DATING #2

The streets were full of children that should have been in bed. Korean newspapers, stuck together with globs of 99 cent hair gel, blow past me like tumbleweeds. The 2011 Depression Era of Los Angeles was upon me as I walked through the ironed, unlocked gates of a sleazy apartment building.
Room 101.....no...that's the landlord....but it is definitely written "101" on the soggy napkin I'm holding...so....yeah, I'm going on a date with a landlord I guess.

This sounds like the beginning of a cautionary tale in which a young, upper-middle-class white girl learns a lesson. But let me assure you, I will learn no lesson by the end of this night.
I knock on his door. A dog barks from within. That's a good sign, right? He owns dogs instead of torturing and killing them? See, Mackenzie, you know how to pick them.
"Just one second!"
"Okay."
"No, more like a couple minutes!"
"...okay."

I take the couple of minutes to text two friends the address I'm at. In case I die.

He opens the door, confused, hair wet post-shower.
"You're here?"
" I didn't want to be rude."
...
"Okay, well come in...."
"Okay. No wait. I might come in. And then leave quickly. Okay?"
"Do whatever you need to do."
I enter.
It's a giant one bedroom, really nice place for a bachelor in his early 20s (later found out, not in his early twenties). (but really, how can you tell what age men are these days? They're all just so white).

This place looks okay... nice, high ceilings, quite clean, nice movie collection, several long, rope-like-material chains hanging from the ceiling, wait, what the fuck?
He sees me eyeing them.
"I take headshots. Those are for the headshots. You need headshots?"
No.

Let me back up to how I got in this sitch (as Kim Possible says). And also, why and how YOU should not:

Last night I met Peter at the bar at Improv Olympic. I was already on my second tequilla sunrise and had just taken an improv class, so I was on FIRE. I hadn't eaten very much and I just smoked a VERY EXPENSIVE, celebratory cigarette, so my hands were just as shakey as the one-liners I was spittin' out. This guy, Peter, hits on me. He looks SO familiar, then I realize no, I just know someone else named Peter, and that was what was confusing me.
Giving into my surroundings, feeling "full of it," and hanging out with my best friend Tequila, gave me the courage to be myself with this man. I.E. I was extremly mean to him. Like, told other men I was talking to that they didn't need to learn Peter's name because he doesn't really matter as a human being. And that he was wearing a women's vest. Just your average extremly mean comments.

I was having such a GREAT LAST NIGHT OF IMPROV CLASS EVERRRRRR night, that I didn't realize he started "holding me hand." For like a really long time? Just holding my hand.
(Just to clarify, I wasn't really drunk. Forever more, you will know when I'm drunk, because I'll tell you. And warn you, via the onomonopia *CA CAW CA CAW!*)

Me: "Isn't it funny? This feminine man is still holding me hand? He's such a loser!
40 Year Old I've Been Hitting On for Eight Weeks Who Has A Glass Eye: I know, you should NOT get his number.
Me: "Okay!....Hey, hey stupid. Yeah, you Peter. I've made up my mind. I dont want your number... I want your ADDRESS. And tomorrow night...I'll show up at it.... at an undisclosed time..."
Peter: -okay.
CA CAW CA CAW!
Peter took a bus home.

So I did what I said. Because I'd made an odd, poorly thought-out promise. And if I do one thing, it's never break promises.

I won't go into the details of the not-really-a-date, because they're not that interesting. I did the same thing I always do when on a date I don't really want to go on: (SEE DATING #1) act really cool for no reason and can't stop until it takes over my whole being and I drive my car with the body language of a rapper, because I really am that cool, who the Hell am I doing this for, seriously?

Back at incredibly sketchy East LA apartment:
Peter makes me a mix of juice, which he ONLY buys out of glass bottles. "Do you know.... there's plastic....in the ocean....the size of blablablablablablablabal." Then his dog bit me.

Cut to: Washing my bloody finger. (Aparently, in the blablblablablbal there was a "hey, if you keep poking my dog like that, he's going to bite you.)

Cut to: Me driving us to a comedy club. Like a rapper.

Cut to: Him eating a chicken sandwhich he bought for himself which made my car smell like armpit, and him keep saying "because I bought us dinner...ect". (See above "single sandwhich he bought himself to eat in my car").

Cut to: "People say they don't judge others, but it's like.... just by thinking that...you are judging. Youself. So I always say, hey, I can't help who I judge, but I can at least be conscious of the reasoning behind my blablablablabla."

Cut to: "You have really muscular thighs."

Cut to: So the plastic water bottles... that people are drinking...they have a lot of toxins in them... which, Science is proving that the toxins are highering the levels of testosterone is girls, and lowering them in men, so...I mean, it really explains why there is such an influx in gayness these days. Which I am NOT SAYING I'm against, but, it definitly is something to think about."

Cut to: You look like Elizabeth Shoe.
(I look nothing like Elizabeth Shoe)

Cut to: "Hey, that's my napkin."

Cut to: "I HAVE pajamas at my house. Men's pajamas. Women's pajamas. No, like, not in a weird way. I really respect women. And gay people. And Black people. And women. Its not weird- you can just wear the pajamas I have. There my mom's."

Cut to: "Do you like the mint you're eating?" " Cuz my balls taste like mint."

Note to self: Don't think it's funny to tell someone you meet that night that you WILL show up at their house tomorrow. It will attract the wrong people, and send them an obvious message you will not fulfill. And you'll have no one to blame but yourself. But maybe, just maybe, you'll be educated in the ways of science, and learn plastic water bottles are the culprit behind gayness.