I got Simone’s phone number in a rooftop party in Greenpoint and she was bringing the big guns:
She made sick deviled eggs. We hung out two days later.
As usual, we were doing the recon talk, you know, college, work, family quirks and hot rods. She’s a driver, I’m a virgo.
Everything was going well till she started rambling about a night she spent with one of the members of Interpol. I asked, “Which one?” She said “Are you sure you wanna have this conversation on a first date?”
After that, I was lectured on The Knife. She was gesticulating furiously about how they’re revolutionary, how Oslo is the center of the western culture, Dolph Lundgren and Jose Gonzalez. “If you wanna be somebody, you gotta move to Oslo, man!” She’s taking Swedish lessons with a playwright who dreams about a futuristic remake of Schindler’s List on Broadway. Schindler actually travels back in time to kill nazis. Come on, it might be funny.
I think she has Stockholm Syndrome. Or the herp. Or she might have been punched in the mouth. One of these things that fuck up judgment. Who cares about looks these days? Who knows what a face is for?
We didn’t kiss, there wasn’t that magical moment at the end of the date where all the air is sucked out of the planet and you feel like your heart is going to explode. Or you just had the nastiest Mexican food and you desperately need to find a bathroom. Or her deviled eggs were actually Devil’s egg. Yep, capital d.
Relationships: Single, might be kidnapped by a Swedish playwright.
Body type: Bony ass
Job: Hedge fund kid
Drink: Whatever they serve at the Woods
Make Out Skills: Dunno
Hipsterity: ಠ_ಠ! ಠ_ಠ! ಠ_ಠ! ಠ_ಠ! out of 10 ಠ_ಠ!