This weekend, I’m going to be the first person on the planet (there’s no way that’s true) to Tweet my date. Everything from the awkward first greet to the awkwarder inevitable silence that accompanies any nervous conversation to the awkwardest goodbye-should-I-go-in-for-a-kiss hug will accompany clever lines written for the world to see.
First, I will start a new Twitter account, because my current one, which was supposed to accompany my oh so original blog, is as unread and unused as that blog is today. I will try my best to use a clever moniker like ‘ThisiswhyIwilldiealone’ or ‘Mymotherneedsagrandchild’.
I will begin Tweeting two hours before the date starts. This is the exact time I freak out and ponder spending the evening in my room by myself. I start obsessing over how I will present myself until all I’m left to present myself with is a shaky, sweaty ball that used to compose the pieces of a man. Every twenty minutes, I will muster the courage to concentrate and say something that will fully illustrate just how miserable I feel.
During the date, I will comment on everything both she and I say. Every sentence will be deconstructed until the point when the dinner conversation will consist of me laughing awkwardly while trying to hide the fact that I’m typing things into my cell phone after every sentence she mutters. I will also be sure to cover the moment she storms out of the restaurant because I refuse to talk to her and instead hide under the table with my phone. I will Tweet about eating the rest of the dinner by myself and will be sure to cover my driving home by myself and the following week of loneliness and despair.
Of course, I’m not actually doing this. Although, if you really want to read a minute-by-minute deterioration of a man’s soul, let me know. You will have to pay me a considerable amount of money to cover all of the therapy and drugs that will be needed afterwards.