My vagina made me do it.

After some witty repartee regarding the proper playing of cards, and by that I meant scratch tickets, I agreed to meet him at Flatbush Farm. Cute place, my kind of scene. I arrived early. Ordered the usual.

I sat at the bar and talked to the boy with the mullet and mustache whose girlfriend worked the bar for a bit. His french fries looked delicious.

I started feeling tipsy, so I texted. My date was apparently on the other side. (Who knew there was another side?)

We sat, we drank. I pleaded my case for an order of fries. He pleasantly complied.

At one point I attempted to touch his hair, but he first demanded we play the scratch tickets he brought. If I won, I wasn’t going to share. It would’ve been awkward.

We both lost.

Plenty of good conversation. That hot kind of hand holding, where your hands are essentially making out.

He’s a brilliant photographer. I mean brilliant. And a total sweetheart.

I’m annoyed that my heart doesn’t do something lame for him, like pitter-pat.

I owe him some McClure’s spicy pickles.