So Cake Woman works six days on and three days off. Her weekend this round was composed of Tuesday, Wednesday, and today, except that she had a ride along today at six AM which involved wearing a bulletproof vest and traveling at a speed of one hundred and twenty miles per hour in a Crown Victoria. Yes, I’m terribly jealous — the fastest that I have gone in a car was about 117. Despite only getting two hours of sleep and me suddenly remembering that I had to babysit after school, we still managed to hook up to do fun things. Most of the time the fun things that I do involve intellectual pursuits like television or reading on the toilet, so it was nice to break the tedium with some Addams Family Pinball at the Viking Bar and bowling at Elsie’s. Our penultimate game was my best game ever! I bowled a 119! I think that it was the Slipknot that turned my game around. I can’t say that I like metal, but sometimes you just need a little screaming to get your game on.
My new goal for bowling has nothing to do with strikes and spares. My new goal is to ruin the games of nearby bowlers by saying the most depraved things of which I can think. Case in point:
Cake Woman: Oh, Jesse, you’re doing it all wrong, you gotta lay it down gentle, like a lady!
Me: You mean, punch it in the back of the head?
Me: “Dude, you snuck around back of that one”
Cake Woman: “That’s what I did to your mom last night”
Me: “That’s why you had to pay extra… and now you can’t see her without a chaperone!”
Sadly, nothing we said stopped the guys in the next lane from bowling strike after strike. Even Cake Woman putting one foot on top of the ball return and letting the hand drier blow up her skirt while shouting “bowling with no underwear is so liberating!” at the top of her lungs didn’t stop those guys from palming the balls into beautiful arcing strikes. I don’t understand it at all. Riding my bike has left me with barely functioning testicles and even I was affected.
I’m throwing away the Skittles that she left on my desk! JFC Chicken I fucking hate Skittles. They taste like chewy garbage with a candy shell. Thank JFC Chicken Cake Woman was too drunk to remember that I told her that the crush had come back.
“I’m not fishing for compliments or anything, but what is the attraction?”
It was gone. Then back. I told her. What I didn’t tell her was that she needs to stop playing “the best make out mix ever” or “the path of least resistance mix” tapes and telling me so. I’m staring another four year dry spell in the face and my ex is making out as much as I did when I was a senior in high school. Okay, that’s not true, I made out like five hours a day. I was amazing back then. I’m already out of practice. Nonetheless, I don’t need to hear any more about making out with anybody, ever.
I’m not worried about Cake Woman, though. I’m old hand at converting women into friends, unless they say something ridiculous like:
Her: I think you’re cute.
Me: Uh, what?
Her: This is a problem.
Me: What? What is a problem?
Her: I think you’re cute. That’s a problem.
I mean, I have no idea what to do with that. No one ever says that, even when drunk. Women say “I don’t normally do this” or “we can’t… oh! To the left!”, but I never hear that I am cute. Maybe I should have fished for compliments from my exes like they fished for compliments from me.
Her: “I’m so fat!”
Me: “You’re beautiful! I love you!
You might think “hey, that’s not nice, that’s me!” You’re partly right. That’s like every woman I ever dated. SHUT THE FUCK UP. Did I lie in bed wailing “I’m such a fat fucking tub of lard, I’m crazy, I hate myself, I can’t do anything right and no one likes me!” NO! I DID NOT! I realise that in order to date me your self esteem must have already crashed through ten floors into the sub-basement, but get the fuck over it.
Somewhere in the middle of the evening there was White Castle.