Hi Hannah, any chance you’d like to go on a date with me? Considering the infinite possibilities of where to go and what to do on a date I’ll forgo actual planning at this point. I can however, speculate using a highly accurate word association about how I think said date would go: rocket ship, storm warning, vodka bomb, mellifluous.
I think that’s a fair representation of what the evening will consist of, both literally and metaphorically. Of course, one might rightly argue that those four words imply something involving black market adderall and a three day sojourn ending at dawn, on a pier, singing a poorly remembered version of Jenny Says by Cowboy Mouth to early morning birds carousing about in front of red, exhausted eyes. And while that interpretation certainly sounds like a wildly irresponsible, self-indulgent tear across some coastal region I won’t rule it out because hey, its whatever, maybe you’re into reckless adventures like that.
Not that I’m endorsing recreational use of prescription pharmaceuticals either, or staying up for three days, or truancy, or any other potentially negative socio-legal consequences wrapped up in the preceding paragraph, I’m merely saying that I wouldn’t say yes or no until asked to make a decision.
But anyway, the date! If Thompson-esque carnivals of excess aren’t you’re thing we could, you know, enjoy something a little more conventional, like dinner. Dim sum perhaps? Pulled pork barbeque? Anything is fine with me. A bit about myself: negging; long, narcissistic conversational tangents; obsessive discussion of portfolios or ‘market events’; and franchise dining are things I studiously avoid (because, ew), I believe a banana is more qualified for public office than Rick Santorum; I really, really want to see the Atacama Desert. So I guess that’s it, let me know!