A blog about heartbreak.

Last night I went out with a few friends - and I mean we went ouuuuut. I have not been properly wasted since moving here and last night seemed like the right time to put an end to that. Plus, I discovered my new favorite drink, an Italian Greyhound, and naturally I needed to have as many as possible before last call.

At our ending bar, my friends and I were sitting in a corner booth and a guy comes up to us and asks if he could join. He sat down and we were introduced; I must say, I was instantly impressed by his charisma. He was cute, white, late 20s and wearing a flannel shirt (just like 80% of the other patrons of the bar). I went to the bar with my friend to get another Italian Greyhound and while we were away, the guy asked my male friend if I was seeing anyone because he wanted to hit on me. (My friend later told me: “I almost said you were kinda seeing two guys right now but it was complicated and you might want more with one of the guys but you weren’t sure … but that was too much to explain so I just said you were single.”) 

When I got back from the bar, my friend discreetly told me the guy was interested and asked if I was into him. I said I thought he was good looking but we hadn’t talked enough for me to have a real opinion (and plus I’m still sorting out this hot mess). My friend smoothly switched places with me and the guy and I started talking. It went something like this:

Him: Yeah, so my buddy over there is a roommate of mine and that girl [points to obnoxious drunk girl who had just cut in front of me and Nicole at the bar] lives with us, too. Well, she crashes on the couch sometimes. There’s actually like, five of us sharing this house. It’s pretty cool.

Me [in my head]: No, actually it isn’t cool that you are 28 years old and living with five other people but whatever.

Me [aloud]: And what do you do in Portland?

Him [without pause or any indication of hesitation]: I’m a weed farmer.

Me [in my head]: Shut it down.

Him: Well, actually, I’m a weed trimmer. I trim the buds and stuff so they look good and get them ready to be dried.

Me [aloud]: I need another Italian Greyhound. Excuse me.

But it only gets better, friends!

As I was leaving at the end of the night, he approached me and, like a baseball coach, said “You looked real good out there!” and slaps my ass.

I just froze, stunned that a grown-ass man boy just slapped my ass, in a public setting, without any indication from me that I would be okay with that. And to be clear, I am generally never okay with being slapped on the ass, especially by a hand that spends all day committing what the state of Oregon considers a Class A Felony.