There I was.
All excited over a first date.
Okay, so I wasn’t that excited. I was more in the mindset of, “come on, it’s time you put yourself out there…he seems like a nice guy…”
Which probably wasn’t the best place for me to be, but whatever. The plan was to meet at the Sunday night open mic, and then head for pizza afterward.
The show wrapped up around 10, and he named the pizza place as we hopped into separate cars.
“The one on Main Street?” I asked.
He nodded. I hopped in my car and headed that way.
When I arrived at the place, he wasn’t there. I hadn’t seen his car in the parking lot, so I wasn’t that shocked. I grabbed a table for two and ordered a Diet Coke.
Did I mention this guy doesn’t drink?
So there I sat. And waited. After 15 minutes, I accepted the fact that I was indeed being stood up, and ordered a cheese pizza to go.
The fact that I wasn’t even looking forward to the date and was now being stood up made me feel worse about myself. I couldn’t even get guys I didnt like to date me.
As my personal pan slid into the oven, the guy waltzes through the door, saying he took the long way, and had a lot on his mind. I told him I’d been waiting for awhile, and had placed an order for takeout.
He placed his order, asking about the price of lemonade, and we proceeded to spend the next hour and a half battling through awful conversation. He talked mostly about himself, mentioning that he’d like me to get an article about him in the magazine I write for.
When he did ask about me, he wouldn’t give me enough time to answer before he started on himself again. Most of my answers weren’t up to his standards, he hates the Lakers, told me I was probably a spoiled brat because I’m an only child, and couldn’t get over the fact that I wasn’t obsessed with James Bond films.
I finally asked for the check, which he wanted split.