Jessica's complicated. I don't know whether to say I dated her or not. She's a great kisser (one of the best) and there'd been times where we acted like we were dating (hand-holding, eye-gazing, me footing the bill), but for the life of me I can't call it dating.
She is hot, the hottest girl I've ever been with, no contest. She's got an hour glass body and a perfect face to match. She's so hot that her problems probably stem from not knowing what to do with all her swelling hotness. She has modelled for a short time. She's tall, and I had an enormous, serial killer-like obsession with her legs. She had an obsession with my Armani watch; used to pry it off my wrist and sport it (gold-dig much?).
Unfortunately, she's not the shiniest penny in the roll; she can be dull. She had once written me a letter riddled with so many spelling and grammatical errors it was almost wholly unreadable (I wasn't the only one who thought so [I'd let my friends read it and they had agreed—after bouts of laughter]). She's not exactly stupid, but she's certainly not smart. Though she's brunette, she'd fit right in with the blondes.
She's sweet, though. She's bought me a shirt once for my birthday (ruined now by a laundry accident); she's bought me a card holder which I still use to this day; and she's bought me a pink bookmark that's has written on it "Cutie Patootie" which I love.
So why aren't I with her now? Well, we'd go out on a date and have an amazing time, and then, the next time we'd go out, we'd hate each other. I can't even explain it. That's just how it always happens. Then we'd take a break from each other for a time, and then, two to four months later, I'd text her, we'd go out, great time, make plans to see each other again, go out again, fucking murder. Our relationship was the restart button on every video game system ever produced.
Whenever I'd see her I used to tell all my friends because I was so excited to see her. The following day Talon or Doc or FourPumps would ask me:
"Sooooo, how'd it go?"
"Bad," I'd reply. "The worst time of my life."
"I don't even fucking know! This girl needs to die."
Two to four months later—the restart button, and we're back at it again.
I wanted to see Jessica. The last time we had seen each other, which had been some weeks ago, we had had a great time. When I had told Doc about it he shook his head and said, "Don't do it, bro. Bitch is just going to waste your time again."
"No, bro," I said. "This time is different. Trust me. We had such a good time; there's no way this is fucking up."
I texted her and made plans to see her for lunch on Sunday.
Key in White Snake's "Here I go again." I like to call this "date" the one hour lunch.
I picked Jessica up at her place at around 12:30 p.m. She was sitting on the front steps of her house. She saw me, got up, and dragged herself to the car. Immediately I knew something was wrong.
She got in the car. She looked exhausted. She looked bad, too, wearing a black hoodie, awful fitting jeans, and running shoes.
I put the car in first and we're off.
"So what do you want to eat?" I asked.
"I dunno." (This is her answer to everything. The girl is devoid of opinions, preferences thoughts of any kind. Someone who is brain dead has more mental substance than she does.)
"Oookay," I said, trying to stay positive. "You want to do sit down or fast food?"
"Uh you wanna just do fast food?"
One: the fact that she made an opinion meant a lot. And two: Are you fucking for real?
I swallowed my groan and said, "We'll go to the mall for more selection."
Already I wanted to go home. On the way to the mall conversation was bleak.
Shrug. "Nothing so how's work?"
At one point she told me she was really tired from yesterday. I didn't ask her what she did; I didn't really care. She did, however, mention that because of this, she might be a little "out of it." This confused me to no end. If you were that tired—stay the fuck home! If she had told me that she was too tired to go out today and if we could do it another day, I'd have been cool with that. Better that than going out with a zombie.
I couldn't help but notice something, though; something about her face. The mouth and chin area. The cheek area. It was hairy; and I'm not talking small little hairs that go hardly noticeable—I'm talking a near full-on beard. It wasn't as thick as an Arab's beard, but it was bad enough that it'd put an Asian's beard to shame. I kept looking at it, investigating it, wondering if it was a trick of the light, or if I was just imagining this hair. I couldn't believe that she'd let herself get like that. Surely, she was too good for that. She's a hot girl! I told myself. She's a near 10!
But no matter how many times I blinked, the beard was still there. It brought her down to a 5.9 (no one dates anything below a 6).
We got to the mall. I was beyond pissed off. I was bitter. Bitter Greg, my id, was itching to burst out.
Inside the mall I was utterly embarrassed to be beside her. You have to understand: most of the times we had gone out I'd flaunt her hotness around like a trophy for all the other guys to envy. This was mindboggling, and I didn't appreciate this dangerous juxtaposition. I kept telling myself, Ohmygodohmygodohmygod—I am with the bearded lady!
We got to the food court and I asked her what she wanted to eat. Her response? "I dunno." Big surprise. I went to go grab A&W. Later on she went off to get some Thai food nonsense (destination: explosive diarrhea). Either way—I was glad the bearded bitch was gone.
When we reconnected we couldn't find a seat and I elected for us to eat outside. We were on the first floor of the mall and I was parked on the second floor. So when we got outside I searched for a staircase to the upper floor. When I found one I had said, "Boo-yeah!" without thinking or even noticing, and she made a face and said, "Boo-yeah? Are you serious? Who says boo-yeah?"
I wanted to slap her, and Bitter Greg grew even bitterer. You dressed like shit and you have a beard, do not make matters worse. I swear to God I will end your miserable, hairy life!
Finally we sat down to eat. Conversation was tedious at best. My bitterness grew with each passing moment. It grew and grew and Bitter Greg began to manifest himself in the form of words, words that desperately wanted to leave my mouth, words that had no choice but to leave my mouth.
I turned to her and said, "Why do you have a beard?"
Her eyes averted my gaze; she grinned sheepishly. "Oh, shut up."
"No, seriously," I pressed the issue, "what's with the beard?"
She shrugged. "I dunno. Who do I have to impress?"
Nice one! She got me good there. I deserved it. But wait a tick
Despite the blow to me, to the fact that I wasn't worthy enough for her to wax her goddamned face—what bothered me even more than that was how had she let herself become the bearded lady? Why did it happen? How could she let herself go that far down? How could she walk around in public looking like that? It was disgusting. It had passed decadence and had fallen into complete corruption. Angels cried, and God shook His head in disappointment. Women everywhere, including the feminists, were ashamed. She didn't have to wax for me. She didn't have to wax for any guy (or girl). She should have waxed for herself. For her own goddamned self-respect.
For shame, Jessica. For shame.
She tried to change the subject, tried to steer the conversation into other topics, but I was zoned in, I kept bringing it back to the beardedness. I even lifted her pants leg to make sure her legs weren't also hairy. (They weren't.)
Finally I let it go, and we got to talking about how she had to take out all her wisdom teeth because they bothered her.
"All of them?" I asked. "Like in one day?"
"All at the same time."
"So is it going to be like an operation?"
"So, like, will you be asleep?"
"Yep," she said.
"So, like, will the doctor have to shave your face before the operation?"
That was it for me—I got up, ran off some distance, and broke out laughing. I was convinced she was going to hit me. She didn't, but her ire had skyrocketed. I didn't blame her; nor did I care. Seriously, how could I pass that opportunity? It was too funny. When I had later told Doc about it, he pissed himself; and when I had told Kyria about it, she kept saying, "You didn't! Please tell me you didn't!"
Oh I did.
The drive back home was painfully silent. No words were exchanged. Bitter Greg, having said his peace, had receded to his natural habitat inside my head. She had asked me how a Marilyn Manson concert was that I had recently gone to but that didn't yield to anything more.
When we got back to her place I didn't expect a kiss or even a hug. She looked at me and I looked at her horrificly hairy face, but I wasn't going to say anything bad. The damage was done.
"Thanks for coming out," I said, all the lessons of politeness my mother had raised me with coming back; albeit a moment (or several moments) too late. "And for the company."
She literally said the same exact thing, with the same exact words, in that same exact order. But it didn't surprise me: dullness reigned inside of her, and nothing could wage war against it. When she got out of the car and closed the door behind her, I put the car in reverse and was out of there fast as could be.
On the way home I was all shudders. I was back by 1:30 p.m.
Needless to say, I haven't seen Jessica since. I believe that this is probably it for us. The restart button has been pressed for the last time. God help her if she reads this story. Though everyone here will not know who Jessica really is—she most definitely will.
Do I feel any remorse? Fuck that. If she tried to condemn me, I will deny it to my death. That's the beauty of fake names.
After the one hour lunch I had told my mom the whole story. She had laughed but was quick to add that I was a prick and that no girl would ever fall in love with me. I gave her a dismissive gesture. "It's only she-males I'll have a problem with."
Two days later, my mom saw Jessica and reported back to me that Jessica's face had been waxed clean of the hair.
World, you are welcome—for I see this as a tremendous service to you.
The Balance is restored.