It's the Wednesday before Prom weekend, and you excitedly call me on the phone, "Andras! I've got great new---" I interrupt, "Remember what I said about addressing me: either you refer to me in the third person or it's Andkon, Master of the Universe." You meekly apologize and vow not to err ever again in my presence. You continue, "I went around my neighborhood and I raised enough money to pay for our dinner and my very expensive and completely unnecessary dress that I know I will throw up all over after I get drunk. I even have some extra left over for the transportation." I say, "The privilege of riding in my car was never extra. But enough blabbering. An email would be less boring." I promptly hang up citing the importance of my website.
It's the day before the prom and I delete your email, unopened.
After arriving at your place to pick you up at 7:00 PM sharp, like with any other vain woman, I'll have to wait about an hour until you are ready applying your plastered exoskeleton, known as make up in most circles. While I don't want to be bothered a whole lot that evening, my survival rate is exponentially higher with me driving and with you as far away from the steering wheel as possible, preferably locked up in the trunk. We develop a system of communication whereby one kick on the hood means Yes and two kicks means No. I ask, "So is McDonald's okay?" I hear one really loud (but still affirmative) thump. I think to myself, "Oh wait, that was just a sharp turn." I apologize, taking the complete silence to mean "accepted."
After regaining consciousness, you notice that we are already at the prom. You missed the entire dinner. I ate your fries but you still have a cold hamburger, albeit half-eaten. You notice ten dollars missing from your purse which paid for the dinner and your Niagara-falls super-absorbent strength tampons are also missing.
We arrive at the banquet hall or wherever the crap the prom is held and I wonder whether to put the McDonald's carryout bag over my head to cover my identity or your head to cover my shame. I end up putting it over my head in an attempt to suffocate myself to death, however, it fails miserably. You then run off to dance/flirt/fuck with all the cute guys you wanted to go out with, effectively ditching me for the next two hours.
After the first round of your sexual promiscuity is over for the night, we accidentally meet up, despite my efforts to get away. You drag me over to your stupid friends and force me to talk to them about important subjects like boring sitcoms and my favorite mythical animal. I choose the unicorn because I could poke your brains out with its horn.
I repeatedly tell you that the punch is spiked, which only provokes you to drink more. Frustrated, I either tell you to go to hell or call you a bitch but give up and try to find a laptop and an outlet. An hour later, I come back to find you peeing on the wall and throwing up on one of your friends whose name you've temporarily forgotten. You incoherently mumble something about tampons clogging all the toilets. Don't look at me, I was updating Andkon.com the entire time.
I reach for your purse to get your cell phone, but you mistake it as a grab for your blouse. You make a big emotional scene in your drunkenness and proclaim that this is not the night you are ready to be raped. Embarrassed, I run away with your cell phone and call your parents to have them pick you up or to have them pay me for the potential carpet stain removal. They start bitching at me how irresponsible it is to let you get drunk at which point I get in my car, throw the cell phone out the window, and slam down the acceleration. Your parents hear the car's roar less and less as I get farther and farther away...
[If you are still interested in dating me, get in touch. Remember, I put the Hot Male into andraskonya@hotmail.com. This one never gets old.]
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