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Saturday morning – 1:44 a.m.
“Hey, do you go by Julia or Julie?”
“Julie. My mom calls me Julia…”
“Got it. Well good to finally meet you. Do you want to go over to my friend’s place in the loop? He’s having a little party.”
“Yeah. We can’t stay here anyway. The guy who bought me like three drinks thinks I’m going home with him [audible cackle]. I’ll call an Uber. What the fuck are you wearing?”
I put in my two weeks notice last Monday. I’ve done little to no real work since, mostly just scrolling Instagram looking at pictures of butts and listening to Views almost exclusively. When my Instagram feed would inevitably dry up after a few refreshes, I turned to Bumble, or “Old Faithful” as I like to call it.
As you’re all aware, I’m in somewhat of a precarious position with the opposite sex, trying to navigate treacherous waters with an ex-girlfriend and Bridgette. Bridgette, a girl who is entering her junior year of college in the fall, has me convinced that she is going to leave my ass in the proverbial dust at any moment. Sure, I’m enjoying the ride, but it’s definitely taken on a toll on my psyche. I wake up in the middle of the night with one of them on my mind, haunted by the idea of losing one or both. But having options is nice, and getting bored in a cubicle under fluorescent lighting, at a job that I don’t give a shit about, is not conducive to good decision making. Enter Julie. A 22-year old waitress attending a college in the city. A match, and this message a mere 15 minutes after I got the buzz letting me know that we were a match: “I’m really not usually cocky about it but my ass is (probably) better.”
After some low-grade Facebook creeping on my new Bumble match, I nailed down the basics of our new friend, Julie (aka putting her phone number in the search bar). An advertising major with a penchant for black clothing. Private Instagram account, fuck. Broke up with her boyfriend sometime in mid-January judging from old profile pictures and wall posts from concerned girlfriends saying “love you!!!” Said boyfriend bears a striking resemblance to me. Blonde hair and a shit eating grin. Fine with me, I’m not here to judge her if she wants a familiar face.
That “great hair, decent ass” line in my Bumble bio absolutely slays. We exchanged numbers, and by Friday morning, we were texting about grabbing drinks after work. This plan slowly went off the rails by 2:45 on Friday afternoon. My first reaction to “I’m with two of my friends we’re trying to find a rooftop bar” was an obvious one – this is another classic Bumble date that is not going to come to fruition. If she’s bringing two friends to a pre-arranged meetup, I’m fucked. Either she’s not interested or I’m going to get robbed by some 20-somethings in rompers. I left my office at 3:30, and by the time I was off the train walking to my apartment, Julie had cancelled, promising that she would text me later on in the evening after a show she had tickets to ended. I texted back some thirty minutes later with a half-assed “yeah, sounds good.” No way I’ll ever hear from her again.
Free from any real obligations, I texted a friend who I thought would be up for tacos and some beer. The night prior was Cinco de Mayo, and every white person within city limits was out in search of Mexican food and tequila. This, of course, led restaurants to have ridiculous wait times which left me and my group of friends taco-less on May 5th. May 6th, I thought, is as good a time as ever to have tacos. So with great enthusiasm, I made plans to meet my friend at a taco joint a few blocks from me. I donned a pair of 4” inch khaki shorts, a Vineyard Vines button down, and a pair of Cole Haan loafers. I can hear everyone groaning at the thought of me walking down the street in this get-up. I’m smiling just thinking about it.
Six dollars for a shot of tequila and a beer. Count me in for three. We left the taco joint with full stomachs and a nice buzz, headed west to a patio where they sold buckets of five Bud Lights for twelve dollars. A few buckets of beer later we decided the best move was to hit a disco bar. I danced my ass off for the better part of three hours, slugging vodka-sodas and singing along as Earth, Wind, and Fire pulsated through the club. By 1:00 a.m., I was very drunk so I did what anyone else would have done – I texted Julie. The show she was at was six blocks from where I was cutting a rug. I decided to meet her outside the venue.
So we get to my buddies place around 2:15, getting to know each other on the cab ride over. The party was still very much in full swing when we finally made it up to the 50th floor. The thing I love most about wealthy people are the snacks and drinks they always have. Smart waters everywhere. Pretty sure a bottle of smart water costs like 8 bucks and this guy had a fucking Yeti filled with them. I wouldn’t know the exact price because I’m a peon and drink tap water. A goddamn cheese fondue fountain. A DOOR GUY TAKING JACKETS. And, of course, enough top shelf booze to make Jay Gatsby blush. We partied and had a gross public makeout in the kitchen until I decided to call it quits at 6:30 in the morning. We went back to my place and well, what can I say? The girl was a goddamn dragon. I don’t like to brag about having sex, but it was objectively awesome. She left around 2 p.m. to go straight to work while I sat there nursing a category 5 hangover. 22-year-olds have amazing resilience. This, of course, led to me hitting a bar with two friends for The Kentucky Derby. Saturday night crept up on me quickly, and at 10:00 p.m. I texted Julie to see if she was down for a second round. I was on my way home from a comedy show, and I decided to hang up the drinking boots for the night.
Saturday night, 10:08 PM
Julie: yeah, I’m just getting in the shower I’ll be over by 11
Please note the time. This was around 10. I climbed in bed, threw on Marseilles on Netflix (highly recommend, btw) and waited patiently. My eyes became heavy around 10:45 and by 11 o’clock I was sound asleep with my phone on vibrate next to me. I awoke to 4 missed calls and one text message.
Julie: You’re a real piece of shit you know that? If you didn’t want me to come over don’t invite me you jackass.
Fuck. My. Life. I’ve got a goddamn Ph.D. in fucking up relationships. I had a stellar outing on Friday night. Filled up the stat sheet. So what do I do to follow up that performance? Lay an egg, of course. Thinking about asking her for sushi tonight. What do you think? .
Image via John Naffziger
Respond
jduda@grandex.co
Absolutely ask her to sushi
Yeah make an easy joke about being old and unable to stay up past 10 pm in back to back days, then remind her why you’re the life of the party.
“I don’t like to brag about having sex” ….. lies
Keeping the phone on vibrate when you’re waiting for a text from a girl and lying in bed? Johnny, you’re smarter than that.
Always put the phone on your nuts if you might pass out. Impossible to not wake up when it vibrates.
That’s how you get nut cancer.
Risk maybe getting nut cancer down the road for getting laid now. Easy choice.
Phone on the nuts=Sex. Boom.
And legal weed until you can’t fit in the door anymore
via GIPHY
Personally, the allure of sushi alone would outweigh any offense I’d have had at getting blown off, so I say go for it. Then again I just really like sushi.
Sup
Dear God, how do you drink until 6:30 am? You must use performance enhancing drugs.
I mixed in several bottles of smart water that night.
How does your ex-gf you are contemplating reconciling with feel about your writing columns about banging co-ends?
Hopefully she has no idea
dancing to Earth, Wind, and Fire is always a great decision.
Johnny, I know you know what the move is. You’re in the winners seat right now.
When you ask, you have to call, don’t text. An apology over text is like apologizing for Irish exiting.
God bless the Irish Exit
Irish exit is my calling card, it is almost celebrated by my friends at this point.