Sunday et Fin

Post wise, it was a fairly good weekend, though nothing too creative.

I’m happy to be back and interacting with the lovely folks of WordPress. I hate social media, always have, but this community is so pretty and inspiring and encouraging—it’s kind of surreal how much I like it. I’m a cynic and a pessimist, so I tend to look at every good thing expecting the worst or searching for a catch, but I’m happy to say, I don’t need to do that here. I’m still suspicious of the kindness and support towards me and my writing, but that’s just because I’m a chemically unstable, paranoid asshole, though I’m learning to believe all of your kind words, and all of the kind words I receive in my real life, and kindness in general.

I learned a weird thing about me today: I don’t wear boxers most of the time. Yes, I free-ball. How did I not realize this? I have no fucking idea. I’m neurotic and obsessive and hyperaware, yet I’m also an oblivious ditz. What’s weirder is, none of my past lovers have ever mentioned my lack of underwear. Maybe it’s a new thing. I don’t know. I do develop weird quirks out of nowhere, often having to do with things I deem unnecessary—so maybe that’s what happened. Again, I answered my question shortly after posing it to myself. I’m a weirdo. And there has been some head and/or ball out oopsies while cycling. Yea, I’m a moron. I knew I often go free-ballin, I just have horrible short term memory. This is my thinking process, folks. A dumpster fire, yea?

Hmm I actually feel like writing more.

Some new things in my life: I changed roles recently at work, with an embarrassingly small raise that makes me want to firebomb my building(that’s a joke, NSA, not a threat), but I’m kind of stuck at my job right now because the healthcare plan they provide is amazing—a must for the amount of therapy/medication I require to half-way function—but I really need to start looking harder for a new job, preferably telecommuting and independent contracting. Anyways, I’m now a Graphic Support Coordinator; it sounds fancy, and definitely looks good on a resume, but it basically means I coordinate our Graphic Support team (duh) to fix live designs and root designs on our marketplace, work with engineering(who are crazy smarter than me, and autistic…I think) to fix issues in the tools/programs we use and propose updates and fix/report glitches. I do a lot of shit on the side, writing instruction manuals for our tools and processes is probably my favorite task, that I do despite having a team that could do it for me—I guess that’s just my love for writing. I’ve had a few “that email was fantastic, I want you to write all mine,” which is pretty funny, to me. I love writing epic emails, that, unbeknownst to the people I’m sending them to, is just me mocking the company, and my bosses, via verbose explanations for inane processes that could be explained in two long sentences. I find it hilarious, but again, that might just be my weird personality.

Alright, no more work talk. How about some spicy stuff: I met a new girl, one that my lover will love once I surprise her with our new plaything. She’ll be the super freak in the equation. Some of her fets involve fire play(scary) rape play(I’ll never do, not my thing) extreme dominance(I’m down) being fucked on top roses, thorns and all(kind of interested in, but I don’t like wasting pretty flowers) double domination(down, but my lover is not very dominate) cutting(ehh no) watersports(the name is creepy, but peeing on girls in the shower is funny, not sexy) and a bunch of other interesting fets, many I have never heard of, nor will ever likely try. I’m still the vanilla one, but I love to please, so I’m pretty much down for anything, as long as it doesn’t creep me out. Dominance is a weird thing for me; I’m able to be a dom, but I’m such an easy going, you do you, type of person, that it makes it hard to tell a girl to shove her ben wa balls in her ass then lick my cum off my boots(yea, TMI? sorry). I’m a novelty whore—I love trying new things in all aspects of my life—so I’m constantly looking for new ways to get my rocks off, and the number one thing that gets my rocks off, is getting another person’s rocks off. That makes me a good lover, I guess.

Hmmm what else? Ohhhhhhhhhhh I bought a new bike. Fuck, she’s amazing. Her name Is Cabrini Green. She’s a mean 24 speed with disc brakes and an incredibly sexy lime green frame. Fuck. My lover got mad because I describe Cabrini like she’s a gorgeous woman. Sorry, I’m a cyclist :). I can’t wait until spring. Currently, I bike 30 miles a day, but once the weather gets better, I’ll double that, on average, and likely triple it more days than not. I fucking love riding; it’s so fucking fun; it makes me feel so fucking free. One day, I’m going to disappear on my bike. Head south down the coast, into Mexico to chill for a bit, then smash through the rest of the shithole Central American countries(sorry, they suck) except for Nicaragua, it’s beautiful, then skip the first two countries(?) in north east South America(?) and go straight into the non shitty countries, then Brazil, and settle in Uruguay. I think that itinerary is correct haha. I’m fairly knowledgeable geography wise, but I got drunk while writing this.

Uruguay will be my home one day, maybe Argentina, though I’ll be outwardly anti Che Guevara if I live in the latter; he was an asshole, murder, and hypocrite, the last being the worst. I can’t stand people who like Che Guevara, it’s fucking annoying. Yes, he had an enviable life, but as a person, he was shit. A failed capitalist turned communist; a doctor that enjoyed killing people; a homophobe; a possible rapist; he was a slew of shitty things people ignore because he was hot as fuck. HOT AS FUCK. I’m not gay, but I’d bend him over. Jokes, kind of–I’d let him suck my balls.

Simon Bolivar is a real Latin American hero; the George Washington of South America, the liberator of five(contemporary) countries, an amazing leader and thinker, up there with the founding fathers of America. The US really fucked up by not assisting Bolivar in his revolution. South America would be so much better if the US had assisted two hundred years ago, not turn most of the countries into banana republics. Ew, I’m getting into politics.

I want to move into South America, only a few handful of countries, because they maintain Eurocentric values(people might not that I call it that, but it’s true) that mesh well with my personality. America in a vacuum is lovely, and perfect for me, but I hate the mechanics that keeps it as the world’s soul mega power. Fuck, politics again. I’ll leave it at, I’m proud of being an American, and despite all the shitty things it’s done/does, it’s still an overwhelmingly positive force today…though, it might not(probably not) won’t maintain it’s position for much longer. Hopefully, it goes down the route Sweden made: a former empire(small, yea) that turned isolationist, and created a self sufficient economy(I can’t remember the term for that). FUck, no more politics. I’m drunk and rambling haha.

Oy vey, 1200+ words of me saying nothing—I’m a platinum rambler. I’ll leave this at, I love all of you. Thank you so much for reading and liking and commenting and being you. There are so many unique souls on here—it’s quite comforting. You all make me feel weird and normal at the same time. Thank you. I hope everyone had a great weekend and have a great week. Good night.

And ehhh I’m not spellchecking or going over this again at all, so sorry if there are any errors. Blah blah blah, I say this every time, you know what’s up.



Running Out of Names for Rambling Posts

Hello world!

First, I want to apologize for not responding to all the pretty comments people left me. I definitely will today once I’m able to verbalize how special, yet normal, you all make me feel. I’m not very good at responding to comments—they’re often much prettier than the posts they’re on, so I get crazy anxiety trying to properly appreciate them.

With that said, I feel amazing today. Fucking amazing. Almost too amazing, which I hate is a thing, but I’m not going to fuck up this good mood by vivisecting my happiness. I will say that it’s largely the result of quitting booze again, at least until Xmas Eve, when I have to get drunk to socialize with my sister in law’s beautiful family who like me for some reason. I’ll quit again after that for a week or so, until New Years, and then I’ll be ridiculously hammered for all of January.

I quit quitting things as New Year’s resolutions, because I wind up not only failing to commit to the resolution but often coming out of it much worse. Now, I try to trick myself into not doing something by making it my resolution.

Last year’s resolution was to try heroin for the first time—I failed.

I’m usually miserable around this time of the year. I hate Xmas, primarily because of its consumerist nature (I know, how hipster of me), but also because of the weather. I wish I was able to hibernate like a bear…sleeping through the shitty weather, waking up when it’s pretty again and going on a salmon rampage. Mmm salmon steaks with garlic butter over rice with grilled asparagus. Fuck, I’m hungry.

Anyways, back to me feeling amazing.

I woke up early today, brewed a gallon of coffee, took my dogs for a walk, and came back home to my giggling niece. She’s a beaut. I can’t wait to teach her how to paint and write and read. She’s going to be a better person than me, better than the world around us—she’s going to change the world, or so an uncle can dream.

She already has a proper library, a few dozen books short of mine, mostly filled with baby books, but there’s a non-baby one I bought that I happily read to her. Shit, I read it by myself. I wrote a note in it for future her to read. In summary, it says how special her unborn self is to me; how special her parents are to me; and the impact the book had on me as a kid. It’s called D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths. It turned me into the classicist I am today and helped shape my imagination.

I tell her in the note that I think her favorite god will be Athena, but there’s no pressure, and mine is Apollo

I can’t wait to talk to her about Greek mythology—I don’t have anyone to now.

Hurry up, Maddie, and grow up so we can play and dream together.

After reading to her for a bit, I sat down and started writing. I’m halfway through the part two of my Luna C. Soledad series. I’ve been adding to the draft over the last few months, so there’s quite a few ideas I need to formulate, but I should be able to post it tonight or tomorrow—I’m a slow ass writer.

I like creating new Lunas. I have so many more to create; maybe one of them will include parts of my current lover…maybe not…I’m not sure yet.

I also have two other drafts open to work on when I get bored writing about Luna. One being my oldest draft about a suicidal man who dies after stopping a terrorist attack. I like the idea of a man heroically saving others only because he cowardly wants to quit life. I like contradictory thoughts and actions, and characters who externalize apathy because they’re painfully empathetic inside. I don’t know if that makes sense.

I want to eventually develop the writing skills required to compile a collection of short stories and poems, or a novel, but I have a long ways to go. Maybe I should get back to my writing and stop rambling.

I hope everyone is having a lovely day.

It’s a Beautiful Night

Once upon a love, under diamond studded skies draped in nimbus negligee, two lovers drank cheap Moscato in a park overlooking the city, chain-smoking Kools and flicking the still-lit butts towards downtown hoping a strong west-wind would pick one up and drop it on the silk dress of some floozy who just got done saying like for the 47th time, setting her dress aflame as douchebags, who’ve blown hot air at her and her ilk all night, fan the flames, setting off a chain reaction that travels down each alley, each smoking section, into each bar and club, setting the city’s night life ablaze for days, until all the ego and vanity burns away.

“It’s a beautiful night to watch the world burn,” his lover says before taking the last sip of Moscato and smashing the bottle on the ground.

“I love you,” he replies.

Johnny’s First Love

Shortly after graduating high school, I fell in love for the first time with a girl I met at a party. We had both attended the same school, and actually, unbeknownst to me, met each other multiple times via mutual friends, but I was already an oblivious drunk who fixated on all the wrong girls and paid no attention to the sweet, nerdy types.

I was out getting into trouble with my boys when I received a message from an unknown number: It’s JB and “so and so” thinks you’re cute and wants to hang out. Come to this party tonight. 

At the time, my friends and I were graffiti artists. We had planned on busting a fat burner on this virgin wall overlooking the freeway later that night, but decided to hit the party first. It was being thrown at a huge house in a wealthy neighborhood deep in the east hills that was sure to have the cops called before midnight, so we had a few hours to catch a buzz, sober up, then paint the town.

We pulled up around ten, and it was already raging, and I was already annoyed. The party contained every high school archetype I hated–mostly the popular types who spent more time taking pictures of themselves and talking about how much fun they were having than actually having fun–but there were a few pockets of friendlies.

There was also a group of gangbangers who were obviously only there to slang; one of which I kind of knew and ambiguously nodded at me on our way in.

My friends and I weren’t squares, but we spent most of our time with each other, four or five of us doing art in parks, and the houses of other graff artists and scenesters–these types of parties weren’t our thing.

We brought our own handle of Sailor Jerry’s–a 92 proof spiced Navy rum–and passed it around amongst ourselves, quickly catching a silly buzz. JB, the friend that originally texted me, came up and said, “Fucking weirdos, what are you doing in the corner. Go out and dance and mingle.” She was technically a party girl, but she was also a geek. A geek I had a crush on until I found out her brother was a Crip, something you would never have guessed based off her innocence and general dorkiness.

“Johnny,” JB said, pulling me aside. “So and so is not having a very good night. Go talk to her.” (for the sake of not driving myself insane with so and so(s), I’ll refer to the girl as Bill, a name I would later affectionally call her, but that’s for another story)

Bill was sitting on the peripheries of the party, drinking a bottle of water, annoyed and alone. She was a petite Vietnamese girl with porcelain skin, wearing a midnight purple dress and classic adidas. Her style and physical beauty accented nicely with her annoyed grimace, instantly infatuating me. She was perfect.

As I walked over to my future lover, I heard a friend scream, “J! Get over here. Fuck. Fuck. Come one, we have to go,” in rapid succession.

I ran out of the party, following my friend, confused and anxious, expecting the worst.

My friend Mad1 was on the ground, blood gushing down his cheek from a gash over his left eye, onto his white shirt with a fresh aerosol tag stating: fuck tops.

“Fucking Funks jumped him,” my friend Abel1 exclaimed. “I already called the Tops.

Unfortunately, over the years, San Jose’s graffiti scene had turned ultra violent. Many of the city’s top graffiti crews had cliqued up with gangbangers–primarily because they had a steady stream of drugs that artists like to take–resulting in jumpings and drive-bys and other senseless violence on kids that just wanted to do art and catch some fame.

The Funk, as they were called, was one of the first graffiti crews to meld with gangbangers–in their case, Norteños. Every tag, sticker, piece or burner they did was stamped with X4, representing the number 14, pledging allegiance to Nuestra Familia. Most graff crews didn’t even consider The Funk to be artists anymore. The older cats, those outside of high school, moved on to selling drugs, mostly, and left the graffiti to school kids they recruited to put in work.

My friends and I weren’t gangbangers–we were artists–but the graff scene had warped and morphed into something we called spraybanging, where knowing somebody who knows somebody from the wrong crew was good enough to get you mollywhopped–slang for fucked up–and we knew exactly those somebodies.

The Tops, the crew Abel1 called, and would later join, hadn’t fully morphed into a gang, but they were on their way. One of the older cats had recently got out of prison, infecting the entire crew. He was a thirty something with a house on the south side, left to him after his mother died, along with a substantial amount of cash that allowed him to throw huge parties, inviting everybody, including my friends and I, and kids who were still in high school. He fed teenagers booze and coke and pills, then told them to go out and throw up the crew.

Abel1 received a text from one of the head Tops. A meeting was set at a park downtown, near a neighborhood where some of the core Funks stayed, and we had to go…after dropping my injured friend at the emergency room.

“We should stay with Mad1…at least one of us,” I told Abel1 who seemed to be eager to funk. “Actually, why should any of us go? It’s not our fight.”

“Fuck that,” Abel1 said. “You’re going to let your boy get jumped? Let him get sprayed on? Na, we’re going handle business. We all go. You want Tops to think you’re a bitch? To think you just let your boys get smashed on? You know what will happen if we don’t go.”

I lived in what would be considered a Tops neighborhood, So did two of my boys.

We partied with Tops.

We did drugs with Tops. 

If you’re not with us, you’re against us they would think.

“Fuck it,” I said–a ubiquitous phrase in every sad scene of my life.

Pulling into the park, I saw twenty or so Tops, some of which I knew. The ones I didn’t know chastised us for running late, despite it being due to us dropping our friend off at the hospital. “You should’ve brought him too,” one of the unfamiliars exclaimed.

Coke was passed around, followed by baseball bats, and a plan was made, while I tried to figure a way out for my friends and I.

“I know for a fact that Blast(one of the Funks) stays at that house over there. We fuck-up the car on the drive-way, and wait for him to come out. I know a few other those pinche putos live around here too.” another tattooed unfamiliar said.

Shit was getting real, but it felt like a bad dream.

“Fuck it,” I whispered to myself with false confidence.

We all started walking towards the target house, two dozen strong, with the biggest guys in front.

The first ferocious slam into the rear window of the car was accompanied by police sirens, dispersing our group like bugs freshly exposed from an overturned rock.

My friends and I ran down an alley..hopped a fence to the next street..hopped another and another, expertly traversing the city we habitually ran amok on until we were far enough away to faintly hear the sirens.

“Look, La Vic’s!” Abel1 whispered, pointing towards our go-to taqueria. “We’ll chill in there, get some tacos and wait for shit to settle down.”

La Vic’s was perpetually swamped due to their famous orange sauce and close proximity to clubs and bars. It was easy to get lost in the sea of drunks in food comas having obnoxious back ‘n’ forths.

“That was insane!” Abel1 said excitedly to me and my other two friends, who I just realized hadn’t said one thing since we left the party hours ago.

“No, that was stupid! What the fuck, man! We could’ve gotten killed or arrested! I’m not a gangbanger! We’re not gangbangers!” I screamed with the pent up fury I nearly unleashed upon some dude’s car or head or kneecap. “I’m out of here.” I said and walked away–with my other two friends following shortly thereafter.

Downtown looked the same, of course, despite what we just went through. Just another night. You could look in both directions and see some type of fuckery occurring–cops tackling down a drunk who accidentally threatened them after getting rowdy in a club over some dude innocuously bumping into his girl, or a dealer from Oakland being pat down and thrown in the back of a cop car, just to be replaced my another kid who’s sent down to slang to rich college kids.

“What a mess. Let’s go home,” I told my two boys.

The three of us walked silently to the light rail station. I bought a ticket for the first time ever after 6 or 7 years of illegally riding it, and running from the transit police when necessary, showing, to me, I think, that maybe that night’s events engrained in me a semblance of self-accountability. My friends followed suit.

“Is Mad1 alright? Did you text him?” I asked my boy as we boarded the light rail.

“Yea, his sister just picked him from the emergency room. He’s coo, just a few stitches.”


We spent half the hour trip home staring outside our respective windows.

“You guys were mad scared,” I suddenly said with a laugh, still staring out the window.

Not a peep. I turned around, and they were asleep. I smiled and went back to looking out the window.

I woke them both up when we hit their stop–mine was a bit further down the line.

“See ya man,” they both said.

“Yea, see ya……Oh, and do me a favor, text me when y’all get home so I know you’re safe, yea?”

“Yea, man. You do the same,”

For the rest of the ride, twenty minutes or so, I messaged back and forth with Mad1.

He said he was alright.

I told him I was sorry about what happened.

He said it wasn’t my fault and that he loved me and missed me–obviously high on pain killers.

I shot him a few lols and hahahas, then told him to get some rest.

My stop finally came, but I still had a two mile walk to my house.

At least it’s a pretty, summer night I thought to myself, gazing up at the stars, quickly pinpointing my favorite constellation: the Little Dipper.

My phone buzzed–a text from one of my friends, Yo J, I’m home. Talk to ya later.

Cool, man. Just about home. I messaged back.

Another came shortly after from my other friend, I’m home, bro. 

Cool, cool. I’m about fifteen away from my house. I messaged back.

Tomorrow…down to have an art sesh at Hellyer Park? he asked.

Fuck yea. I’ll bring the Sangria, you bring the markers.

Closing the message, I remembered the text that started the night. The girl who thought I was cute and wanted to hang out. I felt so bad. I had to text my friend to relay a message to Bill.

I’m so sorry about tonight. Please tell your friend I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t lose the chance to take her out for tacos and a movie. She looked gorgeous in her dress and kicks.

She responded back immediately.

I did look pretty good tonight. I’ll take you up on the date if I get to choose the movie. I heard The Prestige is pretty good.

Wait..who is this? I asked utterly confused.

Sorry, it’s Bill…I had JB text you on my phone to ensure we connected whether or not you came to the party :).

Me: Hahaha…What a smooth move. I wish I would’ve thought of that–though I think it might look a little creepy if I pulled the same thing on you.

Bill: Yea, you’re probably right haha….If you were in my shoes, what would you have done?

Me: If I had your number and wanted to non-creepily text you?

Bill: Yea.

Me: Hello Bill. I’ve been watching you. I like the way you wear your skin.

Bill: Ewwww….hahaha…That’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.

Me: hahaha…but it works, sometimes.

Bill: Lies! haha.

Me: Yup, but only on girls who read Edgar Allen Poe poems in cemeteries.

Bill: hahaha….you dork.

Me: So, what do you like to do…besides sit alone and annoyed at parties 🙂

Bill: Haha…I’m pretty dorky…probably too dorky for you. I like to read and listen to music and go for drives in the hills. I only went to the party because JB said you were coming 🙂

Me: Too dorky…never…not possible. And sorry about the party.

Bill: What happened? Somebody said your friend was jumped.

Me: Yea, some asshole banged him up, but he’s good now…took him to the hospital, got him stitched up…now he’s home, high on Vicodin…telling everyone how much he loves them haha.

Bill: Oh, I’m sorry. Why was he jumped? Somebody said that you guys were gangbangers.

Me: Hahaha…us? No, we’re graffiti artists that just happened to know the wrong people. People we’re done with….a scene we’re done with.

She didn’t text back for a few minutes–an eternity in text years.

Somebody told her about what happened downtown, I know it. About the people I associated with.

I scared her away.

Stupid fucking drama I never wanted to be a part of.

Stupid fucking people, and their stupid fucking desire to look fucking tough and live dead-end lives, eventually ending up in jail or dead or addicted to meth or coke.

Stupid gangs.

Stupid graffiti.

Stupid me. It was my fault. It was always my fault.

I should’ve stayed with Mad1, and told Abel1 to fuck off. He can live that life. We’ll paint pretty pictures while listening to pretty music in pretty parks. That’s what we were. Not gangbangers.

I wanted to tell her all about my secret nerdy pleasures that I kept hidden from people. I wanted to tell her that I was quiet and sensitive, and hated parties and loud places in general. That I liked to go for walks and skip and giggle about silly things most people wouldn’t get.

I wanted to tell…

Bill: Sorry, I had to use the bathroom. And I laughed when somebody told me you were a gangbanger haha.


Bill: To me, you look like an artist. You look out of place with most of the people I’ve seen you with..the same way I looked at the party. That’s why I like you. I thought you’d come to the party, and we’d sit in the corner and giggle at all the other people.

She really was perfect.

Bill: Am I right?

Me: That’s a good rough sketch

Bill: Well, let’s hang out tonight so I can get the details.

Me: Ohhh nice line :). Meet you at Camera 12 downtown around 7?

Bill: Sounds good to me 🙂

Me: Do you like La Vic’s?

Bill: Of course! Who from San Jose doesn’t?

Me: Cool, it’s a date…but you asked me out.

Bill: Haha. Yea, I guess I did. Lucky for you–you’re the first boy I’ve ever asked on a date……you better put out haha.


(End of part one)

This story wound up being much longer than I originally intended, so I’ll be doing a part two sometime next weekend, hopefully.

Johnny is a character I’m fleshing out, and he’s a bit all over the place haha.

As always, critical appraisals are much appreciated. And pardon the grammar and spelling errors–I’ve been writing drunk and editing drunk.



Johnny’s Charming

Johnny was weird but in a charming way.

My girl and I once went on a double date with him and a girl he was “in love with”. In love, though, to Johnny, basically equated to him being infatuated with a rando he met at a bar or flea market, or in this weekend’s case, the city’s rich people mall.

“She’s the one,” he excitedly told me over to the phone. “Please come out to dinner with us. I want you to meet her. Dinner’s on me.” He hung up before I could tell him no. Five minutes later he texted me that dinner was at 8…at some expensive restaurant…and they would meet us there.

I told my girl, thinking she would say no to another one of Johnny’s double dates, but she loved the restaurant, and I had been slacking on romance time, so I reluctantly agreed.

While my girl got dressed, I snuck in a few shooters to prepare for the night. As I walked in to get an ETD, I saw her slip on a new dress, over new laced panties. “Damn,” I said, startling her, causing the dress to float to the ground. She turned around, and stood in the doorway of the bathroom, legs slightly cocked open, and told me without words let’s have a romantic dinner so we can come home and fuck each other’s brains out.

We got to the restaurant before them so we hit the bar. I had a few whiskies and she had one lemon drop.

We flirted with each other like it was our first date, and made sex bets about the girl Johnny was going to bring.

“I bet you handcuffs she’ll be a short hipster girl with tattoos and a septum piercing,” my girl said.

“I’ll raise you head in the elevator up to our apartment floor she’s a curvy Latina with dimple piercings.

It was past eight, and we were pretty buzzed, staring at the front door, waiting for Johnny and his date to get there.

Right as I finished typing out a text asking him where the fuck are you, he walked in–or to be more accurate, he was dragged in. The girl leading him in was Asian, and she had big, fake tits, and she was covered in tattoos.

“Tattoos…I was partially right,” my girl whispered into my ear before catching a quick nibble. “What does that get me, daddy?”

In normal circumstances, this feisty act would rustle my pants, but I was transfixed on Johnny. His exuberance from a few hours ago had dissipated, leaving a dry husk of a man. He looked unhappily married instead of being on a first date.

“Sorry gu—-,” Johnny attempted to say before being cut off by his date. “My name is Amber,” she said with a high, bubbly voice.

We introduced ourselves, then got our table.

“Nice fit,” I jokingly told Johnny as we were sitting down. He wasn’t the type to get dressed up, not even for weddings, but tonight he was wearing fancy pants, with a fancy dress coat, over a fancy silk shirt.

“Yea,” he said with an obviously forced giggle. “Amb—-” “I picked it out for him,” she interrupted again.

“Yea, she picked it out.” he quickly spit out to prevent another interjection.

“I also picked out this dress and these shoes,” she said, then laid her head on his arm in a way she thought was cute. “John, the gentlemen he is, bought them for me before asking me out to dinner.” You could hear Johnny grind his teeth. He hated when people called him John.

She seemed oblivious to Johnny’s frustration and annoyance, indicating to me that she was a moron or used to uncomfortable dinners with men that only asked her out because she had big, fake tits that she happily busted out when a man bought her nice things and took her out to expensive dinners–or both. Turned out to be both.

She was an Instagram model–who would’ve thought–but she wanted to be a fashion designer–also, who would’ve thought?

We skipped appetizers, thank god, but we only did so because Johnny’s date said, “Appetizers are for fat people.”

My girl and I picked two different entrees that we would share with each other.

Johnny attempted to order the Prime Rib w/ Mashed Potatoes and Grilled Asparagus, but his date ordered the baked Chicken Breast w/ Couscous and Grilled Vegetables for him instead saying, “Red Meat is terrible for your pores.”

She ordered the Caesar Salad, that she basically had brought out deconstructed, because, according to her, it was never prepared right.

What the fuck? A salad not prepared right. What the fuck was Johnny doing with this bimbo? He’s had some bad dates: the go-go dancer from the reggaeton bar, the make-up artist who mirrored the worst mannerisms of the girls from Clueless, the girl who paid her way through college by going out to dinner with men–basically a hooker–but this girl was an atrocious amalgamation of all of them. I thought to myself so loudly I had to look at my girl to confirm none of it eeked out.

Dinner went by surprisingly quick–mainly because I had the waiter keep the whiskies coming…for Johnny and I both. My girl also drank an inordinate amount of lemon drops. And for the bimbo, the second most expensive bottle they had…but she only picked the second because she didn’t like the first.

We skipped dessert, again thank god, and again because “Dessert is for fat people.”

Johnny got the check, paid for it without looking, and almost left before getting his credit card back. He was clearly drunk, even more than me. I hadn’t realized he had hit the bar twice when he said he was going to the bathroom.

My girl and I walked out hand and hand.

Johnny was dragged out the same way he came in.

“What’s next, a club?” the girl asked, or more appropriately, commanded.

My girl and I nearly pulled a her and interjected before she could finish her repulsive request. 

“We’re beat,” I spoke for the both of us.

“Yea, I think I’m going to call it a night too,” Johnny said with a groan. “My stomach hurts, must’ve been the Couscous.”

“Booooo,” the bimbo whined. “I’m wide awake. Come dance with me. Please?”

“Next time,” Johnny said.

“I guess,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Fine, take me home.”

“I’ll order the Uber,” Johnny said, pulling out his phone.

“Make sure it’s an XL,” the bimbo demanded.

“It’s cool, we’re going to get our own,” my girl said for the win.

“Still get the XL,” the bimbo said with a pshaw. “I don’t want to ride in a Civic again.”

“It was a Cadillac,” Johnny said, finally semi-lashing out.

“Geez,” she responded. “Fine, order the Cadillac or whatever the fuck it was, but it’s just for me. I don’t want to ride with you.”

Johnny being the consummate gentlemen and sweetheart told her, “Sorry, I’m just not feeling well. I’ll take you home”

The restaurant was in an alleyway so we all had to walk to a main street to catch our respective Ubers.

The bimbo was having a hard time walking because she was wearing heels–heels, another thing Johnny hated. The fact that it had rained earlier, and that she was drunk, made it even more difficult.

As we reached the main street, our Uber pulled up, and my girl and I prepared to say goodbye. As we turned around, Johnny jumped over a small puddle with a smile, showing the first happy emotion of the night–our impish, simple Johnny that liked to drunkenly skip and jump over puddles.

The bimbo looked at the puddle, then at him.

Johnny, being the gentlemen he is, took off his expensive new shirt and coat, and threw it into the puddle so the bimbo didn’t have to get the shoes he bought for her wet.

“Can I catch a ride with you,” he smiled and asked us topless.

“Of course,” my girl and I said in unison.

Whines and screams bellowed from the bimbo as we closed the door of our Civic Uber.

The three of us drunkenly laughed, along with the Uber driver, Phil, as Johnny recounted the nights events all the way to our house.

We asked Johnny to stay the night. We had coffee and talked about how we were never going double dating again. We talked about love and life and us…us three best friends.

It got late, Johnny passed out. My girl threw a blanket over him, and we headed to bed.

“What a night,” I said before kissing the top of my girl’s head as she laid on my chest.

“She had tattoos, right?” my girl said.

“Yes babe, she had tattoos,” I responded giggly.

“What does that get me, again?” she asked.

“I think that means you get to be the big spoon tonight,” I responded, looking down waiting for her to correct me.

“Yea, that sounds about right.” she said with a yawn….”And I get to be woken up tomorrow, handcuffed, to a lovely fucking.”

I laughed, and we both yawned.

“I love you,” she said.

I love you most,” I said.

“Johnny’s a weird way,” my girl said, before kissing me and falling to sleep.

“Yea, he is.”

Johnny is a character I created.

I’m looking to do a series on him.

As usual, critical appraisals are most appreciated :).