It’s the age-old adage of money or love that keeps divorce lawyers in business and prenuptial agreements a common marital prerequisite. It’s this classic dilemma that has put me in an extremely compromising position. Recently, I started seeing this girl who boasts a resume that any college grad would kill to have.
This catch went to an Ivy League school, has connections directly to the NFL, and most likely comes from a three-comma club family. Her sister is dating an NBA player and she herself is quickly approaching the family tradition of becoming filthy rich before age 26. And the kicker — the girl puts out, sports a pair of Pamela Ds, and isn’t afraid to send you some nudes when your team blows the Super Bowl. Plus, she doesn’t even use Snapchat for it, so that shit goes straight to iCloud and I’m backing that up for life. This lady is an easy top-five pro-draft pick settling for a less than stellar high school JV bench warmer. I was seriously wondering for what reason she’s the one lowering standards in this situation. So I stood by to watch life do its thing and show me exactly why.
But If I were to tell you she’s not bat-shit crazy or doesn’t have the ability to flip the switch and go code black on your ass like that bitch Carrie, I would be lying to you. Our first date lasted two hours, and the Budweiser was going down smooth until I realized I was sitting across from fucking Fran Drescher on speed. I had never listened to someone so fortunate be so annoyingly unappreciative. I left the date relieved just to be in my car where I felt safe and with my tobacco products. I didn’t even get a simple thank you for dinner, so I promptly called my buddy to tell him of the worst date I had ever been on.
But, because she later texted me saying thank you and the fact that she has a nice rack, I agreed to a second date because sex. I thought the worst had passed and hey, maybe she was just nervous. Date attempt number two began with 21 Jump Street in her room, but no sooner did it start had she begun her new set of complaints.
I felt like she was reading a forced script on Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and I was merely existing opposite her regurgitation of words not keeping up with jack shit. It kinda resembled those scenes from AIRPLANE!, you know, where all those people listening to Striker end up offing themselves because the alternative is better? It was like that, I just didn’t have a samurai sword, a rope, or gasoline. Of course, after this travesty of a conversation she rode me like Seabiscuit; crazy or not, the girl knows what she’s doing.
Once I realized she was telling me the same exact stories and complaints she introduced on the first date, I knew then a decision had to be made. How valued is her prestige and how long am I willing to knucklefuck my way around this abortion of a date(s)? But, as a former athlete and realist in the sports world, I understood that sometimes your top five pick, despite any records and awards, can be a fucking dud in the clubhouse. (See Johnny Football) And as a man with dignity, I gave myself two choices. One, I break it off as fast as possible, take my pride, tell myself I deserve to breathe in peace and walk away. Or two, ride this puppy out, check out some NFL games from the 50, and enjoy the riches of life. Fuck, it’s not like I’m gonna marry her.
Oh yeah, I met her on the Internet. So take that for whatever it’s worth. Bumble for the win. .
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