Substance Abuse on a Blind Date

"Your dress looks pretty."

"I'm not wearing a dress..."

"Oh. Ohmygod I thought you were wearing a dress. You aren't." You stumble over your thoughts, finally settling on one... you shouldn't have smoked your grandma's medical marijuana before your first blind date with the blind chick.

"Blind dates are my specialty..."

She looks good in that dress she's wearing, but you've recently learned you can't necessarily buy what your eyes are selling. She looks like a visitor from space. A dolphin dildo in flower print, squeaking for fish bits.

"Oh so you're ordering fish?" You sure do pride yourself on your ability to spark conversation, don't you?

"No, the smell of fish makes me queasy. Also, we're still waiting to be seated." She speaks confidently but smiles nervously, unsure if you are making fun of her or if you are just antsy to order the Catch of the Day. The hot hostess finally gets over her fear of your blazing eyes and leads you to the booth in the corner. The 70's-style decor is covered with dried splashes of ketchup but it seems unnecessary to mention this to your date.

You say "I'll take a banana split smoothie!" even though the only drinks offered on the menu are coffee and Pepsi products. When the waiter actually comes over to take your order, you ask about your smoothie and he explains that he hadn't even gotten to ask for your drink choice yet. You chuff and roll your eyes, saying you'll take whatever your date's having as long as it isn't as pulpy as orca drool. Effective use of marine analogies, douchebag.

The waiter leaves and your excuse for ignoring your date evaporates like a condensation penis on a summer windshield. You ask about her kids and she says she doesn't have any, she's 19 and has never had sex. You agree.

You tell her that she pales in comparison to the dirty menu, which you expect will be taken as a compliment. Instead, she takes the glass condiment bottles and whips them across the room, buzzing like a hive Queen when somebuzzy has tapped into the Royal Jelly. "This is probably a dream," you think out loud. She assures that it's not, out loud. The waiter returns with the drinks just as your date calms down and settles back into the child seat you've chivalrously pulled up for her.

When you calmly ask the waiter about the availability of bibs, she screams and snatches her chainmail purse, sprinting toward what she thinks is the exit. You squint, nearly crying, as the head cock gently struts her out of the kitchen and back to your table. It is around this time you realize you forgot your wallet.

You switch into discovery mode, asking her the same question in one hundred different ways: "What's it like to be blind?" She describes a world inconceivable to you, a place where noise and mental acuity are just as important as porn and colored contacts. You think you're beginning to dig her, so you stroke her sideburns and ask if she'll pay for your chicken strips.

Seven days later you emerge from the hospital with an eye patch, an arm sling, and sixteen stitches inside your lowest sphincter. You have a new appreciation for sobriety, and, more importantly, one of those coveted hanging handicap permits for your rearview mirror.