But I’m not sure it matters because I probably scared him away, and if I didn’t, I don’t know what to think.

You see, I got to the Comet at the arranged time, parked myself at the bar, and waited. And waited. And waited. An icy hand of fear grabbed my spine; was I being stood up? I really only went for this date because it was a sure thing, I don’t have the heart for flat-out rejection at the moment, and for fuck’s sake, he sent me nudes. Where is he? Not being the type to send the annoying “wheeere aaare you?!?” text messages, I just began drinking my fear. On an pretty empty stomach.

When he finally showed (there were accidents on the highway and then he couldn’t find parking and…), I was on my way and, because alcohol impairs one’s judgment, just kept going. By the time we were getting ready to leave for the Egyptian, I had already broken the seal (in a bathroom with no toilet paper–have you ever wiped yourself with a bus transfer? I have.) and was tanked. The free shots the bartender was giving me, which seemed awesome at the time, were definitely working their way into my system, and about halfway through Jaws, I excused myself to go do my best imitation of a fountain in the ladies’ room. First, I threw up in the sink, because I couldn’t make it to the toilet. Then, I threw up in the toilet. When I thought things couldn’t get any worse, diarrhea struck and THEN while I was in the middle of painfully cleaning my colon, I had to throw up again and had no choice but to puke in the sanitary napkin receptacle on the side of the stall. Afterward, coherent enough to feel shame but still impaired enough to think I could recover from this, I rushed out into the lobby to buy something, anything with mint, to settle my stomach and maybe not smell like I was returning from the Miss Bulimia 2010 Pageant, which explains the box of Junior Mints in my coat pocket with precisely two removed. When I got back into the theater (having seen Jaws about one hundred thousand times), I realized just how long I had been gone and knew that he knew what I had been up to–there’s no way he couldn’t have. (Later, after I turned my phone back on, I received his concerned text message, and shame washed over me anew.)

On the way back to his car, he held my hand and said he had sort of an embarrassing question to ask me, you see, he had me in his phone as ‘lil santa’ and he didn’t know, well, and I cut him off with “oh my god, it’s ok, I don’t know your name either.” Introductions were made, and even knowing what I am certain he knew, he kissed me goodnight.

This morning, when I woke up on leighhyphenanne‘s couch, I was completely overcome by shame and embarrassment, because I NEVER forget these moments. I am envious of people who black out. At least when they wake up in the morning, it’s “Oh god, what did I do?” instead of “Oh god, I can’t believe I did that.”

The shame is at least passing quickly, what happened happened, and the result of it will be the result. I’m not going to call him, you know, because after you leave the house in a cute outfit but somehow end up wrapped in a cloak of shame, maybe you should leave it to the other person whether they want to put up with your BS, and I hope he does call, but I won’t be surprised if he doesn’t.

I’m currently having the ‘What to wear on a date with someone whom I’ve already made out with but whose name I don’t recall if in fact I ever knew it and who has already texted me nudes’ debate.

Not familiar with this sort of dilemma?

God I live a freakish life.