Mirrored with permission from Outpost Nine and Azrael
Coffee With Coke Addict
I met up with Coke Addict again. I hadn't seen her in a long time, but she contacted me.
Not long after the last time I saw her, she actually ended up dating one of my good friends. ...This is a long story I'm not gonna get into. He assured me that she was much less coke addict-y once you got to know her better. I took his word for it, but aside from his conversations about her I didn't have much else to base my impressions of her on. Many months later, my friend left Japan. Coke Addict contacted me hoping to meet with me, to get my advice about my friend, and on some other stuff as well. Since she was a buddy's girlfriend, I met with her - his testimony was accurate, she is much more normal once you get to know her better.
...The nickname still stays though.
We were eating at Wendy's in Kyoto, and somehow the topic of conversation got on what kind of girl I like. Then, somehow, it came down to what kind of fingernails I like on a girl. I told her that I didn't like long, decorated nails - regular was fine...
Coke Addict: Ah, so you don't like long nails...it's like a whore's fingernails, right?
Me: Well, I guess you could say that.
CA: So, you don't like whores.
Me: Not particularly.
CA: But, (my friend/Coke Addict's boyfriend) said your last girlfriend was quite the whore.
Me: Yep. She was a raging whore allright.
CA: But you dated her.
Me: Yeah, my mistake.
CA: ...So you DO like whores!
Me: ...Wha? I was just oblivious to her unchained whoreness, it doesn't mean...
CA: (now smiling to herself) ...You like whores.
Later, we ran into a buddy of mine, and he tagged along for the night. Hours later we were in a bar, and I was talking to my friend. I caught her staring at me - I literally stopped in mid-sentence with my friend to ask her what was up. Smiling again, she just said "...You like whores." ...Hours later. So yeah, the nickname stays.
And no, I don't like whores. Not particularly, anyway.
Anyway, we didn't get to talk much that day, so I met with her again at a Starbucks. This time, we were able to talk. And, my alleged affinity for female prostitutes only came up once. After we talked, she drove me to the most convienent train station for me to get home. On the way, she hit me with something NOBODY likes to get hit with. She turned to me almost randomly (much of what she does is almost random) and said, "So, your friend says you think I'm weird."
...And I hate moments like this, because you said it, they know you said it, there's no weaseling your way out of it. ...It's also disconcerning to see the "Bros Before Hoes" rule fail. I guess it just takes a little Japanese tail to get a man talking. That's good to know, for the future.
Since I couldn't weasel out of it, I owned up to it. I explained why I'd thought so - telling her about when we'd met way back when, the dog peeing on her (distant cousin of R.Kelly?), the political documentary, and the obsession with George W. Bush's similiarities to a monkey. ...Oh, did I forget to mention that the last time? Much of Coke Addict's rant about GW back then was how he reminded her of a little monkey. "When you see him talk, doesn't it just remind you of a monkey? The way he talks, and the way he moves his little monkey arms? He should be somewhere picking bugs out of his hair, not leading America and starting wars." Somehow, Coke Addict didn't remember it...
CA: ...Really, that happened?
Me: Yes, I remember it clearly. I tried to change the subject several times, but you were just fixiated on GW's monkey-like qualities.
CA: But, he really is like a little monkey...
Me: Yes, I understand that. But, at that time, no matter how much I wanted to talk about something else, you were stuck on GW being a monkey.
CA: I did that?
CA: ........Wow, that is weird.
..........Thank you. A little vindication, that's all I ask for.
CA: It's okay though, I like being weird.
Me: Well, you are doing a magnificent job at it.
CA: Thank you very much.
Me: ...Your welcome?
...I meet some of the most interesting people.
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