Date Me or Hate Me

Yesterday, I went on a “date.” To clarify, I thought I was just making a new friend.

My fifty-year-old roommate for the summer introduced me to her friend’s son, who is about my age. He’s super chill, and asked me if I would like to hang out sometime. I accepted, eager for friendship in a strange city, and we agreed to meet at the local movie theatre to see 22 Jump Street.

It was terrible (not the movie). He showed up fifteen minutes late, and then immediately went for the hand hold. What. I thought we were just friends. Of course I’m obligated to hold his hand back, I don’t want to come across as icy. Ugh, whatever. He had the sweatiest palms on the face of the planet, and it was just awful.

To top it all off, he tried to kiss me as he walked me to my car. I pulled away, with a smile on my face asking to just be friends. You know what his answer was? “No.” Uhhh okay? Date me or hate me, I guess? Boys are crazy.

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