It’s too late. I don’t care anymore…

When I was about 19 or so, I went to a seafood restaurant with my sister, her boyfriend and some of our mutual friends.

We were all having a really good time, but I was a bit distracted because the waitress looked really, really familiar. I was so sure I had known her from somewhere, but I couldn’t place where. I was fairly sure it wasn’t from school, but, like I said, I wasn’t sure.

I mentioned her to one of my friends and he said he recognized her, too, but he didn’t know from where. Then he suggested I ask her her name.

What? Whoa there. Moving just a little to fast. Asking her name actually required talking to her, and she was cute.

Back in the day, I was terrified of pretty women. Terrified. Admittedly, they still give me the stupid when I’m around them, but at least I can now hold a semi-intelligent conversation with them. At least I think I can. If I’m not, I’m good at fooling myself, and that’s what really matters.

Eventually, however, curiosity won over my fear when I ran into her on my way to the bathroom.

“Angela, right?” I asked. She had actually given her first name to the table when she took our order.

“Yeah.” She said.

“What’s your last name?” I asked.

“Why?” She said. Immediately, and I mean immediately, defensive.

“I think I might know you.”



“Because you look familiar. I’m not trying to pick you up. You just look familiar.” I said. I mean, what else could I have possibly responded with. That last ‘why?’ didn’t even make sense.

She just looked at me.

“Well, what school did you go to?” I asked, trying a different route.


Jesus. Was she for real?

“Fuck it.” I said. “Nevermind.” And I went to the bathroom.

I did what I did, washed my hands and exited the bathroom — where I damn near ran into her because she was right outside the door, obviously waiting for me.

“Stone.” She said.

“What?” I asked.

“Angela Johnson. I went to Thomas Stone.”

“Oh. I don’t care anymore.” I said. And I went back to the table.

On the way home after the meal, I told my friend what happened.

“You are such a dick,” he laughed.


“She probably thought you were trying to pick her up. That you were using a line.”

“Oh. So the ‘you look familiar’ and ‘I’m not trying to pick you up’ weren’t hints that I wasn’t trying to pick her up? They weren’t giveaways?”

“It doesn’t matter what you said. She probably gets picked up a lot. She probably thought you were picking her up — well, at least up until you said ‘fuck it’. Then she probably realized you weren’t picking her up.” My friend was laughing hard by the last line. He was having a good time.

“Whatever.” I said, still a little miffed.

“Look at it this way, you probably got more truthful info out of her than most guys going to that joint. Stud.” Laughing as he said it.

I laughed too. Sometimes, there’s not much else you can do.

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Your friend is a lamer.

You’re not a dick, how many fucking times do you have to ask someone a question?! She’s a stuck up bitch.

“Oh, everyone always hits on me, blah blah blah blah blah…..” Whatever toots. You’re a waitress in a seafood restaurant, not the dammed Queen of Bermuda.

Some women are stupid. Not all, Laws no. But some. And when you meet them, they leave a lasting impression.


lol. Queen of Bermuda.

M-O-O-N, that spells “why”.

Laws yes. Everyone knows that.

Freak Magnet

At the risk of getting booted from the sisterhood, I agree with Neon.


she didn’t have to be a bitch about it. but waitresses get hit on CONSTANTLY. and sometimes even stalked. seriously. sounds like she just handled it poorly.


Thanks for the support. In particular, the ladies. At least I know it wasn’t me.

Not that I thought it was. It was just verified.