Ok, I’ll admit, this next story is my fault. In fact, it’s so much my fault that I wouldn’t be suprised if I was the premise of this man’s own DisasterDate tale. It began like so many other nights in Pittsburgh, PA – with a Steelers game. I had agreed weeks ago to meet this guy for a few drinks and to watch the game at a neighborhood pub. However, as the date drew near, I lost interest. I didn’t want to go; I didn’t want to make fake conversation; I didn’t want to try and remember to piece together the snipets of his life that he had told me in previous conversations, and more than anything I just wanted to watch the game. So why not just cancel like a normal person and save you and your date the dissappointment of a failed date? Well, to be honest, I don’t know. I think the correct phrase is “chicken-shit.”
So I did what any normal chicken-shit would do, I duped my roommate into coming with me. That’s right, I brought my roommate on my date. But to make matters worse, I didn’t even tell her we were meeting anyone. She thought we were just going out to watch the game. Imagine her suprise when Mr. “I’m-not-so-interested-anymore” showed up. I’m dispicable.
But, to my delight, my plan worked. My roommate acted as the perfect buffer, helping to feed questions and spark uninteresting, pass-the-time conversation while I got to take in more of the game. So, thanks to my selfish behavior, it was a DisasterDate for me and my poor roommate. Thanks roomie!
