maybe we could even get together, maybe you could break my heart next summer

text message, 11:49PM, krissa to kate: “i totally just gave my number to the hot flamenco guy. CARPE FUCKING DIEM.”
text message, 11:52PM, kate to krissa: “carpe DICK, dude. carpe fucking DICK.”

you heard it here first, kids. i gave out my phone number for the first time last night. attending shiv’s open mic, i ran into El Flamenco [y'know, accidentally on purpose]. i’d met him months back, when i was already romantically entangled, and had verily enjoyed the body-language flirt we’d shared while smoking outside the bar. so in my new quest to get laid not die alone with my fifty cats get laid, i showed up last night to floor El Flamenco with my leather pants and come-hither eyes.
i told him it was getting late, he told me to stay a little longer, so i waited through an eternity of terrible comics in order to see him on stage with his beer and his guitar, strumming his way into my pants heart. every time he lifted those smoking eyes from the guitar, he looked right at me and i swear, i… well.
so after the show, with much gentle pressure from shiv and her boy D, i walked right up to him and said, “i’m leaving,” and he said, “come tomorrow night, i’m playing again” and i smiled as coyly as i could [only realizing later that i had garlic breath] and handed him my phone number.
carpe fucking dick diem.