Kermit.

My dear friends,

Let me begin my cautionary tale with this:  when I saw my date standing outside the bar that was really a random Chinese restaurant I said aloud, “Wow he’s weird.”.

I don’t know how old his pictures were.  He looked like his photos, yet he didn’t.  He had one of those bodies of men who have never exercised in their lives.  Skinny arms.  Big belly.   Kermit the Frog.  His clothes did not fit.  Some of his buttons were buttoned, others were not.  He had not brushed his hair that day.  There was a fedora.  He was not trying.  Because men who try usually button their shirts.

The conversation went thusly:  he asked questions so that after I began my answer he could interrupt to talk about himself.  For example, he asked about when I was an actress.  I began to tell the story at which point he interrupted to tell me about his high school production of Our Town.  I used to love that play.

He asked if I knew anyone when I moved here.  I explained that my brother lives here.  He went on to speak of how he moved here alone, without the help of a “benefactor”.  And how that was much harder than what I had done.

After 30 minutes too many I used my ESP to summon the kind waitress and ask for the check.  At this moment, realizing that I did not want to hear any more about his high school history or Facebook friends, he stopped talking.  We split the bill and left.

We parted ways at the corner.  When I put out my hand for a handshake he looked at it and then glared at me.  As if I was going to let his torso touch mine!  How dare he think he had earned the right to be so close to my breasts!  Entitled asshole.  Fin.

Bingo = dutch, bad photos

 

 

 

 

 

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