Weekend
I have no balls. I'm so desirous of avoiding confrontation that I'm willing to start a false rumor about having a secret affair, which is ridiculous if you think about it. Twice last week I got very, very close to being caught for having traded in the douchebag who made me buy his beers to pay for the Latin we didn't read, for a Latin tutor who is not so douchey. After the first close shave I said to Not-Douche that if anyone asks why we're getting together on Friday afternoon, he should say we're secretly dating. Not-Douche is a bit of a man-whore, so I'm sure one more such rumor won't hurt him too much. Luckily we haven't had to use that allegation yet, since I narrowly avoided confrontation on Friday, the second close shave. The downside of it is that we didn't get to read any Latin; when I walked into our rendevous place on Friday afternoon, I saw Douche already ensconced there, and it was all I could do to call Not-Douche frantically and secretly in order to tell him, "abort, abort!!"
Why am I tiptoeing around this one jackass who so clearly needs to be told off by someone?
Anyways, that was Friday. On Saturday I went to a birthday dinner, then I tried to go to a party, but it looked from the outside that no one was at this party, so we tiptoed around the house and decided that if we went inside and the party sucked, it wouldn't be easy to tear ourselves away. So we went to a bar instead, which had live jazz music, and we congratulated ourselves on coming to a new place, and we wondered why we always go back to our same old Regular joint. Then this new bar closed at midnight, and we realized why we always end up at the Regular joint, as we headed back there again. At the Regular joint, we ran into one of the jazz musicians from the other place. He was a 70s leisure suit-wearing wankster, who made some comments that would have irritated me if I were, say, an Asian female. Then we went back to the party where we tried to start the night. Fashionably, fashionable late. The good thing about being so fashionable is that it's excusable to leave early.
Why am I tiptoeing around this one jackass who so clearly needs to be told off by someone?
Anyways, that was Friday. On Saturday I went to a birthday dinner, then I tried to go to a party, but it looked from the outside that no one was at this party, so we tiptoed around the house and decided that if we went inside and the party sucked, it wouldn't be easy to tear ourselves away. So we went to a bar instead, which had live jazz music, and we congratulated ourselves on coming to a new place, and we wondered why we always go back to our same old Regular joint. Then this new bar closed at midnight, and we realized why we always end up at the Regular joint, as we headed back there again. At the Regular joint, we ran into one of the jazz musicians from the other place. He was a 70s leisure suit-wearing wankster, who made some comments that would have irritated me if I were, say, an Asian female. Then we went back to the party where we tried to start the night. Fashionably, fashionable late. The good thing about being so fashionable is that it's excusable to leave early.
posted by Rex at 4:27 PM
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