I am currently writing this with a black eye. And WHY do I have a black eye, you might ask? Because I went on a date with a very nice gentleman. Who happens to possibly be the biggest klutz in the entire world.
I'll keep this one short, as according to Brooke, my eye needs icing and a steak (and after she's done, I get to eat the steak and then the icing) but I accepted a date with Randall, the Other Straight Guy in my Improv group, Gettin Crazy with the Cheeeze Whiz, and it really should have been my first warning sign that he walked INTO my car door after last Wednesday's show. I mean, I'm not the most coordinated person on the planet, but walking INTO my door? It was right there in front of him and he just kept walking. Even I'm not that bad, except for that time I walked into a tree, but still. A car DOOR?
So after I'm finished bandaging him up (for walking into a door? How fast was he walking?!) he asks me out, and when I point out that Bob already said actors in the same troupes couldn't date he said that rule was for pussies.
I agreed immediately, and I think he thought that I saying yes to the date. Well, whatever. I still had Thursday through Tuesday to score free food, now that my Wednesdays were now performance art dining, so I went along with his idea to meet at a Mexican restaurant the following night.
Dinner: lovely. I ate nachos and lots of guacamole and then a nine layer burrito and three enchiladas, plus a taco salad because Brooke told me that girls should always order salads on dates. And then the waiters came over and brought balloons (was it my birthday again?) and after dessert was when Randall got what I can now deem officially as the Worst Idea Ever, which is that after a three hour Mexican food dinner with lots of margaritas and tequila, to tie a balloon to each of our wrists and then try to pop the other one's balloon. It seemed like a good idea when Randall's face was really blurry. Hindsight provides me with a solid Nay on that one.
So this is how technically Randall and I got in a fight, because as he was trying to hit my balloon, he accidentally punched me in the face. Hard. Hence, black eye.
But wait, there's more, as, in my drunken stupor and Randall being all blurry and having just punched me in the eye with his FIST, I swung wildly to pop Randall's balloon and may or may not have accidentally shoved him down a flight of stairs. Really, everything after that is kind of a hazy memory, but I do remember proudly telling the paramedics that the un-popped balloon that was still attached to my wrist meant I was a warrior princess. And then I threw up on someone's shoes.
This is the part of the blog (Brooke is reading this over my shoulder) where I'm supposed to state what I learned, but honestly, except for the part where I think Randall rolled over my left-overs as he went down the stairs, I wouldn't change a thing. Although I do feel slightly guilty that Randall broke both his legs.
Suddenly I don't think that rule about not dating people in the same improv group as you is such a bad idea.