mike. (san francisco, circa 2005.)
Mike wrote to me on Friendster back when people actually used that site. His complexion was ruddy and his face was round, but his eyes were a pretty pale blue and I liked his glasses. I also liked that we’d gone to the same college. He seemed like a solid, quality sort of guy.
We met at a San Francisco dive bar for drinks one Sunday afternoon. We sat in the sunny outdoor patio and talked across a picnic bench. He was smart and funny, but significantly smaller and chubbier than his photos implied. As we drank, though, his cuteness quotient seemed to mysteriously move from “no f&*%ing way” to “yeah okay maybe.” By 8 pm, I was sufficiently drunk to justify inviting him home with me, where even the six screwdrivers I’d chugged couldn’t fix how his face looked while he kissed me.
I woke up the next morning horrified at the sight of the hideous specimen beside me. I was even more horrified by the bruises he’d left on my inner thighs. Not cute.
I sent him home and we never spoke again. I also stopped drinking.
