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Pills, Porn, and a $100 Chicken

#Myworstdate

By A. LelloPublished 6 years ago 6 min read
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My worst date

Like most people, I had a string of horrific dates before I met and married the love of my life. From boring, to basic, to narcissistic, pretentious, shady, to borderline gay. After one failed fling or two, I had hit a snag in the dating market. You know the kind—so low and I admit) desperate that you start thinking that maybe you should have forgiven your cheating asshole ex. (Don't judge me, you hardcore feminists out there!) One night, I met a starving musician downtown at a local electronic Noize show who resembled an esthetic I drooled over in high school and never found. I plucked up the courage, thinking I had nothing to lose before sidling up next to him and talking about the band playing in front of us. After childishly brushing hands, we blushed, exchanged numbers and set up a date for that weekend.

We met up at a crappy dive in a hipster-neighborhood of the city. Full of "boho-city witches" and trust fund kids turned "gutter punks." To top it off, I waited for an hour. I should have followed my instincts: He chose a bar I hated, filled with people I despised and made me wait without a decent explanation. If such a thing exists.

When the loser finally arrived, we could hardly hear one another to strike up a reasonable conversation, so he suggested we leave and grab something to eat. A natural foodie, I was over the moon about anything containing the idea about dinner. On the way, he inquired of my interests, mocked them ("Ahhuh, history is lame.") while I wondered if this horrid creature was cultured at all. Dinner turned out to be a food truck, where I eagerly answered his questions concerning my job and what I did in the mean time: (aka Writing.) Eagerly, I said that I was an aspiring writer with a 350 page manuscript that I had just completed. While during the day, I apprenticed under a celebrity stylist downtown. He rolled his eyes, mouthing: "Ohhhh, a "stylist." And let me guess, you wrote a "novel." The bastard tapped his skull, seeing that I was puzzled, he explained, "Everyone's writing a novel, they just haven't actually put it down on paper."

I sighed, "I have, actually. It's done... I've been sending it to agents for weeks now."

His only response was a resounding, "Oh."

For some odd reason, which was probably boredom and wanting a free ass meal, I continued the date. With our greasy take-out, we wandered over to his shabby home a few blocks away. It was a dilapidated townhouse with four stories, six cats, and three other roommates. The living room we entered had every inch covered in discarded CDs, cassette tapes, vinyl records, DVDs, VHS tapes, and several Chinese take-out cartons and rotting pizza boxes. He "introduced" me to the cats residing there, all so territorial (who knew!) that they were "given" an overstuffed sofa to piss on. My shabby date presented this to me almost proudly...I could only suppress a laugh. Really dude?

I admit, whiskey and a bad attitude can equal out to some regrettable things. Once I had tired of him talking nonsense, I kissed him while feeling sorry for myself and wondering if I would end up pathetically alone (Hey, I'm not afraid to admit the ugly truth). As the whole episode escalated, he dragged me off to his attic room at the very top of the creaking stairs. A depressing space, that, once he flicked the dim light on—revealed a sparse, yet also chaotic room with records, musical instruments, water bottles, empty cups and pill canisters laying about. I stood there, wondering what sort of Topsy-turvy bullshit I had gotten myself into. First, I inquired about the empty pill canisters, where he reluctantly provided a vague answer, mumbling something about "not sleeping."

Then I witnessed a dark closet where the dingy light shown on an obvious collection of weird kinks and fetishes... then his laptop beamed alive on a proud display of torture porn. Seriously, was I out with a serial killer? Some mad, possibly woman-hating rapist? What fucking psycho had I attracted? And honestly, was this proud display of his personal... er... tastes, supposed to turn me on? What in the actual fuck!?I turned shamefully away from his computer screen, only to see that now he had proudly displayed himself before me with his pathetic dingus out. An unattractive, stubby thing that would honestly have fallen out of a cannoli shell. Respectfully, I did not laugh, but grabbed my coat before calling a cab home.

Surprisingly, he asked me out again. I had thought my quick exit might have told him enough, but then again he wasn't very bright... I did give him one last chance, hoping maybe I had imagined the prior event.

He took me to a very nice dinner at a swanky restaurant, tricking my into thinking that perhaps he was making up for a lousy first date. Not to mention his poor behavior. Instead, he offered to be my fuck buddy, wanting nothing serious, and he'd give me time to "think it over."

I was stunned. It was one of the few times in my life that I was so shocked that I had nothing to say. I nodded, gulping my wine down. This guy had no idea how to treat women, probably no idea how to treat PEOPLE. He spoke some more for the rest of the dinner. I remained quiet, not listening. I was still trying to wrap my head around this fucking loser. When the check came, he had asked that they split it... something I could not afford at the time. I stared at the one hundred dollar fucking rotisserie chicken before getting up from the table and telling the guy to go fuck himself.

I never contacted him again, though he still tried to contact me on a few occasions before I just blocked his number. I came to terms with the fact that I was at fault to a point. I shouldn't have continued the first date, and absolutely never should have agreed to a second one. It's also what I deserved for feeling desperate and sorry for myself. But hell, you live and you learn, and without the nitty gritty, without the hard truth, how do you expect to grow? You learn to go through shit piles so you know when you've struck gold. Thankfully, I've found mine in my husband, and while I appreciate the experiences I've had, you could never pay me to go back to them.

#myworstdate

A lonely heiress returns to her desolate childhood home after the consistent abandonment of her cheating husband. Here, Louisa remembers departed friends she abandoned in their time of need, while making new ones... including Jacob, a dockworker with whom she strikes up a passionate affair. As she loses herself for the first time, Louisa realizes she is spiraling out of control. Accepting that she is no better or worse than the world around her, and that the outcome can hardly mean a happy ending.

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About the Creator

A. Lello

Retired flapper, writer, student, MILSO, and fur mama. A champion of the truth, the underdog and executioner of the deceitful.

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