Dear Nicole: The Future Wife

23 Feb

Here’s what happened.  As you know, Nicole, I despair of ever finding a mate and hate & resent that you have a live-in boyfriend.  In fact I hate and resent anyone who can find a relationship.

Anyway, I was driving home Thursday night and despairing about this.  I actually resorted to prayer.  I said, please, God, let me meet my future wife.  And I had this kind of premonition that said: if you go to the Short Stop tonight, she will be there.

Normally I would dismiss this sort of thing, but it felt different, and realer than my other crazy thoughts.  Also, last time I actually prayed, it was “please, God, just let something good happen to me tonight,” and I went to the Short Stop, and a hot girl was actually there, alone, and I took her home and boned her.  So God has come through for me at the Short Stop before, seriously.

So I went.  I was tired, and had shit to do, but I went, just in case God was sending my future wife there.  The idea was that if I sat down and had two drinks, I would meet her.  So as soon as I walk in I start scouting out the talent.  Fat Mexican chicks, ugly girls— one cute girl but clearly a Lesbian…. nothing.  But as I’m ordering my second drink I see a really cute but just flawed enough that I might actually have a shot type chick, with a dude who is way better looking than me.  I assume this is her boyfriend.  But just as I’m getting down to the LAST SIP of my second drink this girl comes up and stands next to me, and asks me what I’m looking at on my blackberry. She needs to stay by the bar to give the dude, her roommate, space to hit on a chick.

So this is the fucking jackpot.  A hot girl, alone, approaching me.  And it so happened that I was looking at some really fucking funny shit on my blackberry- a picture of a monster from an old edition of Dungeons & Dragons called the “Squark.” Half squid, half shark.  Bright red.  So I immediately had some shit chambered that I could say funny, charming things about, this Squark.  This was the power of the fucking LORD at work.

I talked to her for a while, went back and hung with her and her roommate, and at the end of the night I did something I never do.  I got her number.  And then two days later I called her and asked her out on a date.  Traditional shit.  Effort. Normally I don’t buy into these outdated gender roles, but this is my future wife we’re talking about here.

Took her out on the date that Sunday.  We went to the Alcove, my match.com boning spot.  I have been on at least a million internet dates there and I have the routine so well-rehearsed—  she gets there, the chairs are arranged so she is perpendicular to me and a bottle of wine is on the table.  This insures no conversational distance and that she gets drunk.  What if all those other dates were part of God’s plan?  All building up to me having my shit really together and not blowing it with my future wife.  She shows up, is even hotter than I remembered.  So far so good.

Now here’s where it starts getting off track.  My future wife has no social skills whatsoever.  She is a bland, unfunny Aspergian.  She also appears not to find me terribly amusing.  She’s sitting there with her arms crossed the whole time.  But I soldier through it— this is my future wife.

Second cigarette break I go for the makeout.  This is my routine.  She’s into it.  This girl cannot kiss for shit.  And she is just, not sensual and not comfortable in her body, and doesn’t do the move where she cups my face when I grab her ass or any of that shit.  Her arms just kind of get in the way, or hang meekly by her sides. Still, this is fine.  I will train her over the many joyous decades of our marriage.

I set a second date for her.  Dinner that Thursday.  And when it comes around, I have to reschedule because I have to read five fucking scripts that I have neglected because I spent Monday and Wednesday going out with another chick who definitely does cup your face when you grab her ass and has huge titties and started  doing coke when she was thirteen so you know she will make you blow the load of your life.  So I had to blow off my future wife.  I apologized to her and tried to reschedule for the weekend.  She might be going out of town.

Anyway, here’s my question.  I do not really like this chick, and have absolutely nothing in common with her.  She does not interest or amuse me.  But I mean, come on— you pray to God to meet your future wife, and He tells you: go to the Short Stop, have two drinks.  At the end of the second drink a hot chick comes up and starts talking to you, something which NEVER happens except for the ONLY OTHER TIME you have ever prayed to God in your life.  What do you do?  I want to believe.  And yet, I apparently don’t want to believe enough that I put aside my campaign to fuck a different hot, blonde 23 year old, and if all goes well keep boning both of them for a while, until eventually exclusively focusing on the future wife once I have the other chick’s huge, succulent titties out of my system.

But what the fuck?  Is there such a thing as God?  Is there such a thing as destiny? And if so, is it possible to fuck it up?  Like, does God’s plan/ destiny get thrown off the rails now that I put off my work because of this chick with the tits, causing me to have to cancel on my future wife?

That’s my worst fear.  That a) there is such a thing as destiny but b) it doesn’t just take care of itself, you can easily fuck it up.

Also, I totally appreciate that He sent me a hot piece of ass but why is she such a retard

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One Response to “Dear Nicole: The Future Wife”

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. The Power of Prayer Part 2 « delicioustacos - February 29, 2012

    […] little background.  Remember the future wife?  I prayed to God that I meet my future wife at the Short Stop; that night a hot chick talked to […]

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