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I think I was in shock. Traumatic experiences have that effect on people. My brain, seemingly unable to process the undigested food that now littered the floor and my person. In six months, I’ve run the gauntlet in terms of fluids on me and in my general vicinity. First, it was pee from a Hinge date. Then it was getting a glass water tossed on me for no apparent reason. And now this. I ask that everyone pray for me during this difficult time. I really don’t want to get a Cleveland Steamer. Urban Dictionary that for me if you’re not sure what I’m talking about.
Have you ever tried to get vomit off of Bean Boots before? What about from inside the sole? Sure, the lower half of the boot is rubber which is easily cleaned, but think about the laces. The upper part of the shoe made up of fine, made-in-Maine leather. What about splatter vomit that got onto your favorite pair of blue jeans? I’m not ruling black magic out because no one else around me got hit with throw up. While I love LL Bean, their return policy, and especially their bean boots, I was not loving anything or anyone while I stood in my kitchen Friday morning trying to get the stench off of my beloved pair. They are now in the dumpster next to my building, probably the new home of the rat whom I see regularly in the alley outside my bedroom window. I got the stains off of my blue jeans in case you were wondering.
Last week, I mentioned that I casually struck up a conversation with a girl whilst wearing a Red Wings jersey. Brenna wasn’t wearing her Blackhawks jersey when I walked in ten minutes later than we had agreed upon. Heels, a pair of exceptionally tight blue jeans, and a crop top with no bra that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Did I show up late on purpose? To quote Dignam, Mark Wahlberg’s character in The Departed — Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe fuck yourself.
Sidenote: I took a cab to the bar where I met her and my cabbie didn’t know the cross streets. Had me giving him directions for ten minutes. How does that happen? Unbelievable.
So I gave the bartender my ID and a twenty for two Moscow mules and so began the date. The conversation, if I’m being brutally honest here, was very standard first date stuff. Stuff that I try to avoid. There were a few awkward silences shoved in between long drinks from copper mugs and college stories. Par for the course, really. We weren’t all that similar. She loves camping and the outdoors. I told her a story about the time I lasted less than 24 hours camping in the mountains of North Carolina because I couldn’t stand not having a shower available to me. Instead of sentencing criminals to hard time in prison, they should just start doling out punishments to camp in the wilderness for several years. That shit is the worst. Give me the Marriott in Marco Island with infinity pools and restaurants over a week of living like a caveman 100 times out of 100. Your Instagram shot of that campfire doesn’t impress me. Neither does your 100 second Snapchat story of your three-hour hike up some mountain. It makes absolutely no sense to me.
Maybe Brenna resented me for my piping hot takes on camping. Maybe she was getting bored. Maybe she was just trying to fuck with my head. Because I’ve been racking my brain and I still can’t tell you why, after drinking a beer and a Moscow mule a piece, she decided to get up out of our booth without saying anything and return with two shots of Cuervo gold. Remember my tweet from Thursday night?
my date is in the bathroom rn. almost just threw up the tequila shot she made me drink. promising start
— jon with an h (@dudaronomy) April 8, 2016
Obviously that was before disaster struck.
Anyone who knows me knows that I suck at taking shots. It seems like ever since I turned 23, my gag reflex has become so sensitive I even have trouble drinking a shot of Fireball. I much prefer mixed drinks. So while I hate taking shots, I wasn’t about to refuse free tequila. Her decision to order two shots of Mexico’s main export told me two things. 1. Brenna is a little reckless. She likes to party. 2. I was more than likely going to get laid. I mean come on. First date and she’s ordering tequila shots? That’s an aggressive move. So I in turn countered with two shots of Jameson. I’ve said it before and I’m going to say it again now. Dating is mental warfare. If she orders two shots you bet you fucking ass I’m going to order two more that are stronger. It doesn’t matter if I like it or not. In a way, I guess you could say I did this to myself. I was too aggressive too early in the night. Sometimes playing it safe is the correct move. Jameson, if you’re not familiar, is not the easiest shot in the world to get down. It’s doesn’t take to the palate quite like your Jack Daniels, your Canadian Mist, your Evan Williams. It’s smoky. It’s Irish. It’s fucking disgusting.
Hell, I gagged a little taking mine down. I got the shots a mere five minutes after the tequila had been drunk. She was returning from the bathroom as I handed her a shot filled to the brim with the brown liquid that was about to be all over me. I took mine, and looked at my phone to check the time. I didn’t have time to get out of the way as I heard the unmistakable noise of throw up hitting hard wood. Everyone knows that sound. It’s sort of like water getting spilled on the floor except the water is vomit and there’s food chunks in it. I knew before I even looked that I had taken the brunt of the projectile. The bartender? Well he was none too pleased. Brenna was grabbed by two bouncers and sat down outside to continue a vomiting session that was actually pretty impressive. I didn’t know a girl her size could bring back up the amount that she did. I asked for a check. The bartender, now looking at me, said not to worry about it. I grabbed my coat from off the back of my chair, handed Brenna some paper towel from inside, and I put her in a cab home, alone. I got home some twenty minutes later, taking a very introspective look at my life on the way. The scalding hot shower I took helped a little bit.
So here’s where we’re at. I spent the rest of the weekend with close friends, laughing about my Thursday night puke party. Bridgette isn’t back for another two weeks and although I do have a few tricks up my sleeve, I’m a little traumatized from this. Another person’s vomit touching you is intimate. Too intimate for a first date. So in closing all I’m going to say is fuck you, Jameson. Fuck you, forever and always..
Image via John Naffziger