Weekend Texts and Saturday Summary

WEEKEND TEXTS

Annoying Text:

Musician Dude: Are you still pissed at me? I really miss you…

What I am Thinking: (No the shit you do not. You don’t even know me enough to miss me. We’ve been on five dates. Five. So you know nothing about me. And no, you are still not getting laid.)
What I Write: I was never pissed. You just want something from me that I don’t want to give you. And I don’t have the energy to deal with games.
Musician Dude: You have the wrong idea about me. I don’t want just that. I won’t lie, I’m interested in that. But I honestly like being around you. Let’s do a Woody Allen movie and dinner this week.
What I am Thinking: (Movie and dinner? Is that going change my mind? Seriously? Real god damn creative. Although the Woody Allen angle was a little bit brilliant. He almost had me for a second.)
What I Write: No, thank you.

I don’t know what it is about me but once I close the door on someone or something, it is fully done in my mind. I’m not the ‘look back’ girl. That is why I have never taken back an ex-boyfriend or given guys like Musician Dude more than one chance. And everyone is always surprised. It’s called self-respect. And as ‘nice’ as I am, I do know how to cut people out.

Crazy Text:

Wil Wheaton: Wow, so I drank so much last night that I have practically no memory. But I woke up with a fat lip, a broken nose and a gash on my forehead.

Me: Holy shit! Did you get into a fight?
Wil: I have no clue.
Me: You’re Irish. You got into a fight.

Let me tell you what was going through my mind when he text me this. I pictured Wil in a bar, very drunk, slamming shots (this is extremely easy to picture as this scenario accounts for 80% of his life), mouthing off to one of our local douche bags, getting dragged outside, rolling fists across the patio, and then walking back into the bar to order more shots. And Wil is infuriatingly clever so I imagined whatever he said to provoke this fight to be hysterical.

What Really Happened – Did he have some sort of sexy old-timey bar fight? No. Did he say something witty to spark a bar room brawl? No. The real story, Wil was so drunk that while taking a piss, he fell into the urinal and smashed his face up. Here was his opinion on the matter:

Me: You realize that your face is fucked up because you got attacked by a urinal and lost.

Wil: I didn’t lose.
Me (looking at his broken nose): You sure as fuck did.
Wil: No. You’re looking at this all wrong. In the end, I pissed on that urinal. And I’ll go back and piss on it again. So… I win.

See. Infuriatingly clever.

Funny Text:

EVG: Hurro!

Me: Did you just Asian hello me?
EVG: I sure as shit did.
Me: Who is it that you said I laugh like again?
EVG: Teddy Ruxpin.
Me: Fuck you.
EVG: Wow. Why did shit get real? I thought we were having a friendly racially charged conversation.

EVG (later): I dreamt about cake and fixing the space station last night. Also, how to serve cake without utensils. Now I want cake. Specifically, funfetti cake. Which was the cake of my dreams. Everything is more beautiful in space.

Me: And now I want space cake too.
EVG: Who can blame you?

Reality Check Text:

Me: So I told some freakishly tall guy in the bar last night that I wanted to climb him and shove a flag in his head.

California Guy: Wow. Does he live in your neighborhood?
Me: No. He works with me.
California Guy: Then he isn’t a ‘guy in the bar’. He’s a coworker. Which makes what you said even worse.
Me: They are all ‘guys in the bar’. Unless I’ve slept with them, of course. Then I name them.
California Guy: How many have you slept with?
Me: One.
California Guy: Only one guy has a name.
Me: Yes.
California Guy: I almost believe you.
Me: That I only slept with one guy?
California Guy: No. That you named him.

MY SATURDAY

Our company Christmas party was amazing. Besides the fact that my boss’s speech about my accomplishments included ‘being mean to men’ (not true), going on a date with alien Jesus (true), and being afraid of commitment (not true). Either way, I think those accomplishments prove that I deserve a raise.

And I believe that I had fun that night, from what I could remember. I did terrible shots, threatened to scale a tall guy, told a group of people to go fuck themselves, walked out of my shoes, had to be carried home, and woke up covered in glitter and double sided sticky tape. Don’t ask.

I also walked out on my tab, which had to be in the hundreds. This meant that I had to do the hangover walk of shame to go back and pay for it. I looked awful. Hair askew, skull pajamas that were too big, barely any makeup. You’d think I’d get those pretentious shitty looks when I showed up looking like that but no one even blinked. I guess living in a neighborhood of alcoholics has its benefits.

The nice thing was that my tab had been paid for by somebody else. Either having boobs is a wonderful asset for poor drunks like me or I am just so amazing and interesting that people trip over themselves to pay my tab. I have a feeling it is not the latter. But I sure as hell am going to pretend it is.