Saw you driving the other day. In a car. I was also in a car. You gave me a meaningful look. The meaning it was full of appeared to be a romance meaning. Or you’d purchased cheap sunglasses, the kind where if you look through them at the wrong angle the lenses make you kind of seasick. You know what I mean? 7-11 sunglasses? Hate that. Anyway, if it was romance and not nausea, email me.
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We talked at the bar, but I didn’t ask for your number. Wish I had. To be fair, I needed very badly to go vomit in an alley for a little while right when I was just courdrunkous (that’s the combination of drunk and courageous that I need to function) enough to ask. If you’re still interested, email me. Tell me what color the vomit was so I know it’s really you. Trust me, if you saw it, you’d remember.
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You: Pretty lady working at the coffee shop.
Me: Guy who realized that the reason his shirt was all messed up was because a SECOND button had fallen off and the one safety pin he was using as a button substitute was inadequate.
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I don’t know if you ever look at these, but I hope you do. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t taken with you at first when we met at Buffalo Wild Wings. I have to admit that I fucking hate that place, so I also hated you for being there. But only as much as I hated myself:) which is a lot.
Anyway, when I got home, I was thinking about you. And me. And while I arranged a stack of pillows and rolled them up into a comforter so that there was something vaguely body-like for me to spoon in the night when I inevitably had the nightmares about being in a monster truck accident, you were a lot more appealing all of a sudden.
If you answer within the next 5 hours, I will probably still feel the same way. However, beyond that 5 hours I will probably be very resentful that I had to fight through another night of being run over by Bigfoot and the rest of America’s Premier monster trucks all alone. We’re working in a limited window here, is what I’m saying. Please email me back.