While I’m building my adventure file, I will dip into the archive from time to time of past what-the-fuck experiences. This is one such time.
I used to work at this horrible, horrible place with these awful, awful women. Well, one night after work, I ended up going out with this one chick who I worked with. She wasn’t very bright and her voice sounded exactly like Jennifer Tilly, which is either super adorable or super annoying, depending on your own personal interest in that actress.
Anyway, this girl was kind of a mess, but she lived in my neighborhood and had really good pot. So after drinking at the bar for a while, she asked me if I wanted to come back to her pad to smoke some of this awesome weed.
Of course I did.
We get to her place and smoke up. And man, was that some good weed. I was a little buzzed from the beer anyway, but this shit made me super giggly, and my brain was fuzzed-out and dizzy and man was I high. But we’re in Chicago and it’s like 10 degrees out in January—and there was this huge-ass blizzard the night before. I’m sitting in this nice warm apartment on the couch, and there is no way I’m gonna go back outside into that shit.
So, I’m sitting on the sofa, and maybe the weed paranoia is partly to blame, but I could feel this chick getting friendly…Like moving toward me on the couch and asking me stuff like, “Wow, did you ever move your tongue around like that when giving head?” and like accidentally bumping into my leg repeatedly and all that stuff. I’m getting strong vibes that she is angling to get a little lesbo pillow-fight action on. And while she was pretty cute, I have to say that her personality—combined with the fact that I knew that she was kinda insane—was a turnoff. I told her, “I’m gonna pass out.” And basically did.
The next morning, I woke up, feeling like shit and wanting to get the hell out of there. She wakes up and comes out of the bedroom.
“Do you want some coffee?” she squeaks in that voice (not attractive in the morning, I don’t care if you find Jennifer Tilly hot or not).
“Uh, sure,” I say.
So, she makes us these adorable little coffees, complete with steamed milk and little bits of sprinkled brown sugar on top. I’m sitting on the couch, thinking wow, what a lovely little cup of coffee. As I take a sip, she takes her coffee and goes into the bathroom, which is right off the small living room, like maybe seven feet from the couch.
She doesn’t close the door. I think, OK, a little weird. I take another sip. I hear her pee. And then she starts talking to me.
“I can’t believe that chick said that to us at the bar last night…” blah, blah, blah. I am not one for chit-chat first thing in the a.m. and was starting to feel like I was being verbally skull-fucked by the Bride of Chucky.
Then I hear it. She tears into a big, old, day-after-drinking dump. And it’s loud. And she keeps talking over it, like nothing’s happening.
I’m frozen on the couch, looking around for my shoes, thinking, “Oh fuck, I gotta get the hell out of here.” She keeps right on shitting, door wide open, rambling away. This goes on for like another, oh, six to seven minutes.
Do you know how difficult it is to enjoy coffee with that going on?
Finally, I heard the toilet flush, and I have my coat on and a foot out the door.
“Um, thanks for the coffee,” I say. “I’ll see you on Monday.” And I tore out of there.
And that is how I witnessed the only open-door shit of my life. I don’t recommend it. A thing like that teaches a woman a thing or two about life–you’re either an open-door shitter. Or you’re not. It’s important to get that sussed out.