For lack of a better blog name for him, the tall widower comptroller will be refered to as Pussy in the future. Okay fine, Mr. Pussy. I refuse to ‘take care of’ another broken individual just re-entering the dating world. Honest to god, he’s told me that he hasn’t dated in 2 years, that he doesn’t have a best friend, that most of his ‘friends’ are really nothing more than acquaintances, that he doesn’t get along with his family and other choice tidbits that should make me run for the hills. I guess the things he knows about me though might counterbalance those. Oh wait, he knows nothing because he’s never asking me anything! Anyway, he finally asked to meet. And then dicked around for two days, I can only assume in order to select the most awesome bar around as he lives in a great part of town for bars. Posh upscale ones, cool hole in the walls, ones with great music, ones with pool tables, ones with amazing food, ones with award-winning martinis. Soooo many to choose from. Yeah, he didn’t choose any of those. He selected a place that is a huge joke with me and most of my friends. The *ahem* waitresses there wear practically next to nothing and I don’t think you can get hired if you are smaller than a size DD and don’t have your breasts pushed up to just right under your chin. So picture these girls in tiny skirts that barely cover their asses, push up bras and white knee socks. And then me. Cringing in horror as yes, my dumbass date has chosen The Tilted Kilt for our meet up. What a fucking idiot. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’ll still go, but really?
Out Of All The Bars In Town, THAT’S Where You Pick? August 3, 2012