Dating without toes
I'll try not to forget all of you little people when my feet and I make our meteoric race (foot pun intended) to the top of the A-List soon.
Till then, I've attached our photo booth photos for those of you who think I still just have a vivid imagination..yes, he does look like Frankenstein.
(Because I know at least 7 of you right now think I'm still lying, and are pissed you had to read this much. ) We get a few good photo strips, which I immediately buried at the bottom of my purse lest he take them from me, and go on talking about film.
(For you film geeks, this was a great conversation that led to QT cutting me a trailer of my five favorite bad movies, but for sake of some semblance of brevity, I will leave that aside for another day)After a lengthy film discussion, Quentin suggests we head to bed, which is the point where I really start panicking.
Those of you who know me well know of my love of hyperbole, so I'm actually rather sad that I won't get to use "best story ever!!!
" when talking about how I scored a free topping at Yogurtland anymore, but I suppose for Quentin I can make an exception.
I spend my first hour at this party irritated at having to even be there, and then telling the Yankees picture Joba Chamberlain how he'll never be as great as my beloved Brian Wilson. I don't think anyone has said that to my face about my seminal films.
She made out with him, took sexy pictures in a photo booth, and watched him whip out his "short," "fat," "nub-like" penis.
He fooled around with my feet one more time (this time without asking, which I found rude), and then drove me back to [redacted]'s apartment in [redacted] and that was that.
Most insane experience of my life, and without a doubt, probably the best story I will ever get to tell.
" Quentin looks at me and says "Want to come to my house? But alas, I'm already in the car and we're off.
We get to the house, which is gorgeous, and Jamie Foxx takes off with his lady friend (I try to say bye to him and he doesn't even look at me. This is probably karma because I snuck into a screening of Ray in 2004 with my black boyfriend who worked at AMC at the time, instead of buying a ticket). I spot a photo booth and immediately realize that we must take photos, if for nothing else, proof that this story even happened.
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I have stalled for a good long time but the makeouts were really losing their appeal because you can only be sweated on so much, and we were getting closer to the moment of truth on whether I'd have to put out or not. Boys, those junior high pamphlets are lying when they say that all shapes and sizes are normal.