All Star Break: Monica on Wednesday

So I decided I’d spend the All Star break going out on dates. I reckoned I’d see Monica on Wednesday night and Joyce on Thursday night.

If y’all read my blog about the Home Run Derby, you’ll know that I was finishing it up in a hurry because I needed to get ready to go and pick up Monica. You’ll also know that I took too long writing and that I was going to be late for sitting on the couch and waiting for her to get ready. (I need a Claritin before I go to Monica’s too, since she’s got a hatefulass cat of her own. And it hates me. But Monica won’t lock it up when I come over, so I have to deal with it getting in the way when we have sex. Why can’t chicks just get dogs like normal people?)

So I texted her that I was running late – like 15 minutes late. By the time I’d dealt with the freeway and shit, it was 8:20. So I was 20 minutes late. For the first time since I we started dating.

Fuck did I get it.

She was on the total warpath when she opened the door. Let me remind y’all – this is a chick who usually keeps me waiting on her half an hour until she’s ready. Maybe if I made bullet points out of what she was yelling at me y’all can make sense out of it:

1. who did I think I was that she should have to sit around waiting for me
2. how dare I make her wait
3. how dare I disrespect her
4. it would serve me right if she didn’t go out with me tonight
5. if I thought I was gonna get laid, I was wrong
6. why didn’t I apologize?

She didn’t give me time to apologize. She just kept on going around and around, same shit over and over again with no way for me to get a word in edgeways. No way the neighbors couldn’t hear her.

So this just goes on. She even gets on her phone and calls batshit crazy Caroline to tell her I finally showed up and who did I think I was some more. At least the yelling scared the dumbass cat into the bedroom.

She was just fuckin nuts. I had no idea what the hell was wrong with her or what fucked up button I pushed…but there must have been something going on, seeing as the whole family is fucked in the head. Not like it made a difference: I still was getting heaps of shit dumped on me. No normal person yells at someone for 20 minutes for being 20 minutes late. Not that she was anything like normal.

Then it was my fault her make-up was messed up and she stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door. Finally she was ready. If I had any sense (or as Keaton would say, if I had any balls) I’d have left her in her apartment and told her to fuck off. But I kept hoping she’d simmer down and we could still have a nice dinner…with make up sex afterwards. (Make-up sex isn’t as hot as angry sex. But it’s still hot.)

Thing is, the bitch didn’t simmer down. She started up all over again in the car and she kept going when we got to the restaurant.

Don’t make a scene in public is a big Block rule. And she was fixin to make one.

I swallowed two beers waiting for it to end. But it wouldn’t. She stopped long enough to order, but then it was back to being a batshit crazy bitch.

A meanass batshit crazy bitch. Polecat caught in a bear trap mean. She told me I was a washed-up baseball player whose only asset was his face and I should count myself lucky for having a girlfriend like her. She’d had guys with six-packs and – I’m not kidding, she really said the next part – and bigger dicks…and they treated her with respect.

Then she called me a “pretty boy faggot”.

Ok. That was it. I got up, threw a twenty on the table to cover my beers, and walked straight out of the restaurant. I don’t think I’ve ever been that mad in my life…and being that mad at a chick really sucks because you can’t do anything about it.

I got in the car and drove home. Where I realized I didn’t have any food.

Fuck me.

I texted Keaton to see if he wanted some Wingstop. I told him I was going out with Monica that night, so he knew something was wrong if I was texting him at 9:15. So wrong that he said he’d get the wings and come over to my place.

I practically tore off my clothes and got into basketball shorts and a tshirt. Fuckin waste of an ironed shirt. Keaton was there in less than half an hour, with 40 wings and two sixes of Kona Longboards.

I eat when I get really pissed off, so I tore into the wings and downed another two beers before I was ready to talk about it. There really wasn’t that much to talk about: Monica is a crazyass bitch and I walked out and stranded her in the restaurant. I may have thought about doing that on really bad dates in the past, but I’ve never actually gotten up and left. At least I knew Keaton was going to say I did the right thing.

“You should have told her to fuck off and left her in her apartment, bubba, but, since you were out in public, you did the only thing you could do. What would you do if a dude called you a faggot?”

“Lay him the fuck out. Duh.”

“So since hitting a chick isn’t an option, and talking sense to a bitch who’s fucked in the head isn’t an option either, you did the right thing. The bitch can get herself an uber. Not like you stranded her in the middle of nowhere.”

My phone was on the kitchen counter. It let me know I had a text. I got up automatically to see what it was.

Keaton got up too.

“If you go near that phone to text that fucked up bitch I’m gonna knock you unconscious…for your own good. If you want another beer, I’ll go get it. You ain’t gettin nowhere near that phone.”

So he got me another beer. And another. And…have I gotten to six yet lol? I probably ate some of his share of the wings, too. It really sucked that there wasn’t a ballgame to watch…but at least we could talk about Manny Machado for a while.

Around 12, Keaton left me what was left of the beer…and hid my phone…for my own good. He said he’d email me the location in the morning and I could get it on my computer.

He didn’t want me drunk and begging Monica for forgiveness at 2:30 in the morning. Now that I had my balls back, he said it was his duty as my friend and fellow son of the Confederacy to make sure I didn’t hand them over again to the crazyass bitch.