teeth, so I didn't really bother to take the name.
*******
Here the Brett Kavanaugh hearings took place and I had to leave the house to buy two different kinds of microwave pizza and a bottle of moscato because I needed to cheaply consume my general sense of negativity toward the American public.
This moscato tastes like garbage. It's perfect. No one deserves nice things today...well, Christine Blasey Ford does, but no one else.
Watching white men's tearful outrage was really reminiscent of the behavior I experienced over the weekend. It was uncomfortably soon. Maybe if we could bottle their pure white tears Flint could have clean drinking water.
*********
To resume our story:
This guy of average height rolls up, wrinkling his nose and snaking his tongue. He looks like a chubby Bill Hader in the middle of a skit where the point is to be as obliviously obnoxious and unappealing as possible. Maybe he was method acting, in which case I was unprepared for that level of genius. But, FBH (fat Bill Hader) pulls up to us and immediately starts trying to mack while simultaneously dragging FoF.
He asks us to go inside and finds the less crowded end of the bar, which he proclaims as his regular territory. Minutes later he starts casually touching me. He talks over FoF and takes every opportunity to belittle her, smirking and nodding at me on the side as though she's our private joke. He asks questions like "so what defines you?" and keeps saying he just wants to get to know me. He pulls out memes "about that black guy that's always kneeling" and asks if I think the text on his Pabst is Japanese or Korean. He throws out a couple of words in Chinese to prove that he can cross that one out. Of course, he keeps talking about his dick. And touching me. On the arm. Moving my hair. Pulling me to him by the waist.
I'm being a completely lame bitch, so I just pull away and move myself from around his wingspan without saying anything because I don't want to be rude. If I said I didn't want his attention he might inform me I had misconstrued his intentions. He said he was just joking. He said he just wanted to get to know me. If I was direct that'd make me shrill. It'd be impolite.
So I look for another guy to put between us because it's a bar and that's just a big party, so it's an easy way to create a barrier. A gay couple walks in, the silver fox assesses the situation and gives me a pitying look, but the kind that I have chosen to interpret as a "we've all been there, gurl" look versus a "you pathetic bitch" look. A playful wink confirms. A younger man wearing a beautiful rubber duckie print polo approaches them and I take the opportunity to compliment him, ignore FBH, and move around to his side of the bar to discuss the merits of dressing for less. FDB (fit duck boy) tells me that he has found quite a few good finds at Ross, including loads of Nike goods that he bought because he really appreciated them standing with Colin Kaepernik. He asks if FBH is my boyfriend and after a pronounced and hearty laugh I say "No, I just met that dude" loud enough that I hope FBH heard. FBH keeps trying to interject himself in our conversation with memes and comments about his dick, and I am comforted by FDB taking a similar approach to his intrusions by laughing them off awkwardly. I'm not the only conflict averse one. It wasn't just my female conditioning. I win some dignity.
Unfortunately, after informing FDB that I was single, he mentions that he is too, begins putting his arm around my waist and telling me I'm pretty. I feel bad for assuming that his "passion for fashion" meant that he was gay and worse for the realization that I have lost my safe space. He actually holds conversation, but over the course of our 5 minutes together he takes a break after every subject to touch me and comment on my being single and pretty...and it's not the worst...but the petting is too similar to FBH tactics so it's still kind of unwelcome. He is fit, though. And younger, so that's kind of an ego boost. I begin to consider that it might be fun to give him my number or take him home. Who knows if he'd be as into it in better lighting...but then I notice that FoF seems upset.
From my periphery I had been watching FBH slowly become this scowling recluse when I managed to escape his gravitational field. It was clear that at some point he had taken out his frustration on FoF and upset her. So I quickly excused myself to girl code to her side.
She gets her check and we start the walk back to her place with FBH in tow. Delighted that there is no longer any distraction he begins touching me again, trying to coax reactions from me and pleading that I not hold her behavior against him. "Don't be mad" he whines, with a giggle and tongue flick. I shouldn't hold his habit of flicking his tongue over his two front teeth against him because it's probably a tick he can't control, but I am going to because I hate him. He whines and he giggles and he flicks his tongue and he is wholly disingenuous and at some point he touches me or mentions his dick one too many times. I turn to him, inhale and hiss "if you don't stop I'm going to physically assault you in a way that you are not going to like."
He looks hurt.
I feel bad. Then I feel bad for feeling bad, and so I totally understand why there is now a show with this title. He looked hurt and surprised. He stops walking with us...disappears into the night like the ghost of sexual assaults past.
I finish the trek to FoF's apartment and my car. I find out that he's married. Worse, he's from the suburbs. My feeling about having to chase him off is so complicated that it gives me a dull headache.
One day he's going to be nominated to the Supreme Court.
As I have finished dinner I realize that I cannot become a rapper, because if I nervous-vomit before my rap battles I have no explanation for why there is celery in my mom's spaghetti. I don't think this is something that other rappers would just let slide. I certainly wouldn't.
"Bitch, did you have papaya in- what...Shepard's pie?! Hell naw, I don't play with this."
She might be a culinary genius.
I do like the play on texture.
It's been really hard to get myself into writing lately. I have a lot to do. I have three group projects that I don't completely understand. The amount of interaction I am being forced to sustain is becoming overwhelming.
Outside of that I've been trying to foster good, consistent people-seeing in an effort to aid my socialization. I'm feral and I need puppets to play with to prove I can come inside the house.
Before I go into this- Fall TV is coming back, and I have a few notes for you.
9-1-1: Connie Britton is gone, and so should you. Or- Jennifer Love Hewitt =/= Connie Britton. Her story line was the heart of the first season, and you can feel her absence. It doesn't help that they have her cocky firefighting boyfriend living in her house and talking about her constantly. The show was "brave" enough to have a #metoo moment in the second episode of their two-part premiere, but if I am looking for some 'ripped from the headlines' drama I'll stick with SVU because they've had 19 seasons to learn to do it right.
I Feel Bad: is another Amy Poehler produced female-led comedy...except is it? Technically, definitely. But Sarayu Blue's matriarch is almost constantly taking advice and direction from her supporting cast of weird start-up gaming artist bros. I know it's based on a book, so I'm assuming it's based on someone's personal experiences, but her propensity for feeling bad seems entirely warranted considering how much of the first two episodes side-lines her for sight gags featuring her parents, children and coworkers. Maybe I'm getting to comfortable with media trying to speak to me as a millennial, but I just can't relate to this one.
This has all been a preamble to my own epic saga of an encounter with the absolute worst human being last weekend.
I keep having flashbacks about small details I had forgotten.
Like his joke about taking girls to BJ's Brewhouse. For hugs.
I feel like you can get where this is going by that statement.
Anyway, Friday night I went out with a friend of a friend I wanted to get to know better. We went to Lola's, a dive bar that I recall very well from my black-out nights of my early twenties, but that I don't actually remember. There was the standard dim-lighting that is meant to foster bad decision making. If you can't see your decision, then it's probably a good decision. You can't examine your glass, or what's in your glass, or who's around your glass. The ceiling is lined with molding underwear and bras, which I am sure was someone's clever anarchist concept. The patio kind of looks like Houston has earthquakes and they built a bar around a site deemed too dangerous to repair. I was skeptical about the kind of evening I would have the moment I realized I wasn't 23 anymore, and not once have I held the desire to wear victory rolls.
But two drinks were 6 dollars, so fuck it.
As we settled into small talk this FoF mentioned that she had invited a friend of hers to join us that was not a mutual friend. Just after she breaks the news an average white guy walks up, and I am convinced that no night has ever been improved by an average white guy strolling on the scene, this would not be an exception. He introduces himself, but he has a weird smile and keeps licking his front teeth, so I didn't really bother to take the name.
*******
Here the Brett Kavanaugh hearings took place and I had to leave the house to buy two different kinds of microwave pizza and a bottle of moscato because I needed to cheaply consume my general sense of negativity toward the American public.
This moscato tastes like garbage. It's perfect. No one deserves nice things today...well, Christine Blasey Ford does, but no one else.
Watching white men's tearful outrage was really reminiscent of the behavior I experienced over the weekend. It was uncomfortably soon. Maybe if we could bottle their pure white tears Flint could have clean drinking water.
*********
To resume our story:
This guy of average height rolls up, wrinkling his nose and snaking his tongue. He looks like a chubby Bill Hader in the middle of a skit where the point is to be as obliviously obnoxious and unappealing as possible. Maybe he was method acting, in which case I was unprepared for that level of genius. But, FBH (fat Bill Hader) pulls up to us and immediately starts trying to mack while simultaneously dragging FoF.
He asks us to go inside and finds the less crowded end of the bar, which he proclaims as his regular territory. Minutes later he starts casually touching me. He talks over FoF and takes every opportunity to belittle her, smirking and nodding at me on the side as though she's our private joke. He asks questions like "so what defines you?" and keeps saying he just wants to get to know me. He pulls out memes "about that black guy that's always kneeling" and asks if I think the text on his Pabst is Japanese or Korean. He throws out a couple of words in Chinese to prove that he can cross that one out. Of course, he keeps talking about his dick. And touching me. On the arm. Moving my hair. Pulling me to him by the waist.
I'm being a completely lame bitch, so I just pull away and move myself from around his wingspan without saying anything because I don't want to be rude. If I said I didn't want his attention he might inform me I had misconstrued his intentions. He said he was just joking. He said he just wanted to get to know me. If I was direct that'd make me shrill. It'd be impolite.
So I look for another guy to put between us because it's a bar and that's just a big party, so it's an easy way to create a barrier. A gay couple walks in, the silver fox assesses the situation and gives me a pitying look, but the kind that I have chosen to interpret as a "we've all been there, gurl" look versus a "you pathetic bitch" look. A playful wink confirms. A younger man wearing a beautiful rubber duckie print polo approaches them and I take the opportunity to compliment him, ignore FBH, and move around to his side of the bar to discuss the merits of dressing for less. FDB (fit duck boy) tells me that he has found quite a few good finds at Ross, including loads of Nike goods that he bought because he really appreciated them standing with Colin Kaepernik. He asks if FBH is my boyfriend and after a pronounced and hearty laugh I say "No, I just met that dude" loud enough that I hope FBH heard. FBH keeps trying to interject himself in our conversation with memes and comments about his dick, and I am comforted by FDB taking a similar approach to his intrusions by laughing them off awkwardly. I'm not the only conflict averse one. It wasn't just my female conditioning. I win some dignity.
Unfortunately, after informing FDB that I was single, he mentions that he is too, begins putting his arm around my waist and telling me I'm pretty. I feel bad for assuming that his "passion for fashion" meant that he was gay and worse for the realization that I have lost my safe space. He actually holds conversation, but over the course of our 5 minutes together he takes a break after every subject to touch me and comment on my being single and pretty...and it's not the worst...but the petting is too similar to FBH tactics so it's still kind of unwelcome. He is fit, though. And younger, so that's kind of an ego boost. I begin to consider that it might be fun to give him my number or take him home. Who knows if he'd be as into it in better lighting...but then I notice that FoF seems upset.
From my periphery I had been watching FBH slowly become this scowling recluse when I managed to escape his gravitational field. It was clear that at some point he had taken out his frustration on FoF and upset her. So I quickly excused myself to girl code to her side.
She gets her check and we start the walk back to her place with FBH in tow. Delighted that there is no longer any distraction he begins touching me again, trying to coax reactions from me and pleading that I not hold her behavior against him. "Don't be mad" he whines, with a giggle and tongue flick. I shouldn't hold his habit of flicking his tongue over his two front teeth against him because it's probably a tick he can't control, but I am going to because I hate him. He whines and he giggles and he flicks his tongue and he is wholly disingenuous and at some point he touches me or mentions his dick one too many times. I turn to him, inhale and hiss "if you don't stop I'm going to physically assault you in a way that you are not going to like."
He looks hurt.
I feel bad. Then I feel bad for feeling bad, and so I totally understand why there is now a show with this title. He looked hurt and surprised. He stops walking with us...disappears into the night like the ghost of sexual assaults past.
I finish the trek to FoF's apartment and my car. I find out that he's married. Worse, he's from the suburbs. My feeling about having to chase him off is so complicated that it gives me a dull headache.
One day he's going to be nominated to the Supreme Court.
Comments
Post a Comment