Close to midnight and the phone rings…it must be my girlfriend as no one calls this late. It is…my so called significant other. In a sad weak voice, Joyce says not to telephone her at work as she’s home with a severe stomach ache.
Several nights ago, some friends and I were sitting in a car waiting for the dodger stadium crowd to dissapate. Alex cora had fouled off 14 pitches before hitting a home run, leading the boys in blue to a 4 – 0 win over the chicago cubs. The driver wasn’t happy as he was rooting for the visiting team. Or maybe he wasn’t pleased about his dating situation. He had a lot to complain about, one being he met a lot of weirdos and two, he didn’t know what girls want since he was a “nice guy”. And it gave me a headache because i started to think about that. If everyone he’s meeting is a weirdo, maybe, just maybe he was the weirdo. I suggested that he go to therapy, blame his parents or go to a goth club. Or write a blog. He wasn’t keen on any of those ideas. And “nice guys finish last”? Actually no. I’m a nice guy, i buy flowers, wrote bad poetry (back when I was a freshman in college ok) and am polite. But I don’t get anywhere with chicks not because I’m nice but because I don’t know enough better to stop (or maybe I shouldn’t call women “chicks”). So really, its because I’m an idiot and not because i was nice that i didn’t get anywhere. Of course I ddin’t say that to him…he was driving us home.
Joyce and have been seeing each other for the last five years and see each other once every twelve months. She lives in hong kong and has been married for over 9 years. So maybe she really isn’t my girlfriend. I’m not sure what to call her. Whatever. I’m not calling her tonight.