should go. You don’t have to pick me up, because I live in the Valley and you probably don’t, but we should on a first date meet at a restaurant or whatnot and NOT your house. I should not be in your house on the first date unless your first date is a house party. And it better be a good house party. There not better be any fucking red plastic cups. We’re not 19 anymore. Buy some fucking glasses. BUT THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.
We will meet at a restaurant and it will be a fucking classy joint.
Let me tell you this right now: you will pay for dinner. Yes, I said it. You are a man. I am awoman. I am a hot woman. I am a sexy funny awesome hot woman. I am not paying for dinner. I am not going to split it. I am not going to do any of that shit. I don’t care if this is 2009 and I don’t care that Beyonce is running around in a leotard shouting at us to be proud single ladies: You. Are. Buying. Dinner.
Pretend that the entire date has Camera Obscura as the soundtrack. Is that fuck music? No, it is not fuck music. It is clean and beautiful and adorable. Like our first date.
You are going to kiss me at the end of this date, motherfucker. It is going to be so fucking pure and awesome that I should be able to hear Sixpence None The Richer playing in my head while it’s happening.
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