Look. It was dark. I was newly single. I’d had one too many Vodka Red Bulls. And by one too many… I mean just one—goddamnit. I swear I’m over my ex, but as Socrates once said, the only way to get over a man is under another. Or something.
However, the evening’s enchantment faded at the crack of dawn the morning after. Clawing for my empty water bottle, hands shaking in fear, I check Instagram and experience the greatest horror known to man: he’s chopped.
I later passed this godforsaken specimen on campus. Or, I think I passed him… It also could’ve been a product of a beastialic hazing ritual from years past. Does Strawberry Creek have a goblin that lives under the bridge? Surely this behemoth in the daylight can’t be my knight-in-shining-Stussy.
Yet, in the days following, I can’t help but reminisce. That kiss, that tasted like empty vape cartilage and reeked of 80 proof. Sigh….
When I asked for a drink, he said he forgot his wallet—how did you even get into the club then, dickwad? Somehow, though, I still find myself checking my DMs for a love confession and a date night proposal to Chez Panisse. But who am I kidding? He’s totally broke. Maybe that’s why he was chewing at my face. He was probably starving. Maybe he hadn’t had a meal all day. What if he was trying to eat me?
Do I care? No. How dare you insinuate that. But I will admit I’m still confused why he hasn’t hit me up confessing his undying love for me. I was so sure one more dancefloor makeout would cure me. Now, I’m scrolling through his ninth-grade homecoming photos from his ex’s page while in Moffitt.
So no, Michelle Obama. I’ll do you one better. When they go low, we go lower.