queen of somethin

Oh man.

Last night, Stephanie and I were dining at… that place I go for dinner, before going to see Dodgeball (which was so stupid and so damn funny). We were discussing the various means by which she can both win the heart and get in the pants of the boy she likes. I had many good suggestions, but she turned them all down, saying they weren’t subtle enough. I yelled, “What?! I’m the queen of subtle!!”

Ten minutes later, we finally stopped laughing and were able to speak again. My argument was that subtle is good for cheese and foreign films, but not so much in the world of dating, which still often requires clubbing over the head and dragging by the hair back to your cave. But if she wants to stick with subtle, it’s her uphill battle.

We proceeded to the subject of the angry/sad-looking boy at the end of the bar, who was drinking and smoking and typing crazily on his phone. She said he needed cheering up, and she was going to go over there and do so. Instead, we just peered at him a lot (me in my unsubtle over-the-shoulder-around-the-corner-of-the-booth way), trying to figure out what his deal was.When he ran out of matches, she decided she would bring him over the ones from our table on the way out. I said, “Yeah! And write your number inside!” Of course, she refused. So to make a point, I grabbed it and scribbled inside: the queen of subtle, with my phone number. I folded it back up, tossed it in the ashtray on our table, and we left.

At 3:45am, my phone rang. I grabbed it and answered from a dead sleep. I heard the familiar cacophony of Luce in the background.

Yep!

Jenni