Listen, sometimes, and this may come as a shock to you, seeing as most of my posts suggest otherwise, I don’t drink.
And sometimes, just hold on to your hats folks, I work on my writing.
I stay at home, sit on the couch in the most unattractive sweat-suit I can muster up, and I write for hours – my only interruption coming from a cat needing attention or that episode of Once Upon A Time that I just can’t miss.
I honestly don’t go out as much as you might think. I mean, I am trying to save for NYC and I’m a natural home-body. I like to pay homage to my introverted self.
However, Trevor (of A Single Alpaca fame) got the wrong impression the other night. He caught me on a night where I decided to go out. I got a drink and then five and BOOM I was giving him my number and
hanging out making out with him. Which I still regret to this day. So now, every time he goes out, he texts me and expects to be able to meet up with me because he assumes I’m at another bar.
For a while I played along. So when he texted me asking me where I was I’d say, “Getting ready to go out,” or “My friends bailed tonight :(“ because I didn’t want him to know the truth. But, around the fourth night he texted me in a row, I was done.
I was done for two reasons:
- It was annoying.
- Every time I saw him and he was sober, he wouldn’t give me the time of day (and I was simply asking him “how his day was” or “what slice he wanted from the case” because I only saw him when I was working at the Pizza Place.
So the other night he texted me and asked:
“Sup?” Seriously, the man is a genius with words.
“Writing.” I replied.
“Are you at the Box?” I asked.
“Sounds lame.” I responded.
I’m not asking Trevor to date me. Hell, I’m never going to ask that of him. I’m not even asking him to be my friend. I’m not even the one that initiates these texts! I’m just asking that this guy, who deign to text me when he is drunk and make out with me after three shots too many, will show me the slightest amount of respect when it comes to my life. And my life is writing. Which he would know if he paid attention to me when we spoke the firs time we sat next to each other at the Box.
I’m a writer. That comes first. I don’t point out that his constant drinking is lame. He shouldn’t point out that my writing is lame.
Get over your lame self.