I ran in to a friend of a friend at a bar in late September, a few weeks after my black, shriveled heart was flicked away by my ex.
He used to play in a band with my old college friends.
He asked me out.
We went out.
I was safely out of the denial period of my grief over the break up. Now, I was skillfully straddling the line between unchecked rage for the male species and drunken slut phase. Needless to say, this is not the best mindset to have on one's first date.
Four expensive Bourbons later, I was sobbing whiskey tears and blabbing something about my exhaustion over being a newly-single mother to two dogs and a newly-acquired desire for forced lesbianism (no, this did not work by the way).
Sloppy walk, sloppier kissing, and sloppier-yet late dinner together were all surpassed by the figurative black cherry that topped this ever-so-classy night off: getting robbed by a crackhead in downtown.
Keys, wallet, checkbook, purse, phone, dignity... all gone.
For some reason, he was still miraculously intrigued and pursued me. I was shocked, to say the least. But he says even less. He's a mime. That's right. A white-faced, pantomiming, creepy, annoying caricature of an asexual being that we all feel the urge to punch in the groin.
Desperate? Me? Yes.
We started "seeing" each other. Or "sleeping" with each other.
About one month in, he has a talk with me. I don't remember much beyond "I don't think we'd work out. But I still want to be friends."
That's right. Mime Guy broke up with me. A person who spends money on clothing and face paint to walk around parties (unpaid) and harass patrons somehow managed to dump me. We weren't even together!
I'm on a roll, but not quite rockin'.
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