So a week ago..I sat in the break room at work listening to Weirdo whine about crushing on the kitchen help and having no life. I get up, head to the kitchen, talk to the kitchen guy (we'll call him Dough Boy) and tell him that I'm set to meet a man I talk to from Facebook and that they'd (Weirdo and himself) be doing me a huge favor if they double dated with me. He agrees. The date is scheduled for today, the 26th. On Thursday, Dough Boy bails. He tells Weirdo that he has some family crisis or some shit - that apparently can't be taken care of in two days, and won't be coming. She tells me. I'm unamused. She then tells me she'd still like to come. I don't have the heart to tell her no because she'd just been shot down by Dough Boy. It's for me too, of course, I wasn't wanting to meet this guy alone the first time, although we've talked for many hours the last few weeks.
So all is well and proceeding as planned, around the disruption in plans. Yesterday I text the Weirdo and tell her we're still planning on 7pm. No answer. I text again yesterday evening and still receive no answer. Today I text her and say that I need to know. She responds with "We better plan another time. Its crazy over here."
Not as crazy as work's going to be for you, you bottom feeding cunt.
Admittedly, I'm far more pissed off about this than I should be, and I'm not entirely certain why. As I've mentioned before, I'm the one that takes care of her at work. Those days are over. Sink or swim and I'll shove you under, bitch.
So shortly after this took place, I receive a text from my date telling me he fell on the ice and was hurt. He'd like to reschedule. I bite my tongue (well, still my fingers, anyway) and text back "alright." He asks me what he can do for the pain, and I give him my best nurse advice about drugs and ice when what I really want to say is "take some liver assaulting acetaminophen and chase it with some vodka, pal." He tells me he's going to go take a hot bath and will talk to me soon. Peachy, pumpkin. I wait a little while, text a girlfriend from school, she suggests I request a picture of the bruising. You know, for diagnostic purposes. I do so. He refuses saying he won't show me a picture of his naked ass, bruised or not. He then says "let me finish my hot bath", and I respond nicely with "Go ahead, I'll leave you alone." When again, what I'd like to say is "drop a hairdryer in with you, baby."
It's been, um.. Almost three hours since he allegedly got into the bathtub, and I have yet to hear from him. Do you suppose he took my telepathic advice?