I am a very considerate person.
When I break up with a guy, I don’t say that it’s because my friend pointed out his abnormally big thighs and now every time I look at him all I see is Grimace. Instead, I tell him the truth. That there’s always a chance he’ll be hit by a bus tomorrow, and no amount of love is going to change that.
If that doesn’t work, I tell him I have a baboon heart.
Before I realized that being in a monogamous relationship would mean giving up my dream of not being in a monogamous relationship, I dated a guy named Ed.
As is the case with all of my exes, I met Ed in a bar.
My friends and I were celebrating the fact that, after tripping over some kids’ skateboard and spending the next two weeks with my pinky finger dangling off my left hand, I finally went to the walk-in clinic.
The technician who took my X-Rays said he’d never seen anything like it. He said my pain threshold must be off the charts. Obviously, we were celebrating this as well.
Since a lot of freaks hang out at the bar, I always take precautions. I never reveal my age, always subtracting at least five years. I also give a fake name, depending on how I’m feeling. Sometimes I’ll introduce myself as Groovy, or Melancholy, or Totally Creeped Out. But usually I’m just plain old Shitfaced.
I find this is the best way to protect myself from things like identity theft.
That night, along with my dignity and self-respect, I lost my pinky cast. Thankfully I had signed it, and when Ed found it in one of the mens’ urinals later he took it home and Febreezed it.
He phoned me the next day.
“Is Shitfaced there?”
Few people know this, but I suffer from a debilitating disease. It’s called “Alcohol-Induced-Memory-Loss-Possibly-Leading-To-Beer-Goggles”. Because of this, I have to be very careful when probing male callers for information. Most people don’t understand that AIMLPLTBG is a real illness that I made up.
“So Ed, do you remember how we met?” I stressed the word ‘you’ because I wanted to keep my illness a secret. It’s one of my defense mechanisms.
He said he’d been dancing with another girl when I came up and vaginablocked her. Then I stuck my tongue down his throat. (This is also one of my defense mechanisms.)
We made plans to see a movie the next weekend.
He showed up for our date wearing skinny jeans and a vest over his bare chest. When I asked him what was up with the Russell Brand look, he said it was actually American Apparel brand and the only reason he could pull it off was because he’d eaten nothing but KFC all week.
“White meat, only. And no skin.” He said this was something that all really toned guys did before a date.
During the movie, Ed told me his entire life story. From back when he was a zygote in his mother’s uterus to the first time he went down on a girl in the movie theatre, only two weeks earlier.
I was confused. How was that even possible? Did he get down on the floor? Or just lean his head over her arm rest? What did she do with her popcorn? Had he eaten any popcorn? Wanting to keep the idle chit chat to a minimum, I decided it best to save these questions for the Google search engine.
Ed said he really knew how to make a girl feel special. He offered to make me feel special. I told him that sounded lovely, but I needed to freshen up first.
I locked myself in the bathroom stall, where I spent the next hour and a half reading poems about Amy B.’s predilection for twenty-inch c*cks.
The end of a first date is always awkward. So to make it less awkward, I waited until Special Ed turned the corner onto my street before dive rolling out of the car. I hit the ground with my shoulder and rolled toward the curb. I was in gymnastics for three years so I’m sure I looked really graceful.
Ed must have thought so too, because the next day the phone rang.
Caller: What’s shakin, dollface?
Me: Who is this?
Caller: It’s Ed.
Me: You mean Special Ed?
Caller: Heh. Yeah sweets, your special Ed.
Me: Like how Special Ed?
Me: I mean, just how Special Ed are you?
Caller: I don’t – Wait. Are you tryin’ to be funny?
Me: Of course not. I’m just curious. Are you like severely Special Ed or only mildly Special Ed?
There must have been a problem with his phone because somehow we got disconnected.
I never heard from Special Ed again. But it worked out for the best, a few months later I went houseboating and I met Ken (aka. “Special K”).