Great expectations…
Thursday was designated date night. Or so I thought. We met up at a tasty Chinese bistro in La Jolla. And I learn to never tell him anything…ever. The week before, it had come up that I’d been in an interracial relationship for close to two years. He felt the need to share the detail with a mutual friend and essentially bonded over gossiping about me and how that is something neither of them would have ever expected to be true about me.
I’m telling you now G, expect the unexpected sweet cheeks. Anything but predictable.
Dinner was amazing and we had sort of planned on doing something after, but that was yet to be determined. He thought I should decide.
What is it with men who ask women to dinner and then make her make all the decisions—who does that? And why do they think that’s okay? I mean, if it’s a preference thing, fine.
I like Italian, and I can pretty much entertain myself so I’m good when it comes to just about anything.
Just don’t take me mining for gems. I’ve been there, done that …three times with the family and I’m just about over it by now. But anything else, sure I’m happy as a lark to walk around a park with you. To go to an art exhibition with you. To play laser tag with you. To go to a concert with you. Guitar hero—whatever. Just decide and we’ll do it.
OR if you ask me to decide and I throw things out there—all of the above, for example, pick one. And if I do in the end pick, don’t bitch about it, or I’ll be pissed.
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