…with his new chick. The only possibly worse scenario I can think of is having my armpit hair removed with fire ants. It caught me completely off guard; but, now that I think about it, even if I had been given, say, a two week notice, I doubt the experience would have been more “pleasant.” Tell me, what would you prefer: being hit by a bus and dragged 1000 feet by your eyeballs, or to be told you have a flesh-eating disease that will commence its annihilation of your epidermis in 10 days?
So anyway, I freeze, no recollection of the emergency exits, and they walk up and puke their happy couple hairball into my lap: the hand on the lower back, the big shit-eating grin. They look at me expectantly. Ooh, will she flip out? Will she try to act cool? I did neither. I spoke in clipped responses, my jaw feeling as if it had been recently wired shut. “Fine.” “Good.” “Same ol, same ol.” While they gushed in unison of Hollywood Bowl tickets, new restaurant dinners, gallery openings, weekend getaways. Sunset Magazine couldn’t have given a better pitch of Los! Angeles! Is! for! Hipster! Lovers!
Then, as the conversation dribbled to a halt, I leaned over and whispered to the bartender that these two lovebirds were so happy I set them up that they’re picking up the tab–for the entire bar. Then I made like a banana and split.
Nah, that didn’t really happen. Instead I slunk off, bummed a cigarette, then sat in my car and listened glumly to Cat Power. But how cool would that have been? Yeah, and then, let’s see…this fucking Greek Adonis that I’ve been dating would swoop in and pick me up, carrying me off while yelling to all the astonished bar patrons and Happy Fuckface Couple that I have the most magical pussy in the world and his 9-inches can’t wait to dive in while we take his private jet to Easter Island. And then…