THE RETURN OF REN FEST!

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes,

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Chest tattoos of a royal crest.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes,

How do you measure, a year since Ren Fest?

In corsets, in chainmail, in pale skin,

In a leather codpiece,

In furries, in pony play and other sexual fetishes that are awkward at best.

In five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes,

How do you measure

A year since Ren Fest?

HOW ABOUT A PHOTO POST?!

I don't know what to say about this year's trip to Ren Fest besides that it was a lot of fucking look. But like, a lot. Becca, Geoff, an assortment of Geoff's friends, Alex and I went to Ren Fest almost a month ago and to be completely honestly with you, I haven't written about it yet because I'm still trying to wrap my head around most of what happened. It was just...a lot. I remember waking up the morning of and thinking, "Oof, I hope I didn't build this up too much for Alex. And I hope it's just as fun as last year and not one of those things that's fun to do once, but that's it." OH, MEGGLES. You—my sweet, yet incredibly simple friend—worry too much. Because take last year's trip to Ren Fest, add more alcohol, add more fried foods, multiply it by life-changing, add a heaping tablespoon of eroticism, raise the entire thing to the power of OMFG!!1 and divide it by an elephant and then you have this year's Ren Fest. It's currently mid-November and I can say without a hint of irony that Ren Fest was, and I predict will continue to be, the best part of my 2010. Why? This is why:

First and foremost, that's what we rolled up to Ren Fest in. A Pinzgauer that one of Geoff's friends refurbished and volunteered to drive us up in. "Yyyyyyeahhhh...you might want to bring Hat," my sister hesitantly told me the night before, "But it has a bloody mary bar!" There are a lot of ways to die in this world, and although falling out of a military vehicle on the highway en route to Ren Fest might not be one of the ways I'd ideally like to go, getting drunk at 10 o'clock in the morning while wearing Hat is. I was in.

After a very windy (and vodka-soaked) ride up, we arrived safely at the Fest and headed towards the ticket booth when a procession of five medevil mimes on stilts walked by, softly strumming merry tunes on a mandolin, tossing flowers, and gingerly bowing their heads at us as they passed by. Alex stopped in his tracks and his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "This..........really happens." Yes. Yes, it does. And thank fucking Christ.

The first order of business upon entering 1543 was to get beer and a Skotch egg as soon as humanly possible, but first Alex and I had to take a trip to ye olde ATM machine next to the jousting arena where we thought we saw the King.

"Man, it took us at least five hours before we found the King last year," I told Alex. Suddenly the guy in line in front of us turned around all, "UM actually that's not the King because if it were the King, he would have at least half a dozen knights surrounding him for his protection. Not to mention that he's not wearing any of the jewels or military decoration a King would wear. [scoffs] That's just some noblemen."

" O...K." He turned back around.

Alex and I exchanged a look and I continued, "Don't you think it's kind of sad that there isn't a Chevy Chase bank anymore?" The guy in front of us swizzled around again,

"Oh, I know right? Capital One. I'm so pissed I have to get all new credit cards." PSHHH! OK, gentle sir, but if you're going to be a giant dickhole about keeping everything historically accurate, perhaps don't break character to kvetch with us about credit cards. Yeah, maybe I don't know how many pubic hairs Kings in the 16th century historically had, but I'm fairly certain they didn't have mystical cards of plastic to house their fishes and loaves. Christ.

After we got our new-fangled monies (and a baked potato. And a soft pretzel. And two beers a piece), we headed over to the ampitheter where everyone else was waiting to see the ye olde comedy show. I can not tell you how against this I initially was. Why? Because it was Ren Fest comedy—nothing but trouser dropping and codpiece jokes as far as the eye can see. "What did the King say to the six-headed dragon beast of Yorkshire?" "What?" [pants suddenly drop] [comic lets out a high-pitched squeal and crosses legs] "ST. VITUS' WART—MY BLOOMERS!!!" I was over it before it even began. Ultimately though I decided I needed a place to sit in order to properly felate my loaded baked potato and I supposed the comedy show was as good as any. AND THANK. THE. FUCKING. LORD. I. DID. Because what happened next was nothing short of miraculous.

The first 10 minutes of the show was fair (or should I say, faire) (I'm so sorry). You know, jaunty word play, fat guy and a thin guy, whip cracking, sword play, har, har. But then the clouds parted, a beam of sun shone down upon the stage as bright and pure as the Queen's whispering eye, and Comic #1 announced that for their next trick, they would need someone from the audience. Perhaps a young man. Perhaps a young man in a yellow shirt with a gray jacket...?

"Alex," Geoff's friend Will leaned over and said, "I think he's talking about you." Alex looked up from whatever he was texting on his Blackberry (which, by the way Alex, during a comedy show you might as well have been wearing a neon sign around your neck that said, "PLEASE PICK ME!!!!!") looked at the comic, looked at everyone else looking back at him and deadpanned, "Oh, absolutley not," and returned to his Blackberry. But the comic didn't give up and continued to call Alex out until he finally gave in and skampered onto the stage.

Now, this story could have stopped right there and it would have been fine with me. Alex is forced into audience participation at his first Ren Fest: LOLZ! But it doesn't stop there. It gets so, so much better. For you see, Alex was to participate in a gag where he uses his thigh muscles to hold an apple due south of his genitals while Comic #2 stands across the stage, turns his back to him and shoots a crossbow over his shoulder and into Alex's crotch-apple on the count of three. As he starts counting, however, Comic #1 jumps on stage, takes the bow out of the crossbow, runs over to Alex, jabs it in his apple, and jumps off stage just in time for Comic #2 to turn around and discover that huzzah! He did it! Again, this would have been enough for me. Not only does Alex have to take part in audience participation, it involves him awkwardly holding an apple near his junk; I'm set. Set like a perm. And yet, it still gets better.

As Comic #2 got his crossbow ready, Comic #1 grabbed a megaphone, ran into the crowd right by where we were sitting and shouted, "Alright Alex! [motions towards me] Say goodbye to your lovely widow—ER—wife! Now folks, before my partner attempts to shoot Alex's apple, let's all rally behind him and give him some encouragement! On the count of three, I want all of you to shout, SHOOT THAT FRUIT! Are you ready?! One, two, three—SHOOT THAT FRUIT! SHOOT THAT FRUIT! SHOOT THAT FRUIT!"

Now let me tell you fine people something about life: you have not experienced all of the riches and wonders that this world has to offer until you've witnessed an entire amphitheater of grown-ass men and women dressed as wizards and warlocks and forest nymphs shout, "SHOOT THAT FRUIT" at your incredibly cosmopolitan gay best friend. Thank Christ I grabbed Alex's iphone after he ran on stage and started filming, because I don't want to live in a world where I can re-live that moment any, and every time I want to. The video is amazing. At one point I pan to Geoff laughing in a way that I didn't even know he was capible of and alternating between gasping for air and screeching, "IT'S JUST SO INNAPROPRIATE!" and then to my sister, who had her hands over her face, her head in her lap and is just gently rocking. And then there's the cackling. My god, the cackling. Coming directly from me. I have never laughed so hard in my entire life. I want that video played at the following occasions:

1 .) My wedding
2.) During childbirth
3.) At my future son and/or daughter's bar or bat mitzvah
4.) During every single anniversary my husband and I share
5.) My child's high school and college graduation party
6.) My retirement party
7.) My funeral

And then I'd like a flat screen monitor mounted onto my tombstone playing that video on a loop, because I can promise you already, it was the greatest achievement of my life.

After Comic #1 successfully "shot the apple", he gave Alex another apple and told him to put it on his head this time. You know what that meant—another round of "SHOOT THAT FRUIT!" I seriously wish I could post the video for you to enjoy, but at a certain point I flash the camera at myself so the viewer can know just how unbelievably happy I was in that moment. Not to mention, you know, Alex might not want me to. But mostly because I flash to myself.

After Alex's on-stage duties were over, he trotted back over to us and sat down completely unfazed. "You OK?" I asked, as I finished wiping away the tears. "Yeah, why? That was kind of fun." I shrugged, figuring he was just an incredibly good sport and a few minutes later, the show was over and we were filing out to leave. Becca ran over to Alex and grabbed his arm, "ALEX, ARE YOU OK?" she asked, "ARE YOUR FEELINGS HURT????" "Uh...no?" Alex linked arms with me and we continued to walk out.

About 60 seconds later, I felt Alex dragging on my arm and I turned around to see him stopped and standing in the middle of the crowd with a dazed look on his face.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Wait.....................Meg...?"

"Oh god, is the reality of what just happened sinking in?"
Alex pulled his arm completely away from me now and started hugging himself. "I, I think so. Shoot...that...fruit." His little legs started buckling.

"HEY GUYS, COME ON!" my sister, now substantially further ahead with everyone else, shouted at us.

"YEAH, YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO HANG ON, I THINK HE REALIZED WHAT JUST HAPPENED," I shouted back, nodding towards Alex.

"Meg...was I...was I just hate crimed? Was I just hate crimed, at REN FEST?!" Alex asked hysterically.

"I'm sorry Alex, but I think you might have been," I answered, trying to stifle my laughter. At the mere whisper of the name "Alex", the thwarts of people surrounding us realized who was in their midst and turned around and started shouting, "HEY, IT'S ALEX FROM 'SHOOT THAT FRUIT'! GREAT JOB, ALEX!" Alex went limp and I put one arm around his back and another around his waist to keep him up. He pulled down his sunglasses and meekly waved at his adoring fans with a shaky little paw. It took Alex 20 minutes to get hate crimed at Ren Fest, and 22 to become a local celebrity. A local Ren Fest celebrity. I believe the next thing I said to him was, and I quote, "There is a God. And he is at the Maryland Renaissance Festival."

Alex, however, did not feel the same way that I did. Alex was pretty much mortified. And he chose to deal with this mortification by getting incredibly intoxicated. I've known Alex for six years now and I've seen him under the influence of all sorts of interesting things, but I think drunk at Ren Fest is the most fucked up I've ever seen him. He was about one Oktoberfest away from buying this copper mermaid water feature for his living room:


And this mystical wolf flag for his office:
As we walked around all day, Alex belligerantly slurred over and over again that the only thing that could make him feel better would be to ride the elephant. Which was understandable, I suppose, except that that "ride" consisted of the elephant walking around in a small circle AN single time at the rate of $25 per person. "I don't know Alex, the line is kind of long and it's sort of expensi—" "I WAS HATE CRIMED AT REN FEST!!! I WANT TO RIDE THE ELEPHANT!!!" And then Alex and I rode the elephant and it was the happiest I've seen him since the Ghost Train. 

After our elephant ride, Alex was beginning to feel significantly better and may even have been beginning to forget all about what happened earlier. Which made it all the more magical when a deaf man then walked up to him, signed something, pointed repeatedly towards Alex's crotch, pointed towards his head, grunted, "Al-lex!", gave a thumbs up and walked away. It was time to drink more.

The Ren Fest fair grounds are littered with large outdoor gazebos that serve as bars and we decided to get some beer and pull up a bench at one called the Dragon Inn. I should mention that it was around 4:30 in the afternoon at this point and the mood at the Fest had noticeably shifted. It was more..."adult", shall we say. At a certain point we looked around the bar and realized that we were the only people not in costume, and the costumes that people were in were significantly less Renaissance and substantially more Real Sex 14. When people mock me for liking Ren Fest, I always reiterate that I like it because it's like the Olympics of people watching. And as far as people watching goes, the Dragon Inn did not disappoint.

First up we have Irish Mike:




Irish Mike and his cronies hung out by the bar at the Dragon Inn literally all day and he quickly became my Ren Fest nemesis when he yelled at me for "not paying attention" in line to get beer. OK, I'm terribly sorry but I didn't go up to the free beer wench and opted to stay in the long line because I thought she was only serving wine and I wanted beer, not because I "wasn't paying attention", thank you very much. We can't all hang out at the Dragon Inn all day and know its inner-workings, Irish Mike. Oh, and how do I know that Irish Mike's name is Irish Mike? Because he had a huge leather pendant dangling from a cord around his neck with his portrait and "IRISH MIKE" etched into it. I'd be impressed, if he didn't look like he was two minorities away from a curb stomping.

Then we have The Hottie:




Despite this guy's horrid choice of tattoos, Alex and I fell for him and we fell hard. In a sea of fat virgins, he was a gilded God. But then Alex, feuled by enough mead and fermented grape libations to feed a small village, had to go and actually talk to him and we discovered that he was dumb as a box of raven's claws. The most interesting part of our conversation, however, was when a random fat women in a leather bustier and a gauzy skirt walked up, shoved a cup of beer in her cleavage and shouted at him, "GET ON YOUR FUCKING KNEES AND DRINK THIS BEER!" "Yes ma'am," he responded as he got on his knees and did just that. This was shocking to me. I was like, what the fuck just happened?? I was telling this story later to Dan and he was like, "Well, you said he had a collar on, right?" "Yeah." "Well he's obviously a submissive and that woman was a dom." Ohhhhh, that makes considerably more sense. Later that night, I told the story again to my mom and I was like, "So anyway, he had this collar on and—" "Oh, he was a submissive?" OH. OK. Even my mom knows what's up. Guess I'm the odd man out. Old "Missionary Position Meg"...


After I became disenchanted with The Hottie, I turned my attentions towards this guy:

 
He was rocking a kilt, which clearly I'm into, but he also switched things up by pairing it with a Ravens jersey and was just empirically attractive. We're still in love. Which means I obviously didn't talk to him.

There was a smattering of other random characters there, like Unapologetic Ass/Thong Girl:


and Dragon Guy:

 
But nothing topped what happened next. SO! There we all were, just sitting on a bench, drinking beers and people watching when we noticed that two girls at the table across from us were hardcore making out. Yep. Just two homely ladies, goin' for it. But then things got even more odd when this random Indian guy (who was clearly there alone) walked up to them and was like, "Hello, can I join?" And join he did! So there's the two homely girls a-triple kissing this random Indian fellow like they're on Real World: Miami Goes to Ren Fest when one girl pulls down the top of the other and starts sucking on her tits! IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DRAGON INN! And nobody else besides us seemed to notice! It was the fucking weirdest thing I have ever seen in my entire life! BUT IT GETS CONSIDERABLY WEIRDER! After the Indian guy wandered away, the girls began erotically spanking each other:

OH NO, BUT IT OF COURSE DOESN'T STOP THERE! Then this random Jewish guy adorned in his Tzitzit (or Jew tassels, as I called them when I told this story to my mom, prompting her to apologize to her ancestors and look like she was going to have a heart attack) got thrown into the mix when after standing there for five minutes watching them take turns spanking each other, they invited him in for a spanking tutorial:







So this goes on for a while until a Ren Fest re-enactor stepped in and was like, "Hey, cool it, there are kids around," to which the main Spank Wench shouted back, "I DON'T GIVE A SHIT! I'M HAVING FUN!" At this point I felt so uncomfortable I thought my skin was going to succeed from the union and crawl south, so I turned around, closed my eyes and went to my safe space until it was over. A few minutes later, I looked back to see if they had stopped, but instead the Ren Fest employee was now in on the spanking action! I felt like my head was going to explode! To quote my sister, "How did we manage to find the one sex club at Ren Fest?!"

When the scene at the Dragon Inn died down, we continued to wander around the Fest a little more. As the sun started to set, the vibe got increasingly more eerie (if that was even possible) and when we couldn't pry Alex away from shouting, "PLAY LADY GAGA!!! PLAY LADY GAGA!!!!!1" at the organ player and we all started to feel the effects of drinking for nine hours straight, we decided it was time to call it a night. We piled back in the Pinzgauer, re-entered 2010 and headed back to the city.

The next day I went to text my sister and thoroughly appreciated what our last two exchanges were:

12:52PM Becca to Meg: Yo got seats at theatre next to sir munch-a-lots

6:63PM Meg to Becca: We're by the organ and the may pole, meet us here when you're done getting cannolis

I've said it once and I'll say it again: There is a god. And he is at The Maryland Renaissance Festival. HUZZAH!

The Things I Do For You

Oh, dear readers. The things I do for you. I tasted vaginal dye. I watched a Jenny McCarthy vanity project. And, in my most bizarre sacrifice yet, I intentionally went on a terrible internet date last weekend.

A word of explanation is in order. You know how strong emotions like grief and Kentucky Deluxe can cloud your judgment? Here’s how I was thinking:

“Meg goes on dates and writes about them sometimes. But I don’t. I’m letting her down. I’m letting them all down. I have to contribute. I have to go on a bad date. That’ll show… someone… something.”

So I logged on to my old OkCupid account. I had a few messages, but they were all from normal or borderline people, not the kind of moon-unit freak I needed for this project. I sat back to plan my next move, when I got an instant message that proved that the deus in my machina is Loki, god of tricks and mischief:

DarkVenomKitty91: hey wat’s up boi

TulaneChris69: Hey.

TulaneChris69 (to himself): Oh, jackpot.

Over the course of this conversation I learned that DarkVenomKitty91 is a nineteen-year-old art student in Philadelphia. He likes to go to raves (which apparently still happen, how 2002) and experiment with audacious hair and makeup. He finds it offensive that many people assume this his tendency to wear feminine hairstyles, heavy makeup, and women’s clothing leads some people to assume he has some sort of gender issue. He smokes pot and is amazed that I don’t. (It makes me nauseous.) He’s “into Asian culture,” which I read to mean that he likes Pocky and The Grudge. Despite being Pennsylvania born and raised, he refers to Americans as “them” when complaining about Hollywood remakes of Korean movies. He asked if I was “sure” I didn’t smoke pot, and then asked if I wanted to hang out later anyway. For you, dear readers, I accepted.

A word in my own defense: I didn’t embark on this enterprise with the intention of humiliating DarkVenomKitty91. I planned a sort of case study of how awkward internet dating can be, using whatever happened to me as a template. Ideally, I could have written up a formula, something like Greeting; Awkward “So…” Conversation; Silence; Desultory Attempt at Seduction; Departure, peppered with amusing one-liner from my own date. Had it worked well enough, I would have given it to Meg for input and run it as a 2Birds Investigates, but it was not to be. DarkVenomKitty91 had his own ideas.

During the days between our online conversation and out meeting (I refuse to dignify the actual event by calling it a “date”) I got a number of texts. They included:

DarkVenomKitty91: how do u want me to do my makup on saunday

DarkVenomKitty91: i can do liek casual everyday or like full drag queen

DarkVenomKitty91: god my parents driev me crazy

DarkVenomKitty91: can u bring beer when u come

I am 25. I have been abroad. I have a college degree. I am a registered voter. I am not going to be ejected from a freshman art school dormitory for trying to sneak in a six-pack of Keystone Light in my drawers ever again.

Time passed, and eventually it was time to go meet this kid. Before I left, I called Meg to set up an escape call:

Meg: Hey, what’s up?

Me: I may or may not but definitely do need you to call me at four thirty so that if my pseudo-date with a stoned teenage drag queen goes south I can get out of it.

Meg: Okay, cool. I’m at Renfest, so I have to go drink beer out of a big horn, but I’ll call.

So I walked to DarkVenomKitty91’s building and texted him:

Me: Where do I go in?

DarkVenomKitty91: just wait for me in front of the Olive Garden

NO. NO, NO, NO, NO, NO. I’m not a person who waits for stoned teenagers in front of the Olive Garden. I can’t be that person or the last quarter-century of reading, writing, and pretending to be able to tell the difference between wines has been for nothing and I might as well redecorate my apartment as a womb and never leave again. So I took the block until he showed up, which turned out to be the right choice since it took him four laps to get down, which would have been a long time in front of the Olive Garden. These things I noticed right away:

1. In some cases, the camera adds ten pounds. In this case, it subtracted seventy.

2. Dreadlocks. They were multicolored and contained much ribbon and lace.

3. Oh, my God, Home Depot pajama pants? What kind of whore do you think I am?

4. Remember the Hellraiser movies with Pinhead? Like that. Piercings a-go-go, with no apparent thought to how they looked, or the eternal dictum “less is more.”

Overall impression: Last piñata on the shelf. Full of sardines and CVS store brand lip liner instead of candy.

So I drew abreast and said “hello,” and he stuck out his paw. Fool that I am, I shook it, only to have him pull his hand away, flap it, and say “No, silly. Your ID. I need it to check you in at the desk.”

So he checked me in at the desk. The look on the security guard’s face was priceless – the poor man was trying to be professional, but had clearly never really gotten used to DarkVenomKitty91. He was nearing retirement age, and I like to think he was working one extra year to give himself and his wife a little comfort in their old age. I want his having to deal with DarkVenomKitty91 to have brought him something positive. I got this blog post; maybe the security guard can take his wife on a cruise.

So, counting meeting me in pajama pants as strike one and pulling his hand away when I shook it as strike two, here’s a strike-by-strike play-by-play:

We got upstairs, and he had a fag hag over. (Strike three, you’re out, the Rangers go to the World Series.) DarkVenomKitty91 and Fag Hag start doing the dishes, having an animated conversation with each other about the dishes and ignoring me. (Strike four.) This goes on for about ten minutes, then linner is served. I had eaten and politely refused, which didn’t stop him from spearing a vegetable on his chopsticks (strike five) and thrusting it into my face (strike six) with a “mischievous” grin on his face, like an eight-year-old has if it tricks a slow kid into eating a bug (strike seven.) I ate it to get it out of my face – never thought I’d say that again, but time is cyclical – and it turned out to be heavily, heavily overcooked asparagus the consistency of old rags. (Strike eight, really, because I love asparagus under normal circumstances and it is incredibly easy to cook.) I’m given a Wendy’s cup full of Diet Coke and Laird’s American vodka (I love this country and it is my home but barring a few local brands we are not a vodka-producing country) and we adjourn into the other room… to watch cartoons. (Strike nine.) There’s nothing inherently wrong with cartoons, but riddle me this: do you want someone’s first impression of you to be “Oh, DarkVenomKitty91. He points out plot holes in SpongeBob Squarepants?” I sat on the bed, and DarkVenomKitty91 braced a pillow against me and leant on it, as though we were at a slumber party in a crowded room and I were a sturdy piece of period furniture. (Oh, strike ten. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a fucking breakfront.)

Things kept on rolling downhill. Excerpts:

Me: I bought these new shoes and I like them a lot.

DarkVenomKitty91: I hate them. I feel like I want to burn them. They’re not fancy. Fag Hag, show him one of my platforms. With the wallpaper on it. (Strikes eleven and twelve, obvi.)

………..

Me: I’ve never had the money to travel as much as I’d like.

DarkVenomKitty91: Oh, I have a lot of money. (Strike thirteen.) I’ve never been out of the country, though. (Strike fourteen. Canada is like RIGHT THERE.)

……….

DarkVenomKitty91: I’m really mad at my brother.

Me: Why?

DarkVenomKitty91: He got a girl pregnant again. I’m going to get back at him though. I’m going to have sex on his bed and come on his pillow and just rub it in. (Strike googol.)

……….

Me: We all got very sick when we returned after the hurricane. There was a lot of mold and such.

DarkVenomKitty91: There was a hurricane?

Me: Yes.

DarkVenomKitty91: When it rained so much a few weeks ago?

Me: No, the real hurricane. K---ina. I haven’t lived in Philadelphia my whole life.

DarkVenomKitty91: That’s right, you are old. Strike googolplex.

………...

DarkVenomKitty91: Do you have any pot with you?

Me: No, I don’t smoke pot.

DarkVenomKitty91: Really? That’s weird. Will you buy us alcohol later?

Me: Sure! If it gets me out of here I’ll buy you C4 and the plans to Fort Knox.

…………

My phone: And as she walked up to the blackboard I can still recall….

Me: Hello?

Meg: Hi. We, uh, have a writing emergency. And I need you to get me the McCleary report in an hour or you’re fired, or something. Whatever. Is it going badly?

Me: Yes, you could say that.

Meg: That sucks. I’m ripped on medieval ale! They let me drink out of the horn!

Me, trying to be convincing: So the meeting is Monday? I guess I’ll have to get to work, then.

Meg, drunk: Meeting? We have a meeting?

Me, still trying to be convincing: Yeah, I know Larry is anxious to see our drafts, so I’ll go get the revisions done tonight.

Meg, still drunk: We have a meeting with Larry? What? Are you writing a post tonight? Say “uh-huh” if you are.

Me: Uh-huh. Well, I better go get these revisions done…

Meg: Can you talk? I’m having SO MUCH FUN at Renfest, although I guess I shouldn’t have gone since we apparently have a meeting Monday? Anyway, I got to drink beer out of a horn!

Me: I need to let you go so I can do these revisions…

Meg: What revisions? Are you mad at me?

……..

So I escaped, which was easier than expected. DarkVenomKitty91 had gotten a text he apparently didn’t like and had started sulking, so I had been talking to Fag Hag about New Zealand and World War One propaganda for about fifteen minutes. I made my excuses and left. Over the next few days, this textversation:

DarkVenomKitty91: so that day was a fail

Me: Well, everyone has a bad day.

DarkVenomKitty91: so wat do u think of me now

Days pass…

DarkVenomKitty91: where u able to get ur work done hun

Days pass…

DarkVenomKitty91: hey r we stil talkin or do u want me 2 delete ur number

DarkVenomKitty91: i take that as a no u coulda at least told mec

To be fair, I could have, except that would have required talking to him. You have one shitty hangout with me, and you think that allows you to call me hun? #overfamiliarityfail.

The moral of the story, such as it is, is that I love my friend Butter Legs:

Butter Legs: So how did your investigative reporting date go?

Me: He wore pajama pants and wanted to meet me in front of Olive Garden.

Butter Legs: Oh, he didn’t even get dressed for bottomless breadsticks? That’s disgusting. I hope you hit him with a hammer a number of times.

And now, lest you doubt my love, dear readers, I have to go watch The Human Centipede. For you, dear readers. For you.