Hay girl hayyyy! Lo here again!

Summer of YAS is going swimmingly, and I’m having a ton of fun, although I don’t seem to be having as much luck in the “free drinks” department as my fellow TD-ers. And guys – if there aren’t free margs, what even is the point of dating?!

Just kidding.

Kinda.

drink

Anyway, I was determined to get at least ONE* guy to pay for my drinks. This mission is what brings me to last week’s date with Doppelganger, whose pictures led me to believe that he looked VERY MUCH like my dreamybeautifulsweetperfectwonderful politician crush.**

*In margarita language, this translates to ‘uno’
**I may or may not be dating a US Senator in my head. We’re going to get married and take over the White House, potentially by force. Hey, don’t give me that look! I’m classy as hell, guys. I’d make a fuckin’ phenomenal FLOTUS. Free margs with your free birth control!!

awesome

Ok, let me break this date down for you. 

I leave my office, giving him a 20 minute warning for my arrival to Mission. He gets out of work an hour earlier than I do, and works five minutes from Mission, so I figure this is enough notice. When I’m about five minutes away, I get a text from him.
D: Hey are you still going? What’s your status?

…ok, whatever. Things get lost in translation, I understand it. He says his way. I linger around for another… oh, 20 minutes. WHY.

cookie

Finally, homeboy arrives. And, true to name, he was almost my future husband’s doppelganger… but not quite. Like, with about 40 extra pounds on him. Dude, catfishing is NOT cool. However, hubby is so beautiful, so anyone who looks even remotely like him doesn’t exactly make me want to scratch my eyes out.

Decision to not run away made, I inform him that if we want to grab a table, we’ll need to order food. He insists on the bar, because apparently he has already eaten a full dinner. Before our 6:30 PM date. Alllllrighty?

eat

Aside from some mediocre conversation, mostly centered around his superior taste in music and our shared racial ambiguity,* the date isn’t going terribly. As always, I laid a foundation for escape in case I needed to get out of there. It’s just good business sense, folks.

*Weird conversation. Super weird conversation. For the millionth time, why.

After excusing myself to the bathroom so that he could take care of the check (it was $11 – we each had ONE happy hour drink…), I return to find that the check has moved from its original location, but there are no credit cards in sight. I start to plan my exit (oh my god, sorry I was on my phone, it’s SO rude, but I had like 12 missed calls from my sister… she’s moving to Brooklyn tomorrow…), and while I’m spewing nonsense and frantically typing away at my phone, HE PAYS THE CHECK! SUCCESS! THE MARGARITA LORD HAS SMILED UPON ME!

win

The bartender walks allllll the way down to the other side of the universe bar, and it is then that things take a turn for the worse.
D: Oh! Did you want to put your card down???
L: NOP-
D: OHHHH BARTENDERRRRR! COME BACK HERE!!!!
L: *stunned expression*
Bartender: *stunned expression*
Random Man Next To Us: *stunned expression*

This. Is. SO. Awkward. AND IT GETS WORSE.

Bartender: Split it down the middle?
D: No, let’s pay for our own drinks.

huh

Is my $6 marg really too much for you to handle, hotshot? Maybe if I had gotten a $3 beer like you, you would have picked up the tab? I see how it is. I throw my card in, desperate to escape, and homeboy asks me if I want to go on a walk. Apparently he’s having the time of his life and wants to continue our thrilling conversation about racial ambiguity and music and BLAH BLAH BLAH. I need to end this.

I furiously text MC, because at this point I give no fucks about it being “rude” to use my phone. MC comes sweeping in like my Fairy Godmother and calls me, pretending to be my “sister” who is “moving” to “Brooklyn.” I take this opportunity to fake an emergency, and bounce immediately. No hug, because I’m a savage. Kill em.

savage

Now, most guys would see right through this “emergency” shenanigan, and I wasn’t exactly trying to be subtle – once again, ask me how many fucks I give – but apparently this dude doesn’t get the hint. I get a text from him the next day – and the day after that – asking if everything is ok with my sister. Which is nice, but YOU MADE ME PAY FOR MY MARGARITA. So, for the first time ever, ladies and gents, I ghosted. I ghosted hard.

Tell me, TD-ers – what does a girl have to do to get a free margarita around here?!

Praying to the tequila gods until we meet again,
Lo