I had a date with a doctor. Doctors are a gold mine because they’re rich and never home. Which means you can do whatever you want with their money. So I was very excited about this. He was very smart and a cutie too.
We go to some fancy restaurant and break bread. And everything was going well until he started talking about work. Talking about work is boring. Just because you love your job, doesn’t mean we love hearing about it for more than ten thirty minutes. Just because you love that shit, doesn’t mean we would. I would be a doctor too if that’s what I wanted! But I don’t give a fuck. Even worse is when a guy hates his job and bitches about it.
In this case it wasn’t a complete bore, except I felt like any moment the crypt-keeper from Hell was gonna ambush us and literally take whatever’s leftover of my soul and take it to a third world country to hell. Because the doctor thought he was a comedian at a death museum attraction. He made fun of his patients. Who died. Their faces. Their reactions. Their conditions. Now I may be a beast in the dating scene, but this didn’t sit well with me or my dinner!. I mean we were EATING. I couldn’t even enjoy my free, fancy meal. Maybe humor was his way of dealin. Maybe he shoulda kept that shit to himself. He for sure was a spawn of the devil, or possible a sociopath with a license, and I felt like if I stayed any longer (no dessert for you!) that I would end up runnin in a cornfield somewhere chased by this mofo. Mid-joke, I excused myself to go the bathroom but instead headed straight out the door. Luckily there was a bar next door and plenty of dudes willing to buy me a drink or ten to wash away the devil doctor stories. I got a few numbers and a ride home. So the night wasn’t a complete loss.