Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Why was I gone on Thursday? It’s simple, really. I’ve been chatting online with babes all day, and it’s been communicatively draining. There are three leviathans: one who smuggled 26 bottles of wine overseas, via suitcase. Another who actually responded after I invoked the name of William Safire in an opener. And the third? I’ve been talking with her the most. First date is on Thursday, and I can’t wait.

There’s a breeziness to conversation, which is crucial for me, and she’s got personality. On the topic of laser tag: “Nothing. Chaos in the dark with weird music and smells.” I told her about the usefulness of firmware updates in navigating certain social situations. “You should just play dead next time,” she suggested. “Obviously.”

And on the shallower topic of looks, I’ve developed a reliable barometer. The Professor and the Rawketeer are both adept at researching my matches. This particular match possesses an online footprint, and soon enough, the question materialized–“Wait, she reached out to you?”–twice. Twice, asked not in jest, but more as a visceral fact-check. By now, I’ve divested myself of any ego in this question, looking instead to the core message that, empirically, I’m dating up.

The covenant I have with these two douchenheifers is to only tell me if some truly heinous facts avail themselves in the background check. Otherwise, I need to discover her story firsthand. Thursday! Thursday. But I don’t want to jinx it. There is a hope that I’m actively suppressing, because from a certain angle, hope is merely a variant of pining. I’m letting this relationship breathe, early as it is. I’m living in the moment, borne by gut and circumstance, taking nothing for granted.