Square One

I’ve been wearing pretty panties for the last week hoping that some guy will have x-ray vision and think, “Damn, I’m gonna ask her on a date.” I know, weird logic. Just don’t question it.

As it turns out I was wearing spandex and a sports bra under my work[out] clothes (I work at my university’s gym) when these two people asked for a schedule of all of the spring sports. I asked them for their student IDs so I could send them up to see the coaches. “We don’t go here; we’re from Loyola University.” Fucking cocaine-using, privileged, snooty sons o’ bitches trying to waltz into MY gym?! Access denied, mother fuckers.

“Oh, I can’t let you enter the facilities, but I can try to get you the answers you need.” I rustled through some papers and found a few game schedules. Begone, Satan spawn.

“Actually, can we interview you for our project? We’re doing an advertising assignment as to why students should apply to [my university] and not University of Maryland, College Park.”

Me: Remember in high school all of those weird, nerdy kids who played Yu-Gi-Oh and shit like that? Yeah, this is where they all went.

Him: Whoa, that’s brutal. Ummm, how are the extracurriculars?

Me: Some are better than others. I’m in a sorority and I’m on the crew team. Crew is great, but I think Greek life sucks ass. I went alum with my sorority because it was the pits. It sucked worse than a nun giving a blow job. Plus I’m not too fond of the salmon-colored shorts every frat guy seems to wear; I needed to distance myself from that shit show. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

Him: *mutters under breath* My god… What about the academic side of things?

Me: Some days I’d rather fuck a hot curling iron than do my work, but at least I’ll get a job offer before a Towson grad.

Him: Wow, okay then… Do you think I could have your name and phone number?

Me: Dude, I just said some rather inflammatory shit about my school; I’d rather not be quoted.

Him: Oh no, this is so I can call you for a date.

Weirder shit has happened to me, but I always wig the fuck out when I say what’s on my mind and people are okay with that… let alone want to take me out on a date.

I scribbled my name and digits on a sticky note. And then I felt a twang of guilt. I wanted to crumple the paper.

Jess, he was seeing other girls. You need to get over that shit. If he wanted you, he would’ve said so… He needs something you don’t have… Let him go. 

I passed him the paper; he smiled and stuck it to the inside of his folder. “Thanks, Jess. I’ll call you soon.”

That was two nights ago.

I received a phone call today. Not a text. A call.

Back to square one.

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