Oh you guys thought I’d given up? What kind of blogger would I be to leave this story unfinished, unhinged and untold? This girl is either going to have to go on a date with me, willingly or not, or have her step-brother or landlord threaten me with critical violence.
A lot has transpired in the last few days. Conversations have been had. Twists in the plot have coiled. Frustration. Flirtation. Confusion. Joy. Arousal. Embarrassment. Impure masturbatory daydreams. All of which on my end. Not sure how she feels about any of this. Probably just annoyance. Luckily her thoughts and feelings don’t matter.
Before you continue reading, you will need to immerse yourself in the story by reading the first two installments of this tempestuous trilogy if you haven’t yet already, found here: When She Doesn’t Text Back & When She Doesn’t Text Back: The Sequel. Also a lot of you have requested photos of this girl. I will not do that. That is the problem with you fucking millenials. No imagination. Why don’t you concoct your own dream guy or girl or trans and visualize him/her/it/ze/zir/xem/they as you read along.
To pick up where we left things with Jamie, the best I’ve never had, she called me last Sunday after my voice mail and pair of texts. I was traveling in California and couldn’t answer but I did call back a few hours later. No answer. With another week of traveling ahead of me I decided to put this analogical heavy petting between the two of us on pause; there was no move for me 2,000 miles away. Not even a very calculated and tasteful dick-pic in front of the California sunset. I decided to play it cool for a week and deal with it when I got back to St. Louis.
Which brings us to this past Monday evening. I know a lot of people were expecting something wild from me for my next move… Like sending an a cappella singing telegram to her office to perform “Hungry Eyes” by Eric Carmen off the Dirty Dancing soundtrack… Or sending her a video resume of myself on why I am such a viable dating candidate. But I am too old-school and too humble for those harebrained yet possibly very successful and funny ideas that could totally work. I went with another call and another scripted voice mail. It was my last-ditch effort. The eleventh-hour. My hail mary.
Normally I would not ask a girl out multiple times, but this girl has my molecules jumpin’. I think the key when asking out a girl who’s probably not interested in you is asking her out to a specific outing each time. That way, if she doesn’t respond or says “Absolutely not, please leave me alone,” she’s technically only saying no to that specific date, not all dates. If you ask her, “Hey want to go out sometime?” and hear nothing, you’re absolutely buttfucked.
So I called her again, like the quasi-Patrick Bateman that I am. The message was as follows:
What’s up… I think you presumably pocket-dialed me by mistake last week. I was traveling so I wasn’t able to answer and now I may never know why you called. But maybe… MAYBE, you didn’t pocket-dial me and you impulsively came to your senses and were considering seeing me again. At the very small probability of that, I’m calling to see if you want to grab dinner or drinks tomorrow night. Or live music. Anything. I will walk you to your fucking mailbox for a date. Give me something. If not, well, sorry I annoyed you with my friendship. Alright, later.
Now we wait, which normally is the worst part of the early stages of dating. It’s not the waiting, it’s the not knowing. However at this point I was a little relieved for it to all be over. I didn’t want to give up but there are legal issues at play if I continue. Harassment is a pressing issue in America and I was becoming the face of it. But then it happened…
So a couple texts were sent and we arrived here…
Good news and bad news. The obvious good news is she’s agreed to go out with me, however with one caveat: send me your last name. Goddamnit. I hate giving out my real last name. What do you want next? My social security number? I use a pseudonym on social media and this website for a reason. I even used a fictitious name when I wrote in college. I posted under a ‘Haywood Jablomie’. But for a date with this girl? I will oblige. If this girl would have said “Yes I’ll go out with you but only if you snort a line of anthrax off a dead cat carcass,” I would have been on the black market looking for grade-a anthrax faster than the click of a mouse. I already own a dead cat. So yeah, I sent her my last name.
About 12 hours went by… Crickets…
At first I didn’t think much of it, but I started to wonder after half a day went by. I googled my name.
Few things I had to digest here… First off, she is clearly not impressed with small Division III college football records (humble brag). She is also probably not impressed with past criminal charges. Fucking shallow much? Third and most importantly, when you google my real name only two very unflattering photos of me appear. One being this fucking gem from 10 years ago:
For fuck’s sake. I look like Will Smith in Hitch when he gets an allergic reaction. To reiterate, I’ve mentioned several times on here that I am about as photogenic as Mr. Bean. My photos have not and will not ever induce any form of sexual excitement. For anyone. Ever. I’m not much better in person either, but that is not the point… But man this one is baaaaaddd. I look like the mugshot of a sedated mongoloid born out of incest who just escaped from the Duluth Mental Hospital. Or like I grew up near a chemical power plant and chew on wall insulation for breakfast. Also you can tell from my necklace that I enjoyed rap music at the time this was taken. And short hair is soooo fascist. Just a bad picture all around.
So when I realized this I quickly sent her my Instagram name, but it was too late. Or maybe just added gasoline to the fire. Many of my readers come from my Instagram and know that my profile is basically just an accumulation of immature behavior, sex euphemisms, and off-key acoustic guitar covers captured on camera. Believe it or not some girls don’t find my infantile sense of humor an endearing quality. Not exactly a panty peeler. You know what is a panty peeler though? 10 catches for 243 yards and 3 touchdowns in a game (self-insecurity brag). But she wouldn’t know that because she obviously didn’t get to page 17 of my google search results. Did I mention I played football? I played football in college. College football.
So it’s Thursday and I have not heard back. I know I’m not ‘ugly’ despite what all of my closest friends and parents say, but this one actually hurts a little bit. It’s been said that the better you look, the more you see… or something like that. I don’t know. I think I’m going to take a break from women for the next 96 hours and just concentrate on the first and second rounds of March Madness.
I honestly hope this is the end of this saga. I can’t handle anymore. This girl is an angel and I love her… but fuck this girl. Turns out she’s very shallow. But you know what? So am I. I would do the same thing. God we belong together.