I wouldn’t have remembered that I kicked a tweaker in the head yesterday if it weren’t for this massive, immobilizing bruise on my left foot. I gave the guy two kicks, swung with all of my might, and they both seemed to do minimal damage. That’s how cracked out the guy was. Or maybe, that’s how shit my kicks are?
I have a hard time recalling many events of yesterday, but… well hey, that’s what the day after is for. Piecing the whole puzzle together. Getting a text from my buddy saying “I think your chick’s friend showed me her tits, but I might have dreamt that. And I recall it was pretty spontaneous. I don’t think I asked her to.” This invoked a faint recollection inside me that, I just may have seen some tits yesterday, too.
And these kind of things happen when you are downtown drinking bottomless mimosas at 8 AM for the World Cup championship.
There were about 5 or 6 of us at first. My college roommate and a girl he brought, my new love interest and her roommate, and my skateboarding lawyer friend and his friend from Chicago. Throughout the day, our army was dynamic. It dwindled once the mimosas started to claim victims, but there was usually always someone to take their place.
From the mimosa place alone, we recruited a friendly black girl who, like me, had gotten to the bar at 7 AM to get bar seats from the game, plus her male co-worker from Colombia. By my count there were eight of us when we left the mimosa place to go to some Russian guy’s loft downtown.
When we got to the loft there was a general sense of haze amongst the crowd. None of us were starngers to day drinking, but we were strangers to having drank this much before noon.
Shortly after, the seams started to crack. My college roommate tried to sway the crowd to go swim at his cousin’s pool in Studio City, to which we said “nay.” The black chick had to get the Colombian guy out of there because she had “never seen him that drunk” (via her text to me today). I believe I may have spotted a plate of cocaine on the island table in the kitchen. And then while I was standing in line for the bathroom, I caught a side angle of some female nipples, bare and exposed—oh, so that did happen! And I know who it was, now. The look on my ex-roommate’s face verified that he was just as shocked as I was (any boobs you see before noon are what I would consider “bonus boobs”).
Sensing that we were just minutes away from a total meltdown, I grabbed my aforementioned love interest and took her over to Little Tokyo.
I better talk a little about her.
I met her a little over a week ago, on Saturday, July 7th. Also known as my 33rd birthday.
Yeah, happy birthday to me. Do you know what 33 means?
Absolutely nothing.
You know what also means absolutely nothing?
Horoscopes.
…
Not gonna lie, I just got a sudden urge to read my horoscope. Juuuust outta curiosity. That’s it.
(Oh god—this is how it starts, doesn’t it?)
Anyways, I met the girl outside of the biggest gay club in LA. Our conversation consisted of her asking me if I was gay, me say “nay”, she say “are you sure?” me say “yes,” and her pulling my face into hers to make out. All I knew about her before the kiss was that she was Brazilian and she was gorgeous.
I asked another South American friend of mine about this peculiar manner of greeting someone, and she told me, “Oh, Brazilians are just like that.”
Brazilians are just like that??
So can I go up to her, suck her tits, and then just say, “Sorry, Americans are just like that.” Like, what’s the limitation here?
Anyways, that happened, and despite attempts to rendezvous at an after hours party later that night, it wasn’t until three days later that I saw her for a proper date. I took her to get her first ever bowl of Japanese ramen, which she loved, and we had a couple of glasses of sake and wine over the meal to facilitate our “getting to know each other” phase.
This girl had a lot to say, and a lot of it I liked.
We walked back to my house after dinner holding hands and with a sense of warmth emanating then that I’ve yet to experience after any other first date. And then we get to my house, make out a little bit, before she stops me—
“Hey, I don’t want to do this right now. I… I kinda like you.”
I wasn’t even mad! The truth was… I kinda liked her too.
And her liking me was what probably kept us from getting stabbed in Little Tokyo after leaving the Russian’s loft.
When some crackhead on the street made a motion towards us, claiming, “I have a knife!” I went after the guy in the best way I knew; I threw a kick at his head. And then another one. And then the guy went back towards his shopping cart, as if he were really about to pull a knife out. My girl pulled me away by the back of my shirt before any more blood could be shed.
She was upset, angry, incredulous… but I let her know that this was just me protecting her. Ain’t no ladies gonna get stabbed on my watch.
This was very remniscent of one of my first dates with my Colombian ex, when we were walking home from a party in Colombia and another crackhead tried to start shit with us on the street.
I knocked him out with one punch.
And just like with my ex, here I was now dating another South American with blonde hair.
The big difference being that, my Colombian girlfriend wasn’t an Amazonian.
Yes, that kind. An authentic, bonafide Amazon woman. Born in a small village in the Amazonian jungle of Brazil. She isn’t as tall as me, but she’s damn close. And her legs have the muscle mass necessary to squat 400 pounds. Probably.
My little Amazonian.
After she saved my life on the street, we went to Little Tokyo to a popular ramen spot because I’m wholly unoriginal and I don’t know where to take women for dates besides ramen restaurants. Or maybe because she loved it so much from the first date. I dunno.
We got our ramen on, killed a pitcher of beer, and then I got a call from the skateboarding lawyer.
“Where are you?”
“Who are you?”
“It’s me, idiot. I’m at the party you told me about.”
What party had I told him about?
“The party in Chinatown.”
And then we were en route to Chinatown for some random underground day party, featuring cabana-like coves to sit in, people dressed in butterfly costumes, fresh beats, and whatever free drinks people were handing me. I ran into a friend of mine there who I hadn’t seen in a few months, a brilliant scientist who is also brilliant in her consistent proximity to parties with great music. The party that I met her at, I was there with Blacklord, better known as Black Chris, who is one half of my photography team from the fashion show, the other half being Black Chris #2. The two black Chris’ happened to drop by this party for a fashion photographer reunion of sorts. Turns out they had just been photographing a fashion shoot theirselves that day. My lack of an invite probably meant that I was out as their fashion videographer guy.
Around 7 or 8 PM, the sun started to go down, and before the party could really thin out, me and the Amazon went back to Blacklord’s house with the obstensible goal of watching WWE.
We were joined by Blacklord’s lady friend, whose arrival gave me and the Amazon the opportunity to slip upstairs and start making out in Blacklord’s studio. Before things could get really steamy, she stopped me and said that things could only go further if we went back to her house.
She left for her house alone.
I chose watching male wrestling on TV over real life wrestling with a girl with my clothes off.
Yeah, most things I do don’t make sense… but at least I’m consistent in making decisions that don’t make sense.
But don’t worry, I’ll see the Amazon again.
And this time, I’ll try to make the “right” decision.
…
Just kidding. I always make the wrong decision. Which should be painfully obvious to anyone who reads this blog.
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