It's TMI Thursday! Go see more stories over here:
Do you remember that guy in high school that was two years older than you and totally out of your league? Remember how you drove by his house three times a day, wrote down what he was wearing (and critiqued it), and were positive that one day he would saunter up to you in the hall and admit his un-dying love for you?
And then remember how he graduated and moved away and you never heard from him again until you were at a bar in college four years later and you were all OH MY GOD, TRACY, THERE HE IS! WHAT SHOULD I DO?
And remember how Tracy was all, "HOLY CRAP that is him! Wow, he's still so...well, he really doesn't look hot. And he looks totally wasted. And kind of fat."
And remember how you were all, "Well I'm totally wasted, too, and he's NOT fat. He's more muscular...or...well, maybe his face is swollen from a root canal and both sides this afternoon and that's why he's downing shots. Go buy me a drink, I'm going to go talk to him."
Okay, so then remember how you took a shot of something fruity and tart and OH SO AMAZING and walked up to the boy you fondly remember batting eyelashes at in the hallway while he passed you and probably thought your pants were the most hideous thing on God's green earth?
Just me, then?
Okay, well it happened to me. And things should have gone swimmingly after that.
I should have looked into his (slightly full) face and heard bells and sparklers a la Bobby Brady in the Kissing Episode. But I didn't. But it was okay, cuz I was drunk.
(And because if I keep telling this story in the "remember when" tense, you may never come back and visit this blog, I will now revert back to normal story telling mode.)
Here's what happened after I walked up to The Boy:
So Tracy gives me a shot and I approach The Boy's table. He's sitting with -shocker- the same two friends he hung out with in high school. Pointy Nose Friend still has a pointy nose, although it should be noted that it has less acne on it. Muscle Monkey Friend is still muscle-y, but is nearly unrecognisable due to the 80 pound Gamma Givsa Hummer sorority hussy trying to chew his face off with her tongue.
Ignoring the friends, I lightly tap The Boy on his shoulder and say something eloquent like, "Um, hey. Are you The Boy from Loserville Highschool, class of 2007?"
To which he replies, "Um. Yeah. Hi." After which he does a fully obvious super hero laser stare right at my gazungas. And smiles.
"Oh!" I shout nervously. "I'm Kim, but I was two grades below you. I don't know if you remember me..."
It's a bit fuzzy after that, and the details don't matter. The Boy remembers me (or at least does an Oscar-worthy performance of convincing my ridiculous ass that he does) and we drink until last call.
And then comes THE MOMENT.
The Boy insists that I come with him to his apartment because he's truly concerned about my alcohol toxicology levels. Never mind that The Boy has had a minimum of seven drinks more than I.
Minutes later we arrive at his humble abode. We enter the living area which is stuffed to the gills with 700 pieces of black leather Dude-My-Apartment-Is-Such-a-Chick-Magnet furniture, and several tye dye blankets tacked on the wall.
It's creepy. But I don't care, because we make out. A lot.
As we smooch, my mind wanders and I contemplate whether The Boy and I will have a swing set or a slide in our back yard. Will we send our children to our high school or a prestige private school? Will we be in the 25% or 28% tax bracket, because I probably won't work after the first-
"So, is that okay?" The Boy asks.
"Um, sure." I reply.
(Because really, what question other than "Don't you adore my tye dye blanket wall coverings?" could he possibly ask that I would say no to?)
"Great." The Boy stands and motions down a hallway. "I'll be there in just a second," he says. "I'm going to get a drink from the fridge."
Ahhh...I am to go to his bedroom. Do I want to do that?
So I do. Seconds later The Boy appears in the bedroom doorway, shirt off and (somewhat) saucy. I notice the glass of water in his hand and immediately realize that I need to pee.
"Hey, Boy. Sorry, I need to use the restroom really quickly." I hop off the bed and head toward a door cracked open a few inches across the room.
"This is your bathroom, right?" I fumble for the light switch and look back at him with my sexiest bedroom eyes. "I'll be right back!"
As I close the door behind me, I faintly hear him asking me to use the bathroom down the hall, but there's no time for that. I have to go.
So I do.
I won't bore you with details.
And then...it happened. My perfect night was blown into tiny little bits. As I stood to wash my hands, I noticed something in the sink.
No, wait. A lot of somethings. Furry somethings.
Is that black pillow stuffing?
My eyes flash over to the outlet on the wall. A plugged in razor lay sadly on the sink counter, obviously exhausted from a long day's work.
Oh. My. God.
In the sink bowl lay hundreds, nay, thousands of trimmed little black curly hairs. It looks like Shaft's head has been ritualistically shorn and the remaining contents placed in The Boy's sink.
WHERE DID ALL THIS HAIR COME FROM? The Boy has a decent amount of hair upon his head so it isn't like he shaved his head this morning. And there's no way THAT much hair could come from his...region. So where is it from? Two possibilities immediately enter my mind, both of which are beyond awful.
A) The Boy is really hairy and had chosen today to rid his body of all follicles, both foreign and domestic, and has forgotten to remove of the evidence in the event a GIRL COMES BACK TO HIS APARTMENT.
B) The Boy is of the normal hairy variety and has been (gulp) shaving off his normal amounts of hair over a VERY LONG PERIOD OF TIME and failing to dispose of the clippings.
T. M. I.
I wish I could tell you that I immediately left the apartment screaming "EEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKK!" all the way out, but please remember that I have allowed The Boy to drive, and I have no way to get home.
So I stay.
And try not to vomit.
The next morning The Boy drives me back to my apartment and promises to call me. Which he does multiple times. And I take great pleasure in ignoring every single call, much in the way he completely ignored me in high school.
It all comes full circle, people.
On another note, if there are any single boys reading, please remember this. No matter how hot you look when you leave your house, if you return to the house with any normal female, she will not be impressed with:
* Debbie Does Dallas furniture replications in your living room
* Dirty underwear strewn across the floor
* Captain Crunch crummies in your bed
* Shavings of ANY KIND IN YOUR SINK OR IN YOUR BATHROOM