If Anyone Asks, We Never Met

I’ve had those nights, and those ensuing days, where I honestly cannot recall the events in question, nor the participants…participating in said events. And I’ve had the charming experience of running into said participants from the events in question, and not remembering one iota of who the fuck they were.

I have also, I shamefully have to admit, went into Mr. Snuffalupagus land, put on my (pathetic) acting chops and PRETENDED I didn’t remember who you are. I feign confusion, puzzlement, and then – indifference.
So sorry, I intimate, my incredibly discerning brain cells obviously had other, more important matters to attend to than to possibly retain details about your meager existence. Now, good day. I said, Good Day!
Well the gods must be in a vengeful mood, or I haven’t been pouring out enough for my dead homies, because I got a taste of my own medicine the other night. And man, it don’t feel real good.

Granted, not much of a history with this particular dude – a 12 hour date in which I barely escaped with my panties intact. I thought we were headed for fireworks – instead, tumbleweeds. He never called, I never texted, and it was dunzo. Then, fast forward to four months later. Wait, one thing: before I continue with this unfortunate run-in, I will say – I fucking LOVE LA. For the simple reason that, for the most part, it’s so fucking big and sprawling that your chances of running into an ex have about the same statistical equivalent of winning Powerball. Or finding a parking space in Back Bay. YESSS.

So it’s four months later. I’m out with my girlfriend and we meet up with two boys. Drinky-drink, then it’s off to another establishment, one I normally don’t frequent because it’s too fucking hipster. Gee, it’s amazing how a few PBRs (yes, how ironic) can bring you into the American Apparel fold. Anyhoo, we walk up with our young lads and the guy at the door asks for ID. I don’t take much notice – he’s slouched at the door, cap pulled down wayyy, way low. Like he’s eating Fun Dip, not giving a fuck (yeaaaah, Skrillex!)
He checks our IDs, still not really looking at us, and I suddenly peer closer. Is that…? No, it can’t be…but wait, he lives on this side of town…holy FUU….?

I don’t say anything, and my dude grabs my hand to head for the bar. But my brain is working overtime. He saw my ID. There’s no fucking way he doesn’t remember me! I mean, we TALKED…for how long? He was at my house!!! Do I turn around, go back outside, strike a pose? No, because then, he’ll know I know who he is, and then the jig is up! In desperation, I turn to my girlfriend.
“Yo, I think that’s ___________”
My girlfriend giggles, slightly buzzed. “Haha, that’d be a good one.”
“No, I’m serious. it’s _______”
“No shit?”
The next thing I know, she’s outside. NOOOO!!!! I run for cover, like under the barstool.
She comes back inside, laughing. “Yeah, I think that’s him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, are you ________? And he said, “who wants to know?” I didn’t say your name, I just said, “whatever, dude,” and came back inside.”
Considering we had stumbled in together, it was safe to assume that my cover was blown.
So, to recap: he pretended not to know me. I tried pretending too. But then he must have thought I was who I am, because when my girlfriend ran out to confront him, he wouldn’t confirm because he knew it was me, therefore he can still pretend he doesn’t know me but I can’t pretend I don’t know him because otherwise my girlfriend wouldn’t have asked. So, it’s like, he kinda won.
Makes sense, right?
Ahhh, fuck it.

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