Last cat got so much #swag he doesn’t even need to online date
Everyone with an “alt” sensibility does this on OkCupid. It’s a shame because the message is supposed to be “if you’re cynical enough to appreciate this, we’re above everyone else and can connect,” when really it comes across as “I wanted to stand out, so I wrote the least original response short of ‘you’re a fun guy!’”
Like this sort of response has become more of a tool than a display of personality. Whether it’s behavior or originality, nobody wants a tool in online dating.
irritated by the constant smell of paint as I try to decide between the walk to Echoplex or Los Globos; it doesn’t really matter because I’ll have been drinking since the afternoon so I’ll be loud wherever I end up. Loud and cool. On the way down my front stoop, a sip from the 40 of O.E. will distract me from an empty paint bucket on the second-to-last step. My right foot plunges in, wedging my high-top fast and sending me stumbling into the sidewalk.
The rooster (“Cockston”) from a few buildings down, out on his daily stroll, will nearly get caught underfoot but flutter away— right into the younger of the brothers hired to paint my building today. He’ll be steadying the 10 foot ladder for his big bro. At least, he’ll steady it until the surprisingly-dense rooster collides with his face. Zeke will holler and let go, sending his co-worker/brother/friend toppling to the right. (I’ll probably mutter something to myself like “oh my god” at this point, idk)
The combined weight of the painter and his ladder slams down on the folding table they had set across the sidewalk. It’ll catapult their remaining near-full paint buckets into the road, turning the front windshield of the 603 bus into a sub-par Jackson Pollock piece. The driver, PTSDed-out vet that he is, will likely jerk the wheel something fierce, swinging the bus perpendicular to the road and rolling it once.
I don’t really know why a fireball will erupt from the underside of the bus, but this’ll let it actually pick up momentum as it skids down the street. This is unfortunate for the ice cream truck outside St. Jude’s School For Tiny Deaf Children (another neighboring building, not the one that Cockston lives in). The swarm of schoolchildren will not notice the flaming wreckage bearing down on them, and neither will the ice cream truck technician, chosen specifically for this route because his own lack of hearing allows him to communicate with the kids; unlike most adults in their lives.
I’ll finally get that damn bucket off my foot and turn my attention back to the catastrophe unfolding in front of me, eyes catching the still-lit “603” on the front of the bus. Now that I’m out of the cloud of paint fumes that’ll have hung in my apartment all day, my head will clear, and it’ll make a little more sense that I’m hearing the screams of all my friends and my parents and our cats from inside the burning, rolling bus: I’ll have forgotten that it’s my birthday, and they were all coming on the 603 to throw a party for me. (To think, I’ll have almost missed it! don’t huff paint, not even accidentally)
Just before the bus full of everyone I’ve ever loved collides with a crowd of children who only deserve love, we’ll pull out from my pupil, Final Destination-style, to see me standing at the top of my stoop, Olde English still in hand. The vision will not have come to pass yet. I will also have pissed myself.
I should probably change up my Friday plans. Wanna go out?