(Disclaimer from here at Jen’s Blog, the typos, language, and spelling mistakes in the letter below have been left intentionally, and in the original context from Brianne.)
By Brianne Sloan
This is a letter that was written to me after a very bad date a couple years ago and I recently found it in my saved mail dated May 2006! You can hear his side, then I’ll tell you mine and I’ll let you come to your own conclusions:
I must say a few things, last night absolutly spun me….not only were you the WORST “date” ive EVER been on in my entire life, but you are SO self centered its fuckin insane! you are actually insane yourself….i couldnt hold a conversation with you for longer than 3 minutes, it was silly, i felt like i was dealing with a drunk 3 year old! i hope you know everything that im saying and will say in the message is not out of anger for not fucking you, because believe me, i wouldnt fuck you if you had all holes open and begging for it! Kereokay….. let me just touch a minute on your singing…i know you knew you couldnt sing WELL, WELL you cant sing for shit hunny, you sound like anna nicole at the fuckin awards show, your terrible, you made me embarresed to even be seen with you, and i dont get embarresed easily….you were torture, TORTURE!!! THEN, to top it all off, i get you all plastered the hole night while you flirt with the lamest men ive ever seen in my life, and you go home with someone else! thats the absolute rudest thing i have ever seen…EVER. Not ONE thank you for the entire night, not one ounce of care about the fact that i drove out, picked you, bought your ugly ass drinks all night, then you wanna go have breakfast with some shmuck whos name you probably didnt even know! i really hoped he fucked you really well, in your ass too, just how you like it 🙂 believe me, im actually the sweetest and nicest guy you’d probably ever meet, but the way you disrespected me last night just fuckin blew my mind…..and your probably gonna be too fuckin stupid to even understand you did anything wrong so ill keep it simple for you, your a broke, ugly, A.D.D ed, disrespectful WHORE…and i hope you get everything you deserve in life!
suck it easy and talk to you never,
Wow. First of all, I apologize for subjecting you to that atrocious, very nearly painful example of what those with single digit IQs are being allowed to get away with in the American School Systems today, it upsets me tremendously that I have had to include it in one of my own blogs, but I’ve been running low on material. So you want to know what really happened? Read on . . .
Once upon a time, in a far-away land called Jacksonville (that is about thirty-five minutes away if you don’t stop for gas) there lived a beautiful princess. It was a dark and stormy Tuesday evening and our princess had suddenly found herself released from the evil clutches of the wicked Roadhouse Grill, which had captured her and forced her to do their every bidding for what had proven to be (economically speaking) shitty, shitty pay. It truly seemed her life had become nothing more than a meaningless bunch of peanuts. Every day she would go to work dressed in rags and serve the peanuts . . . she’d fill the peanut buckets . . . she’d spend three hours a night sweeping up the damn peanuts . . . and then she’d get her paycheck and that would all be peanuts too. You can imagine her excitement at having finally escaped the depraved grasp of the service industry and all it’s sinful corporate bullshit.
However, she had nothing planned for her one big night of freedom, it was a royal bust; there were no meetings with fairy godmothers, no enchanted balls to go to and by gum, there were no handsome “prince charmings” to for her to meet so she was sitting in the living room halfheartedly watching an SNL rerun on Comedy Central, circa 1993. She sat listlessly in her old, worn-out armchair (or throne if you will) listening to Mike Meyers scream about Scottish junk, Adam Sandler and David Spade telling her to shop at The Gap, and desperately awaiting her daily affirmation with Stuart Smalley. As he appeared on the screen flying magically across a deep blue sky, she began to say along with him: “Cause I’m good enough . . . I’m smart enough . . . and doggone it, people like me!” But she didn’t know if she really believed it.
She stared out the window at a dark and rainy night and as thunder clapped in the distance, the soft, gentle melody of Copacabana started playing somewhere in her purse! It took her a second to find it, but behold! It was her cell phone! She was saved! “Hello?” she asked expectantly to the unknown person on the other end. It was a number she didn’t recognize, but she picked up anyway. It was some jerk she didn’t remember giving her number to, but he didn’t sound too scary on the phone so she agreed to go out with him anyway. This was her first mistake.
She ran quickly to her bedroom where she took off her silly Roadhouse Grill uniform and tossed it carelessly in a corner. She went to her closet where she stopped immediately, stared at her wardrobe and was faced with a huge dilemma: What should she wear? She didn’t remember exactly who this guy was and she had a feeling that if she’d liked him at all, she would have had some faint inkling as to who he was so it was sort of a blind date and she knew like all other women know that you never want to look too cute on a blind date incase you don’t like the guy. But she also knew that she didn’t want to look too horrible, just incase she did like him~ all women go through this at one time or another, but the only reason I’m discussing it now is to show you how long it took him to freaking get there . . .
Screw my little fairytale~ the princess/ third-person narrative was nice to start out with, but this was one of my very first bad dates. I’m still confused by this night (even now) and it’s going to take some good old fashioned, firsthand boy-bitching to properly convey it to you. As I was saying, it took me a little while to get ready. In the end, I just threw on jeans and an old Doors t-shirt, slapped on some lip gloss and tossed my hair back in a ponytail (because I could always take it down later if he was cute), but still I’m a chick and this took me about an hour. I looked in the mirror and reasonably satisfied with my appearance, I looked down at my watch . . . it was almost ten-o-clock. I had given this guy directions at eight . . . where the hell was he?
I grabbed my phone and quickly dialed his number. He answered on the first ring and told me he’d been coming from Baymeadows, but guess where he is? He’s in St. Augustine~ I didn’t live here then. I was trying to tell him he went too far on Phillips and tell him what he needs to do to fix it, but is he listening? Of course not! He’s telling me that he doesn’t think he missed his turn, that he thinks it’s just a few more miles down and I’m yelling, “Dude! Look around you, look at the signs! Do they say words like ‘Castillo’ and ‘Nation’s Oldest City’?” When he told me they did, I said, “Okay, listen~ I live in Mandarin, about thirty miles away from where you are, I need you to turn around.”
He stops and says, “No . . . I don’t think you know where you are, I’m gonna stop at this gas station and get directions. I’ll be there soon.”
Wow! By that time I knew without a doubt I wasn’t in for a meeting with prince charming that night! So I waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. I was sitting on the couch listening to the Dana Carvey woman tell me all the reasons I was going to hell, when a red car pulled into my driveway . . . at eleven-o-clock. Did he come to the door to get me? No. Did he call my phone to let me know he was here? Oh, no . . . he honked. I was in shock as I walked out to the car, in absolute shock~ I had never been honked at by a guy before. I looked in his window at him and instantly knew it was going to be a very long night.
He was dreadful. He vaguely resembled a monkey and if it makes any sense at all, he was the kind of person who looked like he smelled funny. He had long gangly limbs and he seemed to have actually been trying to make his flaws ornamental by admitting them audaciously. He had this awful six-inch long goatee (no lie) that accented his incredibly pointy chin and horribly misshapen ears that he’d drawn attention to by putting about four different earrings in each ear~ then everything I just told you was made worse by his oh-so-charming personality~ altogether he was just ridiculous.
“Hey, Holly,” he said. He stuck his hand out his window and introduced himself. I stared at him blankly and shook his hand, but made no mention of the fact that my name wasn’t Holly. “You wanna go somewhere and get dinner?”
I shook my head slowly. “Uh-uh, no,” I breathed slowly, knowing full well that dinner with this guy would take a lonnngggggggg time. I suggested we go to my friendly neighborhood bar because I knew that a lot of people I knew would be there and I wouldn’t necessarily have to let him take me home if he was as bad as he looked. We went to Harmonious Monks right by my house in Mandarin, but believe me, that was the longest drive ever. It was horrible and I do not remember one single word that was said during this lengthy expedition. A hundred years later, when we finally arrived, we took a seat at the bar and he says, “Get whatever you want to drink, do you want to split a couple appetizers? Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” I told him. “I am kinda hungry. But get the poppers or the cheese sticks, I’m a vegetarian.”
I went outside to talk to some friends and when I came back, the food was there, but guess what? It all had meat in it, every goddamn bit of it. I didn’t say a word, but he looked at me and said with his mouthful, spitting chicken fingers all over me, “MMMMMM . . . sorry. I forgot. Get another drink and whatever you want.”
I ordered poppers and went up to the stage to sing (I’d put, like, ten songs in so I wouldn’t have to deal with him) and by the time I returned, his food was gone and he was munching on one of my poppers. “I ordered you this,” he said, pushing a shot of patron towards me. I don’t drink tequila, but I threw that shit back like there was no tomorrow. I reached for a popper and ate it, but by the time I was finished, he’d eaten the rest of them. What a pig, I thought as he shoved another shot in my face and started getting really touchy-feely. When he handed me another drink and slipped his hand in my back pocket, I almost threw up, I swear to you. I backed up slowly and dusted myself off, then looked at him like he was a freaking octopus. Ewww, I thought, running outside and on the way out I saw several other women standing quietly with their normal dates, shaking their heads and looking at me sympathetically.
I sat down outside and struck up a conversation with the first guy I saw. He was a regular at that bar and I’d talked to him a couple times, but I never paid him any real attention before that night. By this time, I just wanted somebody to help me . . . anybody. And he was about to find out why.
My “date” came out the door at that time, sat down next to me and put his hand on my knee. I cringed as he looked me in the eye and asked, “Do you have any money?”
I stared at him blankly for a moment and then bust out laughing. Oh my god, I thought then I somehow managed to contain myself as I stared at him innocently and asked, “For what?”
“For your dinner and drinks,” he said casually, like it was the most understandable thing in the world. “It was more expensive than I thought it’d be and I think you should pay your part.”
My friend was watching us and desperately trying to hold in laughter as I yelled, “Which ‘part’? Number one, you asked me out and I myself ordered a four-dollar Captain and Coke!”
“And dinner,” he said dumbly.
I stood up. “That’s number two!” I cried. “My one popper? Are you insane?”
He backed off then went to pay his tab with his tail between his legs. I laughed and thought the whole thing was over until the bartender came out holding a bill. He stood in front of me and I stared at him in a pure state of bewilderment and asked slowly, “He didn’t pay his tab?”
The bartender inhaled. “Well . . . he paid part of it. He says you owe me the rest.”
I’m pretty sure he knew as he stood there tapping his foot that he wasn’t getting a nickel out of me; all I could do was laugh. DOES ANYBODY ELSE SEE A PROBLEM WITH THIS? I’ve had men try and stick me with the tab before, but I’ve never had one actually sic the bartender on me! As soon as he went back in, I took off with my friend to Famous Amos where I was actually allowed to eat, but the next day I checked my email only to find that letter waiting for me! Go back and read over it if you don’t remember what it said, but let’s recap!:
This guy showed up two hours late because he wouldn’t listen to my directions and said that I didn’t know where I lived, he literally honked at me when he [finally] arrived and then he actually resembled something I’d dissected in a third-grade science class. He didn’t pay any attention to the fact that I was a vegetarian, he ate my freaking dinner then poured shots of tequila down my throat (because that’s such a smart thing to do when you haven’t eaten!). He pawed me all over until I had to flee the building, he came outside and demanded I pay “my half” of the tab and then I had to leave with someone else? WHAT A DREAMY GUY!
Everything that could have possibly gone wrong on any given date went wrong that night, but apparently it was all my fault and I’m posting that letter as a warning to men from the east coast to the west coast who were possibly considering a date with me: DON’T DO IT! As you can see, I take the “sweetest and nicest” guys on the planet and turn them into complete assholes by “disrespecting” them all night and then not even “thanking” them when they stick me with the tab! Then I get all scared that they’re going to molest me or kill me or even just talk to me and I ditch them and catch a ride home with somebody normal . . . INCONCEIVABLE! What a calculating bitch I am!
Don’t say I didn’t warn you!