Sexually interactive. 1:4
Either way, keep in mind – juzz ’cause it be legal…don’t mean you should smoke it.
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Register discount.
“So, you were right,” my friend Mercedes finally conceded the other night. “She’s…”
“Busted,” I reiterated what I had been drilling into her for the past several months, an effort to assuage the sting of rejection left by the abrupt exodus of an aesthetically, not to mention emotionally, unworthy former lover.
“Well…Not quite ‘busted,’ ” still – she attempted to soften the blow, “So much as…”
“Slightly damaged? Like, take that can up front and request a few nickels off?”
“Yes! NO! Yeah…Shoot.”
“Mmhmm,” I nodded, grateful that she finally seems to have regained some perspective. “Register – discount.”
Go on; use the phrase yourselves. Physical insults are cheap and cruel when tossed in the subject’s face, but everyone has experienced a similar pain and sometimes we must stoop to private pettiness in order to achieve closure and enlightenment.
Recession douche.
“You’re the one coming home with me,” I reassured the latest acquisition to my booty call log, Saturday night. “But first this other guy wants to buy me a drink, so…Free booze.”
“Of course,” he encouraged. “Who can say no?”
“Riiight?! Okay. I’ll be back.”
And off, across the dance floor, to the bar I flew!
What? Don’t you look at this post like that. Times are tough. There’s nothing wrong with taking advantage of a little ingestible generosity so long as I never actually have sex for money. You know, like cash.
Alright, okay. No gift cards either.
That’s…Not a compliment. 1:3
“WHAT – exactly, are you trying to do here?” A reasonably attractive, 30-something stranger motioned to my outfit as he approached the bar where I stood alone, waiting for my friends.
“Excuse me?” Vodka soda sputtered from my lips.
“I’m sorry,” he made a quick verbal retreat. “I don’t know how to socialize.”
“Apparently,” I laughed.
“I just meant that I like your style,” he blushed.
“Ah – okay. Thank you! Start with that next time,” I glanced back over my shoulder as I began to walk away, “and you might have a better shot.”
Turn either cheek.
In every family, there is at least one member that insists upon greeting their ilk with a kiss on the mouth. Usually it’s a grandparent or a great aunt. And to these beloved elders’ lips, it is most respectful to acquiesce.
Such courtesy stops there, however. Should anyone else besides an exceptionally emotive relative swoop in for a stealth smooch, one is completely with in their rights to present a cheek. NO matter how rapidly one must jerk their face away, such deflection is always acceptable.
Especially when the oral assailant is a bad first date.
“Again?!” I was flabbergasted that my friend Sunshine allowed not one, but two different social dunces the opportunity to touch their tongues to hers after they used them to bore her to the brink of a Rohypnol-like coma, last week.
“Well I didn’t want to be ruuude,” she attempted to justify her passivity.
“SUNSHINE!” I barked, but with twinkling eyes. “That’s not rude. And even if it was, who cares. You’re never going to see them again.”
Her compassion is to be commended. Sure. It’s not like I relish the opportunity to hurt someone’s pride. Unless they deserve it. But even the most self-sacrificing homo sapiens would agree:
‘Tis better to send someone off with a bad taste in their mouth – if the alternative will leave their less than figurative flavor in yours.
