Alright, this is a song about. . .anyone. It could be anyone.

I feel, sadly, like this "blog" is going to become the dating misadventures of me.

Dating or "dating" as the case may be.

So I was sitting in my apartment last night, feeling a little sorry for myself, and McHotpants calls me.

"Are you bored?" he says.
"Not really," says me.
"Come out and have a beer with me. I'll buy you a beer," he says.

After a few moments of contemplation, trying to figure out if I actually feel like going through the effort of getting re-dressed (it was like 8, so I was basically ready for bed). Eventually, I decide, OK, I'm not going to be anti-social.

So I go to the bar near work and he's already there. I order a beer, and we chat for a little while.

McHotpants goes out for a smoke, and is gone for quite a while. He comes back in followed by this guy in a pink bandana. (Yes. A pink bandana.) And tells me that if he were gay, he'd get a lot of action, so I'm assuming that PinkBandanaMan is gay.

After a little while, PinkBandanaMan (PBM from here on out) and his friend, who I'll call Slick, come over to where McHotpants and I are sitting. They are both immediately and. . .intensely drawn to me. It was kind of weird. The only way I can really describe it is how gay men usually react to me. They LOVE me, for some reason, and it was like that, except Slick wasn't gay and PBM, according to McHotpants, is bisexual. Or whatever.

So they sit with us and are basically fawning over me the entire evening. I let them, because, as I mentioned, I was feeling sorry for myself, sitting at home. Slick keeps doing that thing that I'm sure he picked up from movies, where whenever a piece of my hair would fall into my face, he'd tuck it behind my ear. I kind of wished he'd stop touching me, because he kept putting his arm around my waist, too, but I figured if I ignored it, he'd go away eventually. He wanted to "hang out" again, so I gave him my card. I've learned enough over my lifetime to not give people my cell phone number, because then they can bug you at all hours, rather than just the hours you're at work.

I can't even really put into words here the evening, because it would sound like I was making it up. They were so weird. Really, really weird. And they kept telling me how amazing I am, telling me I look like an "intellectual" and the one guy kept saying he had a thing for that chick on Scooby Doo, Velma (or Thelma? I can never remember.) and I would actually take that as an insult, because she was incredibly butch, but they kept insisting it was a compliment. Personally, I'd rather be a Daphne, but what can you do?

Anyway, after 2 or so hours of absolute fawning, and them asking if they could come home with me (that question was answered with a quick and resounding, "No, absolutely not.), McHotpants and I got ready to go. The two guys were going to leave, too, and go to, I believe, Waffle House (they invited me, and, again, a quick and resounding, "No, absolutely not.") and these four blonde, busty bimbos walk in. The guys say, "Uh, we'll be staying here. Later!"

Nice. Very nice. It's a good thing I wasn't the least bit interested, or my feelings would have probably been hurt. As it stood, I was just offended. But only slightly, because there's only so much merit you can put into something that people like this say:



That's McHotpants on the left, Slick in the middle, and, obviously, PBM on the right.

It was a lot like that Lily Allen song, "Knock 'Em Out." If you haven't heard it, it fits perfectly.

Can't knock em out, can't walk away,
Try desperately to think of the politest way to say,
Just get out my face, just leave me alone,
And no you can't have my number,
"Why?"
Because I've lost my phone.

I pray to whatever gods are listening that Slick doesn't call me. I may have to start answering the phone with a fake British accent. "'Ello, Life section? This is Nadia."

Epic. Fail.