geeb girl
I sat mildly high on her unclean sheets, disappointed albeit amused
Tony Soprano is on the television, having rough coitus with one of his comare
Floor evidently unvacuumed, her friend lowercase yells at her to turn off the heat.
I concur, feeling a bit tepid.
As was my date, though in a much different way.
She ascended from the Walnut-Locust steps, American Spirit in-hand, already high. It was as if she had skipped to the end of the evening’s itinerary before it even began.
Quite an inaugural impression.
Unable to resist, I had a drag of the Spirit. Light blue. Gross.
Her red and purple shag bobbled as we walked through the City Hall courtyard.
“Look at these cool little gargoyles” I half-gauchely shared.
She retorted with nothing but a fluoride stare.
We walked for a bit, her inebriation was apparent and admitted, and our conversation was as if it had been shot dead on Broad street in broad daylight.
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We hop on the subway, to smoke at Cecil B, and back to her apartment.
She changes her mind, we skip the park, and enter her kempt living room.
It must have been the work of that evil roommate she so vividly abhorred.
Her talk of the girl was the most passionate she got all night.
Upon arrival, I was greeted by her tall friend. She reminded me of Serena from MTV Downtown.
I got a brief apartment tour, and we entered her room. I delicately wrestled with her beaded curtain and her friend laughed. I wish she was my date instead.
“How had this become a group hang on the first date?”- you might ask.
I don’t know. I think they just wanted to smoke. I would’ve been cool with that from the get-go.
I find myself seated on the bed. It is adorned with a well-loved geeb stacked atop an iPad. That seemed like a really bad place to put a geeb. And an iPad.
So, I rolled a joint. I’m in no hurry. Her friend rambled, and they both started playing a game on their phone.
Was the tv show not enough?
7pm struck, and I grabbed my jacket.
Out the door, I ventured through Templetown.
I enjoyed the graffiti more than the date.
I sat stoned on the broad street line, Devon Hendryx ran through my headphones.
A’last I am home. I ate a day-old hamburger and nod off for the evening.
To hell with these bell-jarred, fiona-appled, box-dyed women.
Maybe I should try a sorority girl next time, or a childhood studies major or something.
