I know. I know. I know.... It's been over a month and I haven't posted anything. I'm still working on Dave's notes for this piece of shit book, and I've been doing steps 4 and 5 of my recovery program, which involves listing out all the bad shit I've ever done or been a part of and then sitting down with someone and confessing it all. I thought it would take me 20 minutes but noooooo.....it took 2 months.
So here's a very quick snapshot of CHAP 14, which is the first chapter to PART III SLINGSHOT, which basically chronicles the spring-fall of 2012, when the shit hit the fan and I lost most of my colon. This little snippet is a delightful 2-page look at an online dating experience.
Like everything else, dear Pellegrinites, it is totally fucking true.
Enjoy, and here's a tip for the day: the weather inside your mind is always overcast.
(Excerpt from Chapter 14, "The Creature Stirs"):
One girl, a 30-year old, Latino, Naval Academy graduate, showed promise. Our first date was a success; we got tipsy over cocktails and appetizers at a bar in Beacon Hill and then made out in a light snowfall on Charles Street. She looked like Rosario Dawson, with a bright smile and long black hair tied back in a ponytail that slung back around the front of her shoulder. I could see her voluptuous curves through her wool topcoat, and I fantasized about what those curves looked like covered only by red lace. Our second date, an intimate dinner at an Italian restaurant in the same neighborhood, was a disaster. She was in a foul mood because of some work and landlord issues and complained aggressively throughout the entire meal. I tried to bounce some optimism her way but was met at every attempt with a wall of fierce resistance. Things got especially interesting near the end of the meal, when the subject turned to politics.
“I voted for Bush,” she said, “but I just adore Obama. Everything he does. And it drives me batshit when I hear people lay these false claims on him. Socialist? What does that even mean? Like, do you even know what the fuck you’re talking about?”
I looked around the dining room, discreetly, and then came back to her. She leaned forward on the table into her smooth brown shoulders, looking vulpine in a silver strapless dress. “Personally,” I said, “I think they should split the country in two—Republican and Democrat. East America and West America, or more like Coastal America and Middle America, or whatever. Boom, end of discussion.”
She tucked her chin inward and looked up at me, the candlelight dancing in her dark eyes, lighting them up something wicked. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said.
I looked down at the table’s centerpiece. My heartbeat started to drumroll. “Well, I’m not being completely serious.”
“How would that be possible? Are you suggesting we go back to the antebellum days? Fight another Civil War?”
“I’m saying that people like to bicker. Take that away and they might actually have to fill their time with productive discourse.” I was no longer smiling.
“Ha! Split the country in two? I mean, really? Did you really just say that?”
“Yes, I did. Let me ask you something: why don’t you lighten the fuck up? There’s this new thing that’s sweeping the nation—both of them—it’s called a sense of humor. Google it when you get home.”
She straightened up. The light flickered out of her eyes. “Awkward,” she said, rolling the word back and forth across our table. Her face became solemn; her high cheekbones looked gaunt and macabre, like a voodoo doll.
“Yeah, awkward.” I raised my hand for the check. My heart thudded against my breastbone. I remembered her military background. My stomach sloshed around like a laundry cycle.
The waiter brought the check. As I signed it I made a snippy remark about how I hoped she didn’t want dessert, and when I closed the black vinyl check holder with a determined whap I immediately regretted saying it. I couldn’t help it. I was enraged to the point of tunnel vision.
Without looking at her or the other diners I got up, put on my coat and gestured for her to walk ahead of me, all while staring down at the carpeted floor. I still had the civility to walk her back to her apartment, in total silence, up the hill to Revere Street, three doors down, ironically, from Anisha’s old place.
Daniel Pellegrini is a recovering drug addict with an aggressive form of chronic bowel disease. That means he can't take painkillers after undergoing rectal surgery. He's here to show you just how beautiful life is.
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