On No Meaning No

18 October, 2010

Dear Jon Favreau-ish type that tried to pick me up – and take me home – tonight at that bar in DUMBO:

Chatting me up ‘politely’ for ten minutes before telling me that my lips are so nice, I *must* be a good kisser (yes, it’s true, but that is neither here nor there), and then trying to delve deep into personal romantic & sexual histories does NOT give you the right to f’ing mope when I repeatedly but politely turn down your rather disgusting “I would just need an hour to show you the reckoning” proposition.

Further, if I tell you I’m not going to engage in any such reckoning, do you not realize that:
a) the more you use your “one hour” line, the more you destroy your chances of said encounter ever (in a million years) happening?!
b) it would have behooved you to leave it alone after, say, the 4th time you brought it up and the 4th time I turned you down.
c) girls do not lie about just up and going to Abu Dhabi for a week. Mostly because it’s too outrageous. If I tell you that I need to go home and pack for my flight that’s in less than 20 hours, you’d best respect and believe that.

So quit yer whining and forlorn cigarette-suckage, and, may I put this mildly: go take yourself home.


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