Prude, aka, that one guy who loved a bus a little TOO much

I know I haven't blogged about my dates in a while, you'll have to forgive that. I've been in mandatory grief counseling and only now is my therapist allowing me to do what she calls "process" (aka blog) what happened on the date with the guy who tried to fuck a bus.

Unsuccessfully, might I add.

Anyways, here we are, another one bites the dust. It started out innocently enough, and by that I mean I thought my date was totally innocent, maybe a little sheltered, a bit threatened by jello. You know, like raised Mormon, or something.

Also, his name was Wendell. Huge warning sign, right there.

So Wendell and I go out to lunch, I eat jello, he freaks out, and it's back to his place where he immediately starts bragging about his sexual history. I mean, talk about overcompensating. I know most of us have been there and done that, but Wendell was really going overboard about how he slept with this and that and demanding to know whether or not I had a problem with it. I guess he didn't like it when I sort of assumed at lunch that he was a prude. At any rate, Brooke would have died of shock after hearing what he's slept with.

Which brings me to another point here. Brooke usually lets me borrow her clothes, and by this I mean she hasn't yet replaced the lock on her door that I busted in, so I can still take her clothes, and I'm pretty sure she knows and is okay with it. And this morning, for the first time in like, decades, she said no to me. So I was already having an off day as I ate lunch with Wendell. In Brooke's dress. That she specifically told me not to get dirty. This will be important later.

Anyways, so it turns out Wendell's got this meat thing -- which I'm all for, being a Californian and all, we're kind of open to that kind of thing, but as long everything he slept with before me was clean, you know? Because I'm pretty sure that if you compared a bologna sandwich with Lindsay Lohan, the bologna would come out on top, am I right?

Mmmm, bologna sandwich....

Sorry, re-focused now. So off we go to the deli, where Wendell's all bound and determined to prove himself a man, and I'm all, Dude. Let it go. I don't care how many meats you've slept with. What matters is that right now, at this very moment, I'M the only meat you should be concerned with sleeping with. I mean, how many guys bring up their exes on the first date? I don't want to sleep with a guy and wonder how I am compared to all those deli cuts. That's just too much pressure for a girl.

And then there was the bus. Now, I don't know if Wendell had slept with buses before, I don't even want to know, but Wendell was hell-bent on fucking THAT particular bus. I guess when you have a type, you have a type, and you gotta do what you gotta do.

So Wendell ran over to do the bus, or rather, the bus ran over him, Brooke's dress got splattered, I'm in grief counseling (yawn) and Brooke's not talking to me. Again.

Like this was MY fault.