HUMOR
And Now I’m Petsitting Potato for Potatoes
So I met this girl on Bumble (yeah, I know, how feminist of me) and I asked her out. We got drinks at this dive bar near the downtown campus, and yeah, I paid for her drink (it was only $4, so I don’t feel too chivalrous to the point of being anti-feminist). I’m telling you that because when she invited me up to her apartment for a nightcap, I assumed I’d be getting some sort of *you know* thank-you. Which makes sense, you know — $4 drink, sex on the first date. Win-win.
But that is not what happened. We get inside her apartment, I’m taking off my jacket, she’s pouring something that sounds like cereal in the kitchen. And then I hear it: the snorting. Coming closer and closer like a stubby freight train.
The nastiest little fat loaf of bread on legs rounds the corner and collides into her shins, and she’s putting a bowl of what isn’t in fact cereal, but dog food, on the floor so that this smushed-face Jaws can start eating and making more fat.
I was understandably confused. The date had gone well until then and I was hoping to keep the momentum going. Before she could say anything or introduce me to the fat lard shoving its face into the bowl on the floor, I pulled her towards me and kissed her like I’m fuckin’ Leonardo DiCaprio and she’s that whiny red-headed British chick.
