There are two kinds of getting blown off. The good kind: plans you didn’t want in the first place, fall through. The bad kind: plans you wanted fall through. I haven’t been blown off in a while. In fact, I actually can’t remember the last time it happened. Tonight, however, I got blown off and it was the ‘B’ version. A little something about me… I get annoyed enough as it is when I like someone. Which, I know, is very very healthy of me. Then when that someone blows me off, I get slightly (read: a lot) more annoyed. But the annoyance is actually probably broken down as: ¼ annoyed, ¼ bruised ego, ¼ how am I going to play this going forward and ¼ bummed. That sentence, by the way, is the closest I’ve ever come to cooking.
So, what to do? First, I made a drink. Because that’s the movie thing to do and I like reacting to things like people react to things in the movies. Otherwise, it simply doesn’t feel like I’m truly reacting to things. I find it’s helpful to look out the window and pretend to be looking at the New York City skyline. If you are actually looking at the New York City skyline, I suggest pretending to be looking at the view from the top of Mulholland Drive, out over the lights of Los Angeles. My point is, be dramatic and pretend to be where you’re not. And even if you’ve already changed into boy shorts and a ripped t-shirt, go ahead and pretend to be wearing something spectacular. Think Michelle Williams meets Kate Beckinsale meets Gwen Stefani meets Jennifer Lopez’s green Versace lowwwwww cut dress at the Grammys, whenever the hell that was.
It’s probably around this point when you’ll start to feel a little bit better. Mainly because it’s exhausting to imagine all these things. A different view, an outfit, really good hair, flawless make up and a spray tan that doesn’t get on the hot make pretend outfit that you are (not) wearing. What’s next? Well, for me, I’m trying to give this person the benefit of the doubt. Aside from anything horrible-news-at- 11ish, which I don’t want to even consider… she fell asleep, is the only thing that I can come up with that would be kosher. Annoying, but kosher. Regardless of what it is, one really does expect to get a text at some point that night apologizing. That or a desperate phone call where the person quickly whispers, “Send help. I’ve been chloroformed and am in an unmarked van that is heading north east.” Alas, neither came.
A bunch of people had gone to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery to see Dirty Dancing. I would’ve definitely hooked up with them, as I simultaneously enjoy/get creeped out by drinking wine and watching a movie amongst the dead. I relax about it by reminding myself that it’s not like it’s bowling at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. That would be a way more questionable pairing of an activity and a location. But, instead of red wine-ing it up and analyzing how Jennifer Grey no longer looks like Jennifer Grey, I was waiting around for a girl who straight up blew me off. That’ll knock your ego down a notch or eleven. So, I have to think on if I actually like the girl or not. I do. Dammit. How interested am I in her? Is she allowed to do this? Did I just say “Is she allowed to do this?” Apparently, I have a sort of Pool Rules sign posted inside my head (along with a lot of other signage. It’s pretty crowded real estate in there) and I need to consult the sign to see if “No Blowing Off” is listed. It’s around this point when I’m like, f*%# it. I don’t feel like thinking about it or her anymore. Let’s just see how it plays out. So, I take off my imaginary make up and my insanely hot imaginary outfit and then I take off the boy shorts and ripped t-shirt that I’m really wearing, because she should know that I’m sleeping naked, and crawl into bed with a Ketel soda and lemon to write this.