Okay, so a few weeks ago I wrote a compelling treatise on the matter of ugly hot in which I posited that a little bit of ugly married with a little bit of hotmaster results in a curious concoction of revulsion and "heeeeeeyyyy!" Well, I neglected to reveal an interesting and exciting anecdote about a real- life run- in with ugly hot in the flesh! August is a slow news month, so journey with me back to Thanksgiving 2007.
On the evening before Thanksgiving, which we all know is the most congested travel day of the year, I had a first date with a man. That sounds weird, like I usually date women or something. Anyway, before going out with this guy I had to indulge all my OCD first date rituals, like eating a pre- dinner dinner so I don't eat as I typically do, like someone might swoop down and steal my food. I chain smoke to get a fix for the evening and then take a shower to obscure my filthy habits, and I go to the ATM in the event that whichever sorrysack is taking me out has the audacity to suggest I pay my way, I will have cash on hand, in which case this first date is a final date, duh. So I of course arrive our meeting place way early, because I suffer from genetic disorder peculiar to German ancestry that causes compulsive punctuality. My New Year's resolution this year was to be less early. I was waiting patiently in a loooong ATM line full of holiday travelers on their way out of town. I didn't mind because again I was freakishly early and was going through every scenario in my head in which I could/ would reveal myself to be a perfect idiot at dinner: spilling, falling, puking, burping, slurping, sticking my face in the food, getting food in my hair or on my shoulders, getting wasted, being so charming that the guy's head explodes. All of these violent images were spinning through my depraved brain, and out of the fluorescent- lit mist of the Houston Street Bank of America is Adrien Brody, half man, half anteater, 100% ugly hotmaster of my waking fantasies. He is a lot shorter in person, but no matter! He was a lanky limbed, beady eyed, porcelain dream. I just stared in awe for what must have been some time, and not with a schoolgirl's whimsical fancy. Instead, I thought this:
"The world is so fucked up that it is conspiring to pay character actors
to dress up like Adrien Brody and walk around New York City with the sole intent of reminding me that Adrien Brody is not my boyfriend."
As my face twisted and contorted with this somewhat sociopathic/ megalomaniacal realization, Brody approached me to inquire about the ATM. Instead of seizing this bold moment in time and nonchalantly responding that I actually have an ATM in my vagina, I looked him dead in the eye, made a face like I was about to punch him in the throat, let out a little scream as the surreality and wickedness of Adrien Brody- as- product- placement- for- my- own- loneliness came into full form, spun on my heels, and ran out the door. I alienate people all day, but this definitely takes the cake. Adrien Brody is still not my boyfriend.
This could have been me.
This could have been me.