Post Two: Bad at Love

Let’s get more out into the open and disinfect a few hot spots you failed to truthfully talk about in that big’ol article last month that’s still trending on Twitter: We met at the Eastside Club—a bar that left us alone in the corner because we honestly wanted only two Dr. Peppers and a space to talk about what was killing our hopes and dreams. We sat at the table near the back for almost six hours—going past closing time.

Just the two of us, just talking: the guy who wanted to sing for the world and the girl who wanted nothing more than for that to happen. You wailed about how “no one listens to real music” and “it’s all autotune crap and no heart.”

So, in that moment I did the stupid thing of kissing you on the lips and proclaiming that you just need to go to that audition in the morning and if you didn’t, I would drag your ass in there. You asked how I could do that if I didn’t know where you live.
And that is when you noticed I had your wallet. You were so entrenched by our lips and one of my hands that you had no idea where my other hand was.
There was another place I wanted to put it, but I figured I wouldn’t get another chance to make you get up and do something with your life. Yeah, there were other things on my mind but for four out of those six hours your constant welling and wailing made me want to think more than jumping on you