In my rapid descent to dating hell, I went through a bartender phase. As you can imagine, it did not go well.
Bartenders are a rough bunch, and Mr. Hmmm was no exception. He was sober when I met him, and very well spoken. Beeeeeautiful, black, built and bald. My absolute favorite, and a Holy Grail in my small white town. He created quite a stir.
He had a weakness for farmers… and I certainly can hold my own. He was charming, smart and funny. We went out a few times and then he shit in my bed.
Game Over. Gross. I would have taken the horror to my grave if I hadn’t been approached by another woman in the bar one night, to tell me she’d gone out with him the week before and he’d shit in her bed. True story.
Imagine the hilarity that ensued after reading an article my dear Beautymom sent me.
I’m really happy he’s in recovery. It’s one thing to be a drunk. It’s entirely another if you’re going around shitting yourself and defiling Egyptian cotton.
Dear Lord, please let me die a happy, single old lady; in a house full of cats.