A neighbor once told me, "No one recognizes you without Louis, you know"?
Really. I beg to differ.
Anyway, once again, this is around the time I was shacking with my homegirl, suppose to be getting it together but instead flirting with this guy with the Southern plates. I mean he pulled over...and got out. Southern Hospitality at it's finest.
He was....cute. Funny. Interesting. I like.
I ask the inevitable question. "So where's your girlfriend"? He replies, "Around." I continue on my way. He follows behind me and grabs my arm..."Wait, wait. You wanted me to lie? I keep it real shawty." *Rolls eyes* Why is it that men say, "I keep it real," and they think that's an excuse to do whatever, say whatever and behave however they want? As if keeping it real is a license to remain immature. Wait...it just might be. Women allow them to do it.
Moving on.
I look at him and sigh, and of course we exchange information. I should have known better.
I talk to him a couple of times and he has interesting conversation but I don't give him too much, he doesn't give me too much, we keep it real platonic. You know it's like we both know this isn't going to go anywhere but we keep in touch anyway. He suggests that we meet for dinner & drinks. I know I know. I should have said no.
We meet up at this restaurant and the conversation continues to be great and the grey goose keeps coming. I look around. We're closing down the place. Now, I'm giggling like a 5 year old (We should have went to Starbucks) and I'm drunk as a skunk (How drunk is a skunk)? He's nice....but the way he's laughing at me, I realize I'm far more "slizzard" than he.
He knows my living situation and says, "Listen you can hang with me, I have a crib in BK you can stay there,I'm not even going to stay there I have to drop someone off at the airport in the morning so I'm going back to my house." WHAT? I can't even comprehend what he's saying right now. I'm like whatever.
We arrive at the fliest apartment I've ever been to in NY (I'm exaggerating, but it was nice.) I'm not paying attention to anything except when I come through the door I lock every lock on the door like I'm in the projects. You should know, I can't fight and the only thing that was going through my head, is someone gonna bust in (this mystery girlfriend) with five of her friends and jump me. WHY oh WHY do I make these silly decisions?? He's laughing at me...."Shawty, my girl didn't even know about this crib until a week ago, you have nothing to be afraid of." Okay, now...I'm even more freaked out. Because, don't go by me, but if my dude tells me he has another crib somewhere you best believe I'm staking it out. I mean what the hell do you have another apartment for? Oh yeah. Whores. I'm going to be sick.
(Please note: I am not in any shape or form a home wrecker, side chick, the next b!tch...the list goes on. I've cut off friends for less infractions, such as flirting, smiling, looking at or dreaming about someone else's man. Actually, my friend Pinks (mypinkmonkey.com) said one of the best quotes I've ever read, "If I cannot be #1 in your life, I will accept being 2nd to your God, 3rd to your family, 4th to your money, BUT I will NOT sit aside and be humbly 5th to the next B!tch." Enough said.)
I know, I know you're shaking your head. Trust me, I know this is all my doing this time. So we get upstairs and he gives me a tour, you know here's the bathroom, kitchen, etc. "I'll be back in the morning we can grab breakfast and I'll drive you home. Sleep it off." He leaves. I am smacked. Like, can't even lift my head. I pass out on the bed and I'm snoring. You know that feeling where you fall asleep and wake up like, "Where the hell am I"? Yep. That was me.
I sit up and look around...the place looks like a "second" home. You know like the closet isn't filled, random scatterings around. You know. What I do notice is there are Valentino bags on the dresser. Two pair of Louboutins on the floor, some YSL's...I think I'm going to be sick. As any nosy woman would be, I roam around....there's a child's toy in the office area...a child's jacket....more clothes...(men and women's) Am I still drunk? Then there's the mail. I see mail with his name...his name...his name...Mr. and Mrs. his name....his name. Wait. Wait..go back.
Mr. and Mrs. his name? Oh yeah, the room starts spinning. I run back to the room and put my shoes on. I gotta get the hell out of here. I grab the Louboutins and check the size and put them in my bag and go down the stairs. I know, I know....I get to the bottom of the stairs and realize how chicken head that is and put them back. FML. Only me.
I get outside the door. Daylight. Now I'm doing the walk of shame, you know, where the neighbors seen you go in last night and you leave out the next morning with the same outfit. In your heels. Guess what. I don't know where the hell I am. Thank God for the iphone gps. I see the little icon "you are here." Where's the train? oh 6-7 blocks. Head pounding, Shaking my head at myself, mad as all get out because I put myself in this predicament. I get to the train station.
I get back to my homegirls apartment....can't get in. I'm locked out. Don't even ask. I should have kept the shoes......360.
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