This morning I went to Borders hoping to be productive--to write--but after an hour all I'd done was eat three gingerbread mistakes from the clearance barrel and make a scene by sucking the spilled coffee out of my napkins. "What?" I asked the open-mouthed Brooks Brother beside me. "We're in a recession." I was packing up my Mac and hoping that my black sweats would camo the unfortunate amount of underbutt sweat I'd collected when the bickering couple beside me caught my attention.
"Two weeks! We've dated two weeks which means you're still supposed to be nice to me!" She smacked the side of the table with a Keith Haring calendar, a gesture which didn't get his attention since he was building a pyramid out of Dean Koontz hardbacks. "JASON. Answer me!"
She was art school attractive, her perfect skin and spatula-sized teeth canceling out the fact that she was dressed like a Lost and Found bin. He, by contrast, had the kind of wild-eyed expression and untamed Fraggle hair that suggested that his evenings were spent pounding Jack Daniels and eating live chipmunks.
"ANSWER ME." She pounded the table again, sending fifty dollars worth of Dean skidding to the floor. "You made me spill my Koontz," he said, calmly collecting the books and Jenga-ing them on top of each other. "Now I've got dirty Koontz."
Both of them looked at me when I snickered. "Sorry. Asthma attack."
"YOU KNOW WHAT, JASON?"
"You're stupid, Dean Koontz is stupid, and OKCupid is stupid." She stood up, collecting her oversized purse and calendar before cocooning herself in at least 25 feet of crocheted scarf. Jason slid his chair back, the legs screeching against the tile. He picked at his beard, pulling out what looked like a fingernail clipping and flicking it to the floor.
Finally he looked at her.
"You made a rhyme."
"WE'RE SO BROKEN UP RIGHT NOW! THAT RHYMES." She stomped off, making a high pitched squeal, the kind of sound you'd hear if you punched a Build-A-Bear.
He took a deep breath. Brushed some imaginary crumbs off the table. Tucked his hair behind his ears. "No it doesn't," he said softly before pulling her chair close enough to put his feet on and cracking the spine of Odd Hours.
Obviously, I was delighted. The seven bucks I'd dropped on this was so much more entertaining than the ten I spilled on Benjamin Button, with a stronger female lead and fewer dead babies. I had fifteen minutes of free internet left and decided I'd try to find these people on OKCupid, logging some extra Creepytime before heading home.
I dialed up the site, typed in my ZIP code and the first person on the results page was a guy who lives in my building, his pic showcasing the same sullen expression he rewards me with when we stare at each other from opposite sides of the elevator. I clicked his profile, hoping it would explain why he always smelled like bleach.
I quickly gave up on King Clorox and D-Koontz, instead clicking from pic to pic of dudes who share my state bird. With five minutes of free highspeed left, I hurriedly collected some of my favorite pics, profiles and tidbits from this metro area. Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society...
Omigod, me too! Nothing gets me hotter than an ascot, a mustache, and rabies.
In your mind, that "other parts of my anatomy" line is supposed to make me think that your penis is so comically oversized that on the weekends you use it to have Double Dutch contests, but I'm actually concerned that you're dragging your own entrails behind you.
Sir, if the word manskirt immediately follows the word needlework, it's automatically classified as a bitchskirt, unless by needlework you meant crippling addiction to heroin.
This actually conjures more questions than it answers, mainly why you're hanging out in the men's room with a camera. This also looks like the worst first date ever, since one of us would have to sit on the floor.
While part of me is offended, the other part is pleased that you used the correct form of "You're". Well played, Poon_Raider.
After twenty or so profile clicks and an equal number of dry heaves, OKCupid told me my time was up unless I became a member. I seriously considered creating a profile--if only to learn more about Dirty_Hairy's Ewok fetish--but my preferred screenname was taken.
Even though I hit upon the right combo of letters for a login, I decided not to go through with it. I never cared for Dean Koontz anyway.