Or at least a tad bit forgetful
Anyway I have a story to tell and something on one of my Facebook status updates just reminded me. So here we go…
Let’s rewind back a few years to the good old days when you weren’t required to have a separate app to check your messages on Facebook. The golden era; insert several heart eyed emojis.
History has taught me that women will shut down and delete a social media account at the drop of a dime. They will also change a phone number like Sprint ain’t charging them for it. Any type of drama will prompt these actions and I do mean any kind; heartbreak, bird shit on the windshield, missed the season finale of Empire, her son got an F in PE, etc…
That entire passage above is kind of a cop out for what’s coming next. That doesn’t make it any less TRUE but it’s still a cop out. Father forgive me.
Sometimes my Facebook is lit. Sometimes girls slide in my DM’s and on a much smaller occasion I respond. This is the story of what happened when I responded this one time.
So I’m just kicking on the timeline talking my shit per usual trying to get through another the work day and I get a friend request from a cute girl. I went thru standard protocol when a cute girl sends you a friend; you know the Catfish/Scammer/Spammer test, scroll thru a few pictures, see if her timeline goes back further than a month, see if she has any friends in common that aren’t thirsty ass dudes and read a few status updates. If everything lines up I click accept and immediately forget she exist. Let’s call her Shay in the spirit of anonymity. Fast forward a couple of days later and Shay is in my inbox. Women rarely ever go smack (smack – the act of being direct in an aggressive nature) in the DM’s. They’ll small talk you to death waiting for you to shoot your shot and I let her small talk me for 3 days. We’d exchange short bursts of dialog throughout the day to the point that she was asking me about the family shit was getting kind of personal. She forced my hand and trying to hold detailed conversations while typing with my thumbs wasn’t exactly the wave. I couldn’t go back and forth anymore with the small talk so I gave her my number. Now we talking on the phone, flirting and shit; she even shot the boy a few almost nudes. I spread this thing out over a few weeks before asking her out. I figured she wasn’t going to ask so I did it.
The plan was to meet up for drinks at some arbitrary restaurant/bar in downtown DC and in classic woman fashion she was running a bit behind so instead of walking inside and waiting like a lonely nigga I stood outside while smoking a black and mild. I saw her walking up from like 10 yards out and she sort of looked familiar, but not familiar in “you look just like your pictures” familiar it was more like “I think I know you in real life” familiar. Anyway I shrugged it then off greeted her with a hug and proceeded to enter the spot. We grabbed seats at the bar and I asked her what she was drinking. We cut through a couple appetizers and a few rounds. It was shaping up into being a great night or so I thought. She got up to use the bathroom and in her absence I ordered the shrimp cocktail. It was the beginning of the end and I didn’t even know it.
She gets back to the bar at the exact same moment the bartender placed the shrimp cocktail in front of me.
Shay – You greedy and you didn’t even order me anything.
JD – You can have some. These are community shrimp.
Shay – You know I’m allergic to shrimp.
JD – Do I?
Shay – I told you.
JD – Did you?
Shay – I told you when we were supposed to go to McCormick & Schmick’s
JD – When was that?
Shay – Oh my God. You don’t know who I am do you?
JD – What’s going on here?
It was a bit more dialog after that but it was mostly profanity based so the super abridged version is “We’ve had sex and you don’t know who the fuck I am; FUCK YOU” and then she stormed out of the restaurant. Pretty much everybody within earshot was staring at me and I’m not 100% sure there isn’t a video of me getting cursed out at the bar floating around the internet somewhere. After I finished my drink and paid the tab I doubled back to Facebook to look thru her pictures hoping to jog my memory, but she was way too swift I was already blocked. I thought of calling and texting but would I say “Hey I don’t remember you but I’d like to know you again.” Yeah, that probably wouldn’t go off well. I spent the greater portion of the trip home trying to figure out who she was and yup you guessed it, no dice. I still don’t know who she is or was and here where are years later.
Does that make me a hoe because I don’t remember a woman I slept with?
Jean DeGrate is perplexed. No I’m not. I’m a hoe
No comments:
Post a Comment