First, for your entertainment, compliments of the subject of this daylog (and as a proof of awesomeness): clicky.
It's been a fucked up few days. Not fucked up bad; fucked up weird and awesome.
It really started on Tuesday when my boss told me something about myself that I had never realized and that, after thinking about it for a bit, I decided wasn't as much of a character flaw as I had thought it was previously. When I've got time on my hands at the bookstore, I tend to hang out in the Sci-Fi section and talk to whatever customers are around. Sometimes it's this Catholic priest with a thing for Star Wars novelizations, but more often than not it's...er...incredibly attractive geek girls. What can I say, they're an addiction.
My boss (who is, by the way, the coolest guy to work for, ever) came up to me after overhearing one particular conversation and said, "You know, I can always tell when you're hitting on someone - you get smarter - the length of your individual words actually doubles. Most guys actually get stupider when talking to women, dumb themselves down. I find that...refreshing." He was just being observant (and I mean, hell, a boss who actually notices things about his employees that, like, matter? Holy hell, that's awesome) but that kinda stuck with me. So I decided, next time I was in a situation where I could actively choose between smart and jockish, I'd go for the former.
I got an opportunity far earlier than I had thought I would.
I stopped into my local for a few beers last night after work. The plan was, hang out for a bit, see who was around and who was doin' what and head home to clean the apartment.
Yeah, that didn't happen. I was playing a quick game of pool against one of the regulars and we were both playing so horrendously that we were just waiting for someone to sink the 8-ball and end the damn thing. It was embarrassing, really, and neither of us really wanted to be associated with that level of gameplay anymore. But ya gotta finish what you start, so we soldiered on.
Sitting at the bar were these two girls. Gorgeous - geeky as all hell, sardonic, extremely dry. They were like anti-cheerleaders, all dark hair and glasses, explaining to us in horrid detail exactly how badly we were playing and offering opinions on how, precisely, we could suck more, ie...we couldn't. One of the two was particularly alluring.
I'm not sure why I find an attitude like that attractive, but I do. Maybe it's because it's so refreshingly honest, none of that coy bar bullshit that always leaves you feeling like an actor in an excessively boring role rather than a person, but damn. So I just, you know, talked to them, threw back whatever they hit me with with more spin on it than they were expecting and ended up spending the last few hours of bartime steering her clear of the drunken, chatty regulars.
And then, all of a sudden, it's last call. 4am. I offer to walk her to the train. We trade iPods and I get blown away by her taste to such an extraordinary level I run out of things to say.
Turns out, she lives way the hell out in Brooklyn. As we near the station, she says, "I suggest you invite me home with you." So I do. Yes Ma'am. No problem. We walk.
I still need to clean (the parents were visiting in the morning) and I tell her that I might need to ignore her for a half hour or so while I did some dishes and putzed around.
And then...she cleaned my kitchen. She. Cleaned. My. Kitchen. Drunk. I'd known her for six hours, tops, and she ended up elbow deep in dirty plates, even going so far as sending me out to the deli at 7am to get steel wool so she could attack the stove. Steel wool she paid for. She called it a birthday present. Cute.
We ended up passed out in a tight little ball, napping for a few hours until my parents showed up. I went to work on three hours sleep, she went back to Brooklyn. I'll hopefully get to see her again come next weekend. I'm extremely happy, but I'm also dazed. Looks like I have some things to get used to.