Memoirs of an Evil Genius
Conquering the World, One Martini at a Time

Rolling the Dice
9:37 a.m., 2002-11-25

All right, kids, I'm back. Don't everybody jump at once.

They're painting the office today, so the place looks like Davy Jones' locker or something. I mean, there is crap everywhere. Plus which, no one but me is actually working in the office, so it's going to be lots and lots of fun. Only take out 'fun' and replace it with 'aggravation'. Especially since everyone and their Aunt Lillian keeps traipsing through here, goggling at the mess, and then getting all up in my business about it. Like I give a crap. Then the phone starts ringing and I start getting frustrated. Argh. Seriously. The phone has rung twenty times since I started this entry.

So this weekend was pretty good. Less sitting on my ass and more proactive moving and shaking. My roommate and I got proactively lost trying to attend a party on Saturday night, which was interesting. Seriously. We'd even been to this apartment before, and somehow we ended up driving up and down this street looking for number 110, which, it appeared, no longer existed. We found it after we did some mental gymnastics and took a grand leap of faith.

Another thing I did this weekend? Gave my phone number to someone. This may not seem so huge, but it's the first time I've ever done that before. I know, it's not like I won an Olympic gold medal for the standing long jump, or anything, but for shy, retiring me, it was a great accomplishment. I mean, it's always flattering when someone comes up and gives you their number (less so when they honk at you from the street and start catcalling out the window, like that's really going to turn you on), but I always feel embarrassed giving mine away. Not to mention presumptuous.

Anyway, my roomie (here on out known as May Day) and I decided to head for a coffee shop in a toney neighborhood on Sunday morning (I mean, why not, right?), and when we walked in, I saw The. Most. Gorgeous. Man. Ever. I mean, he was supermodelicious with his tallness and his great cheekbones and soulful eyes and all that shit. So I, of course, lose all ability to speak English--

Super Hot Guy: Hi...what would you like?

Me: Buh...um...I'll, with croissant, uh...um, there's coffee!

I'm so smooth. Of course, I couldn't exactly say, "I'll have a tall, hot you with whipped cream and a shot of hot lovin'," could I? So I just stared blankly at him until it was time to leave. Finally, May Day egged me on until I finally decided to bite the proverbial bullet and take a chance for once, and I gave him my phone number. Not that he'll ever use it, of course. He was way too hot for the likes of me - I'm serious; this guy was so hot I had to look at him through a hole in a paper plate - but at least I finally made a move, right?

I feel good.

2005 by Dr. No, all rights reserved; you break it, you buy it.



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