Thunder Volcano

Boundless enthusiasm for something stupid

Archive for the ‘One of my many miserable failures with women’ Category

Come for the Mustache, Stay for the Awkward Conversation

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After a long night of vigorous manual labor followed by some tedious manual labor, I emerged from the basement at work to finish closing the bar.  As I was in the process of plugging in a phone for one of our regulars, my coworker Billybob excitedly ran up to me.

“Some blond girl at station 28 wants to talk to you.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know.  You should go talk to her right now.”
“Uh, yeah.  Just give me one second.”
“No.  You need to drop everything you’re doing and go talk to her.”
“I’m pretty sure Cam would get kind of mad if I just threw his phone on the ground.  Chill out.”

I spent a whole agonizing four seconds plugging in Cam’s phone and rounded the corner to find… nobody I recognized.  There was, however, someone who recognized me.  Specifically, a drunk someone who recognized me.
“Baron!  You probably don’t remember me, you waited on us a while back,” she chirped.
Well, she was definitely right about me not remembering her.  Better to just act like I might remember her.
“Hey!  How you doin’ tonight?”
“Good!  You probably don’t remember me, but I remember really liking your facial hair*.  We were on the other side of the bar, though.  I’m Jordan.”
“Hi, Jordan.  Nice to… re-meet you,” I blurted kind of lamely, offering my hand.
“Well, I thought I’d come in and say hi, since I remembered you.”
“Cool!  Good to see you again.”

It’s worth noting that even if I wasn’t an idiot when it comes to these kinds of situations – and I am – I was tired to the point that this didn’t seem like a particularly unusual thing to do.  Drunk people do some weird shit, who am I to judge?
Anyway, the conversation got kind of awkward, as most of my conversations do.  She kind of just said a few times that she was just dropping in to say hi, and I wasn’t really reacting.  At some point – and there is some contention over the exact details – she gestured at the guy she had (apparently) come in with and made a comment to the effect of “I came here with him, but I’m not with him.
I displayed the full extent of my manly smoothness by responding with a suave “um, ok” and not much else.  Plus, it was well past last call, so I didn’t have my usual easy out of offering her a drink.

Luckily for me, a voice from two seats over chimed in: “it would be a lot easier for him to get in touch with you again if you gave him your number.”

Oh, yeah.  That’s the sort of thing I’m supposed to be doing right now.  It probably would have taken me two days to realize that.

I looked over, and to my surprise I saw my friend Desmond (he seems to turn up a lot when things like this happen, which is weird because I only see him like once every two months).  He spent the rest of the night alternately making fun of me for being a dork and claiming that he has powers that aid him in helping others get laid.  I was feeling charitable enough to omit that his “powers” hadn’t ever actually ended successfully for me.

I saved her in my phone as “Jordan Likesbeard” and she later apologized for how awkward the night had been, as if the awkwardness somehow wasn’t entirely my fault.


The city I live in – Duckburg – is kind of spread out, so a few days later I suggested she and I meet at a bar sort of close to the city center, thus assuring it would be mutually inconvenient for both of us.
Her answer: “Haha you’re cute.  I trust your suggestion!  I’ve heard of that but have never been.  That’s fine with me!  But isn’t it kind of out of your way?  If I remember correctly, you live in South Duckburg?”
Yup, I’m totally comfortable with a stranger having this sort of knowledge about me.
“It’s on the gold line, so it’s really not out of my way at all.”
With that, we agreed to meet at 7:30 on Sunday.


Sunday, 7:00
Just as I’m about to head out, I get a text:
“Looks like I’m gonna be there a little bit after 730.  Is that ok?  I’m wicked sorry.  The buses suck on sunday.”
“Yeah no sweat.  I may be running a bit late too.”
I wasn’t, but figured I’d get there on-time-ish in case I couldn’t remember what she looked like this time either (this is a reasonable precaution for me).

7:35. Another text.
“Ok I’m on the pink line now.  Hopefully I won’t be long.  I’ve been pretty sick today and I’m not even going into work tomorrow.  so getting around has proven difficult.  So I’m wicked sorry.”
That’s… normal.
“No worries, I’ll be at the bar.”

“Ok.  If I can only stay for a drink don’t hate me.  I feel like I’m getting a fever :/ I’m at central”
I thought about suggesting that we reschedule, but since she apparently needed to take two trains and one or more buses, I figured the window for that idea had long since passed.

“2 mina”

She showed up at 8:25 or so.


Now, as I’ve mentioned previously and demonstrated earlier in this very anecdote, I’m not the world’s best conversationalist.  Luckily, Jordan had a handy solution for that in the form of talking nonstop the entire time.  Her favorite conversation topics seem to include complaining about how inconvenient it is to get to/from her apartment and people she’s dated in the past.  Both of which provide scintillating first-date material, I assure you.

At one point she felt the need to mention that “I’m surprised you don’t remember me, you were talking to us for a while about beer.  You had some story about the label on a beer bottle.”
That’s a good point.  I can’t fathom why a bartender in a busy beer bar wouldn’t remember the details** of a conversation about beer from two months ago.  It’s a pretty rare conversation topic around the ol’ office.

Anyhow, the night went reasonably well, owing in large part to my finely-honed ability to pay just enough attention to make it look like I’m listening while zoning out enough to preserve my sanity.  It’s a delicate balance, aided by the fact that I was too tired to try and get a word in edgewise (I have to be at work at eleven AM on Sundays, which is inhumanly early for me).

Because of how verbose she was about hating the bus system in Duckburg, I offered her a ride home.  I hadn’t driven to the bar, but I figured the subway ride to my car would be less of a pain in the ass overall.

On the walk from the subway to my car, she completely freaked out because she thought there was a bug in one of the bushes near the sidewalk.  I then drove her to a part of town that I’d describe as “not at all far from anything, particularly the bar we met at.”
Later, she saw fit to tell me via text that “…there is a scary fly in my room.  Not a fan.”
It crossed my mind that this may have been some sort of Freaky Friday type shit and she was secretly a nine-year-old.  I was not disabused of this notion when she pointed out that she had “…about 8 stuffed animals to protect me.”


Despite the fact that the night had been somewhat of an awkward failure, we made plans to go out again the following Monday (worth a shot, I guess).  During the finalization of those plans, I asked if there was any particular place she was looking to go and got no answer.
I waited two days and then just suggested a place.
Almost immediately, she replied with “Hey you.  Hope your week has gone well!  Are you working Monday?”
Um, ok.
So far as I can tell, the options here are either that she’s a total moron or that somehow my texts didn’t get sent/read.  I wasn’t keen to rule out either option.  Somewhat confused, I inquired into option B on Saturday only to receive a paragraphs-long text message in which she cancelled our half-plans and claimed to be “running out the door” and promised a future explanation.  I couldn’t imagine any explanation that would take more time than writing War and Peace on a cellphone, but I just mentally filed this one under Lost Cause and went about my day.


Two days later.
While attending a taco-related event, I received what may well be the longest text message in the history of phones:
“Hey sorry.  I’ve been a bit busy this week.  So.  I still wanted to write back and explain.  Basically, I had a really good time with you and wanted to hang out with you for such a long time.  So I was super excited when we got to exchange numbers.  But I actually met someone the next day who… I didn’t think would turn into anything, but it kind of has.  And I really like the idea of dating one person and I wouldn’t think it was fair to date both of you, so I kind of had to choose.  So thats kind of why I didn’t think Monday night was a good idea. :/ i hope you don’t hate me.  I really did like you… I wasn’t really sure how you felt about me***.  And ugh.  Ya.”
Did I just get dumped via text by a girl I wasn’t even really dating?  If so, is that hilarious? (yes to both)
My answer: “Bummer.  Does he have a better mustache than me?”
“Haha.  Hmm.  I think you might have the better one by a smidge”
“Well I just do not understand where your priorities lie”
Then soon after she asks “Oh.  Joke?”
I thought about saying something to the effect of “I never joke about mustaches.”  But I have enough painful conversations with dumb people in my day-to-day life that I don’t need to seek them out.

*I had a kind of ridiculous beard/mustache thing that has been referred to as the “fu-man-chops,” though I prefer the term “congratulations mustache.”
**In retrospect I think I know which beer bottle I was talking about (Blanche de Bruxelles), but that’s largely because I tell that story to everybody who orders it.
***I actually get this a lot.  The possible reason was explained to me once by a very drunk friend of my (now former) girlfriend: “I thought you didn’t like me when we first met.  And I was thinking about it – you’ve got all these pretty girls who are used to guys fawning over them all the time, and you just don’t give a shit.  They don’t know what to do with that.”  I found this to be a good explanation, though the real reason this particular person thought I didn’t like her was that I didn’t and probably still don’t.

Written by Baron Volcano

02/10/2013 at 11:18 pm

Figured Out

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Part of my job involves receiving beer deliveries every week, a job which is as terrifying as it is physically taxing. Once every few weeks, one of the guys who regularly did this job with me would insist that we “have a beer and play some Big Buck Hunter” at the bar upstairs. That “one beer” almost inevitably turned into something more like “eleven beers and smoking weed in the parking lot of the Sleepy’s next door*.”

On the day in question, my friend Desmond had shown up. At some point circa pitcher number four, he started talking about the blind date he had planned later in the evening. At first I thought it strange to have Many Beers before a blind date. But once he invited me along for some reason** it suddenly became the Best Idea I’d Ever Heard. I agreed to go along and a celebratory pitcher was ordered.

Eventually, we retired to Desmond’s place to get ready*** and soon headed out to the bar… two hours early****. The original plan had been to go to the sister bar of the bar I work at (the same one we had been at earlier, incidentally), as it is one of the few places in the neighborhood that has pool tables. Thankfully I managed to convince everybody to go to a different bar, based on the fact that it still had at least one pool table. I’m not exactly known for making the best decisions while inebriated, but I still had the sense to figure out that it would be a bad idea to run into my boss(es) whilst hammered. At seven PM. On a Tuesday.

Anyhow, the girls showed up to see a couple seriously classy dudes with bright red eyes wolfing down a shared trough of mac and cheese. As the icing on the cake, I was still wearing my work clothes which can be somewhat charitably described as “grubby and torn.” Nonetheless, the night seemed to start quite well despite our stellar first impression. Shots abounded and I spent much of the night talking to Desmond’s date Beth*****. In the interest of not ruining my friend’s date, I was on my best behavior: trying to be nice (for once), avoiding crass jokes (for once), and all around acting like a gentleman (as always).

All of a sudden, Beth turned to me and said flatly “I think I’ve got you figured out.”
“Okay, lay it on me.”
“You’re an asshole.”
Shit! How did she figure that out? I thought I was doing so well! Maybe she’s more perceptive than I think?
No. The general gist of the rest of her long, spirited, unjustifiably angry rant centered around the idea that I’m a rich kid who never really had to work for a living and I’m just living off of my parents and I was obviously in a frat in college. It may or may not have involved a phrase along the lines of “I hate what you are with every fiber of my being.” Now, it’s not like I grew up poor or anything, but if there’s one thing I don’t have at this (or any) stage in my life it’s money.

Desmond did the smart thing and ordered us more shots. Booze got us into this mess, and I’ll be damned if booze wasn’t going to get us out of it. Shortly thereafter, Beth – who had been complaining about a group of people that had been hogging the lone pool table the whole night – decided that it was Her Turn on the table. She went over to the group, which consisted of five or six large men and one girl, and demanded that she be able to play. Upon being told that they would not immediately acquiesce to her extremely rational demands, Beth did what anyone would do in that situation and physically attacked the one girl in the group, who had been sitting quietly to the side at the time.
As Desmond ran over to try and break up the fight, he spotted one of the guys in the group getting up and moving towards Beth in a menacing manner. Desmond decided that he wasn’t going to let a stranger lay a finger on somebody that he showed up with – no matter how crazy she was (the dude has manners) – so he ended up hipchecking a guy twice his size and giving him a stern lecture about the inappropriateness of hitting women. (Yes, seriously).
At this point, Beth had the aforementioned lone girl of the group by the hair and was thrashing her around as Desmond was being bodily hoisted away from the group by several additional guys who were also twice his size.

Nobody’s really sure where I was during all this. It’s entirely possible I hadn’t noticed.

As soon as Desmond got Beth untangled from that poor girl’s hair and outside, she tried to charge back in and restart the whole fight. Finally, Desmond’s patience and/or politeness ran out.
“BITCH. You are NOT going back in that restaurant.”
Miraculously, that worked. She lost all her momentum and just walked away. Her friend, who had presumably been observing the action from afar with me, followed shortly thereafter.

I’m told that Beth assaulted several passersby on the walk home, ostensibly because they had the gall to be walking on the sidewalk near her.

Acting on autopilot, Desmond and I did the only thing we could possibly think of – return to the bar and resume drinking. How the bar staff allowed us to do so remains unclear to me, but I think there were shots.
We ended the night by meeting some friends at Desmond’s apartment. I’m told that amongst a series of repetitive, incoherent accounts of the night’s festivities, I whiled away the remainder of the evening yelling nonspecific gibberish about science.

*I don’t really like using this blog as a venue to brag about How Wasted I Got That One Time (those stories are seldom actually interesting), but I feel like this is contextually relevant information.
**The main reason was that his date was bringing a friend, but alcohol was a strong secondary reason.
***Smoke a blunt.
****It’s probably worth mentioning that I don’t smoke drugs particularly often, so it’s a minor miracle that I was able to walk at this point.
*****While I am in the habit of using fake names on this blog, that may well be her real name. I’m bad with names even when I don’t have eight beers in me, and Desmond wasn’t any help with the matter later on.

Work Those Taps

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A ways back, shortly after I started behind the bar at my current job, one of the new waiters – one whom I hadn’t yet spoken to (we’ll call him Desmond) – came up to me saying “I’ve got two hot blonde girls at my table, and they’re asking for your number!”

Naturally, I was a bit skeptical.  But he assured me “I checked, they specifically asked for ‘the bartender with the glasses.’*”

I was busy, so I just wrote down my number and gave it to him.

Half an hour later, on Desmond’s insistence, I checked my messages to find this:
“Dear Baron!
I dig your facial hair and the way you work those taps!
Sincerely yours,

Being reasonably sure that Desmond was fucking with me, I decided to tread lightly with my replies but nonetheless invited her out for a beer.  She largely avoided the question, eventually saying “…text me something cool about yourself when you get out.”

Something cool about myself?  Well, shit.  Not like I have a lot to draw from here.  I went with “one time I drove to Key West for pie” partly because I didn’t want to put in the effort to try and seem like Mister Smooth when I was pretty sure I was getting pranked, but mostly because I think that’s awesome.
To which she asked, “was it key lime pie?”
It took most of my admittedly limited resolve to not ask if that was a real question.  “Of course.  Totally worth it, too.”
“How old are you, Baron?”
That question may not have been related, as she ended up asking a series of somewhat probative questions later, but I got the strong impression that both parties were starting to think “I’m talking to an idiot.”

The next several days yielded a text message conversation largely consisting of me answering (often open-ended) questions about myself**.  Any attempt on my part at meeting in person was sidestepped, and questions I asked were often ignored, particularly open-ended ones (she was not receptive to the idea of telling me something cool about herself).  Oh, and Desmond seemed confused and/or offended by the suggestion that he was trying to mess with me (which, at this point, would have required a lot of dedication to the joke).  His comment of “I don’t even know you that way,” had occurred to me, but that really would have just made it much funnier if he had been messing with me.

Seeking perspective, I explained my situation to my friend Ghoulia.  Her insight proved invaluable:
Ghoulia: i would say i hope she’s not a psycho, but that might downplay the likelihood of hilarity
me: ok suppose she is
and i wake up in the middle of the night with her clipping my toenails for her “collection.”
i’d probably just be like “so are we gonna do it now, or are you gonna murder me?”
and then maybe fall back asleep
Ghoulia: well that’s just cause you are kind of expecting it
me: im kind of glad to be in a situation where it’s an expectation that i’ll wake up to a relative stranger harvesting my toenails
Ghoulia: it’s statements like that that make me proud to be your friend.

There’s no real exciting finale to this, as Olivia apparently got bored and stopped texting me.  I may have contributed to that with an unexpected and unannounced fourteen hour pause in an ongoing conversation, only to answer her (probably pointless) question at four AM.

Epilogue: I was at dinner with my entire immediate family and recounted this story.  I got yelled at by my mom because I didn’t send this girl pictures of my dick.
“She said she likes how you work those taps.  She wants to see you work that tap!***”
My only defense to this is that there are enough pictures of my wiener floating around out there already.  If you need to see it that bad and can’t find it via Google, you’ll have to arrange an in-person showing.

*I wear Garth-style glasses at work, complete with tape around the bridge.  There is a reason for this beyond the fact that I think it’s funny, but that’s neither here nor there.
**I’ve never claimed to be a good conversationalist, particularly via text, but I’m pretty sure it’s weird to get interviewed by a stranger for essentially no reason.
***Confidential to my mom, as she is one of the few people who actually reads this stupid site and may take umbrage to the suggestion that she was yelling at me: you did, in fact, raise your voice.

Written by Baron Volcano

07/22/2012 at 2:57 am

Long Story (5th Edition)

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So there’s a girl I’d been sort of seeing for a short while (i.e. about a week), and after the first time I slept with her she asks “did that make you like me more?”  I say “after” as in “almost immediately after.”
I was half asleep and more than half drunk, but I still managed to say what I feel is the only logical thing: “…What!?”
“I was just hoping that would make you like me more.”
So not only was she serious, she really wanted this to be true (I still can’t figure out which answer would be more depressing).  I tried to avoid the question, partly because I wanted to avoid the “you’re just saying yes because I want you to” trap, and partly because that’s insane.
“Oh my god, that didn’t make you like me less did it?”
Well, that tactic didn’t work.  At some point she also said that “this was a mistake.  We’re never doing this again.”  Well, I’ve heard that from girls before.  Luckily, I’ve had a lot of practice in the art of Mumbling and Then Falling Asleep, so I eventually made it through the night.

The next morning, she treated me to a rather lengthy list of my faults (none were sex-related, for what that’s worth).  Some highlights include:
-I’m stupid for getting tattoos based on liking what they look like.  Her tattoos have meaning.  One is based on a Modest Mouse song, another on a song by TV on the Radio.  These tattoos say something about her.  She did not appreciate my suggestion that what they say is “I like this song.”
-I don’t like ketchup.  This was honestly the biggest sticking point, and one that’s apparently insurmountable.
-“When I met you I thought you were so cool, but you’re really not cool.”  This one I agreed with.
-My driver’s license says my eyes are brown, when they are clearly hazel.
-It’s pathetic that I can’t get up before 2:30 PM without an alarm.
-I never smile (not true) which means that it’s (apparently) impossible for anybody (i.e. stupid people) to tell when I’m joking.
-My whole life is meaningless.

I don’t disagree with all of these, but it’s kind of a low blow when a 22 year old advertising major calls your life meaningless.  I thought about trying to steer that one towards existentialism but big words tend to make her head hurt (she once described herself as a “very punctual typist” and called me an asshole when I suggested that “punctual” may not have been the right word) and she was severely starting to wear on my reserves of tolerance for stupid people as it was.  Plus she uses the same argument tactic my roommate does when he’s drunk – forcefully repeat the same one or two stupid arguments until the other person stops caring.  She actually takes it a step further by continuing to make stupid arguments at somebody who has given up and doesn’t care.  This conversation also involved her telling me several times that she never wanted to see me again.  Every time she mentioned that, I just said “ok” and resumed wondering if she’d stop talking (answer: no).  (It’s worth mentioning here that I dealt with this the way I did because a) I was too sleepy and hungover to feel too strongly about anything, and 2) she’s pretty damn hot and if I told her to shut the fuck up she might have put her clothes back on.)

Now, a short backstory: I’d known this girl for like two weeks, tops.  I was introduced to her through a friend and she and I played an online Scrabble game that somehow ended with her inviting herself to my apartment to drink beer in my bedroom (follwed by some sort of “Was that sexual? Tee Hee.” comment).  The bedroom beer drinking was postponed in order to go drink at a terrible bar (which I had to drive to, so I didn’t have my normal defense mechanism of getting hammered and being an asshole).  At some point during the night she told me that I’m (and I paraphrase) “tolerable, but mostly because you have great hair.”  The next day she told me I’d get more compliments if I told people to touch me.  Note: this does not work.  Even if you specify that it’s your hair, you get weird looks.  I did get told that I have really soft hair, but I was told this by a dude so we’ll count that one as more unsettling than anything else.
Other notable events during that one week (in no particular order):
-She started a text-message conversation with “I miss your face.”  Comments of the “I miss you” variety were quite common, to the extent that I once got an “I miss you” text message while I was still in the elevator at her apartment building.
-She repeatedly grabbed me by the belt to make out with me in the toy department at Target.
-I was told “I want to hurt you.”  She was gnawing on my cheekbone at the time and sounded serious.
-She asked me several times “Isn’t it sad that our time together is so limited?” and/or “Will you miss me when I’m gone?”  These are both in reference to the fact that she’s leaving town after her (expected) graduation in May.  Considering that it’s February, that would make our “limited time together” roughly seven times as long as we’ve known each other.
-She got drunk and started sending me pictures of herself.  Not sexy ones, unless you are turned on by pictures of girls drinking (and I am).  On the plus side, she has a penchant for see-thru shirts.
-She started calling me by pet names (well, we had known each other for almost a week).
-The first time I saw her in person after being introduced to her, she showed up at my bar shitfaced then stared at me wide-eyed and speechless when I said hello and asked how her night went.
-On at least one occasion, she repeatedly told me I looked like a hobo.  This was, I believe, because I was wearing a plaid shirt – hobos being known for having very specific fashion sense and a strong affinity towards certain fabric patterns.  Though now that I think about it, it may be because I was wearing a hat.  Every time she saw me wearing a hat, she’d get genuinely confused and ask why I was wearing a hat.

Anyway, a day and a half after she claimed to never want to see me again, I received the following series of texts, which I didn’t find on my phone until I was at iHop at four AM (and in suitable mental condition to be eating late-nite shitty pancakes).  For context, it’s worth mentioning that these were sent at 1:30 AM on February 15th:
“2nd times a charm. Speaking of charm, you have none. Thanks for the happy v-day txt! Just kiddinggg because you never sent me one!”
[A picture message of several pills on somebody’s palm]
“Drugs on drugs on drugs.  Maybe it’ll work this time?”
[A picture of baby food]
“I even got you a v-day present.  I bet you feel like the absolute worst now, huh?”
“Or you can ignore me.  That also works.”

Needless to say, I was a tad confused.  There was slight context for a little of that, but not enough for me to be able to wrap my head around any of it.  But I’d resolved to see this out until it stopped being entertaining, so I had a responsibility.  This came into play when she invited herself to my apartment again later that week.  I showed up at her place circa 2 AM, as is my custom, and she asked “why are you here?  Did I call you?”  Just like Fight Club!  Except instead of the night ending in hours of weird sex, she kept telling me the same uninteresting story over and over and over and over and I think there was pizza.  Oh, also this is when she gave me my Valentine’s Day baby food.  She seemed really upset that I hadn’t eaten it by the time I left for work the next day so I told her I’d eat it at work (which, to my credit, I did do).

On the bright side, I get to see her again since she left her credit card and ID in my car somehow.  Well, I don’t know that her ID was left in my car since I found it under one of my windshield wipers a week later, but the credit card was definitely in there.

Written by Baron Volcano

03/03/2012 at 1:46 am


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Author’s Note: I spent a while debating whether or not I should post this, but it’s been several months and it still makes me chuckle.

Funny story: my ladyfriend broke up with me a little while ago.  That is not, of course, the funny part (but hey, much ups to those of you that are already laughing, I guess).  As always, the devil is in the details – she told me to swing by her place after work one day because she was going to buy me sushi.  This should have set off at least one alarm bell, since the only time she’d paid for anything in the past three months was a dinner in exchange for helping her move.  But I was so swayed by the promise of free food that I didn’t even stop to think about it, so I drove two towns over to her house.  As I was just registering the fact that she wasn’t wearing going-out-clothes, she brusquely informed me that the restaurant was closed.  This is when I started to realize something was amiss, as most restaurants stay open past six PM on Sundays.

Then she says, “We should talk.  Maybe we should go for a walk… no, let’s go sit in your car.”

At this point, the voices in my head took notice and started their color commentary:
“Shit!  This ain’t good.  I bet she’s pregnant.”
“Jesus.  It’s fine.  I bet she’s just breaking up with you.”
“Well yeah, but what if?!”
“…yeah.  Let’s… let’s just not think about that.”
“Right, it could just be VD.”
“Dammit dude, let’s try to stay positive here.”

In my car she, thankfully, gets right to the point.
“I can’t be in this relationship anymore.”

After about ten seconds, which – if you’re not as used to it as I am – feels like forever in Awkward Silence Time, the voices in my head spoke up again.
“…what the hell is going on here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she said she didn’t want to go out anymore, and I indicated that I find it acceptable.”
“Why is she still in my car?”
“Good question.  Maybe she expected a reaction?”
“But I don’t care.”
“Well, yeah.  I get that.  Maybe ask her why?”
“But we already know why.  It’s been pretty obvious for a while.”
“Yeah, but she’s probably spent a bunch of time preparing what she’s going to say and how she’s going to say it.”
“Please refer back to Point A: I don’t care.  Besides, doesn’t that just make me seem, I dunno, desparate?”
“You got any better ideas?”
[time passes]
“The only other option is to just ask her to get out of the car.”
“Which makes you look like an asshole.”
“Which means she wins.”
“Who knows?  Maybe there’s something you haven’t thought of.  Maybe she got bored and started cheating on you, and now she feels bad about it.”
“Still don’t wanna do it.”
“If you ask why, maybe she’ll get out of your car.”

So I begrudgingly asked “Why?”  There were no surprises.  She spent several minutes fumblingly failing at explaining a pretty simple idea that I’d figured out long ago* as I sat silently staring through the windshield, a prisoner in my own unmoving car, periodically tuning in to what she was saying to see if there were any indications that she was about to stop talking.

And, at one point, I swear part of her explanation was “I dunno, it’s just… whenever I think about it, I really don’t like the idea of you being my… boyfriend.”**

Truth be told, my only regret of the whole situation*** is how I reacted to that line.  In short: I didn’t.  I was too tired from work and too bored from her babbling and too relieved about not having children and/or VD to muster any kind of reaction short of filing a mental note under “that’s hilarious.”

A little while after that, she mercifully finished whatever the hell she felt the need to say.  And the closing conversation went a lot better than I think she was expecting:
“My hands are shaking” she says, after another silence I can only assume is awkward.
“You nervous?”
“I guess that’s normal.  Hey, I’m hungry so I’m gonna head over to the bar down the road.  I’d invite you but… you know.”
[she says some bullshit about how we can still hang out as friends or something]
“OK, well, I’m about to drive to the bar.  Do you want to come or not?”
“I think I’m going to go inside.”
“Alright, it’s been fun.”
[she wordlessly gets out of my car]

*in short, there was no sort of connection between us that was even in the same timezone as “meaningful.”
**When viewing this exchange in your Brain Theater you have to pause before “boyfriend” to really showcase your disgust with the idea.
***Considering that this was a girl I went out with for three months just to prove to her that I’m not gay, it’s pretty impressive that this is my only regret.

Written by Baron Volcano

09/21/2011 at 10:35 pm