Oh what fun it was to write, “I Wish I Never Met You!” This cult classic, which is filled with tales of wild and crazy dating disasters, was published by Simon & Schuster back in 2004. The novel ended up gaining quite a cult following, and I met many of my readers (via social media, etc.) through this book. I’m lucky that those readers have followed me throughout my career, and I’ll never forget how it all started with this hilariously brazen little number. I recently wrote a television pilot for the book, along with an accompanying show bible.
Continue reading for a fun sneak peek at “I Wish I Never Met You,” and meet one of the funniest, boldest heroines I’ve ever written…
I WISH I NEVER MET YOU
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I One Night Only:
Doug the Heinous Dragon
Preston the Project Mishap
Ernest the Undercover Sugarbooty
II I Want It All:
Willy the Weed Smoker
Leroy the Loser-Ass Liar
Warren the So-Called Wonder
Bubba the Bogus-Ass Baller
III Unholy Matrimony:
Forrest the Foul Fiancé
Marvin the Married Man-Boy
Dennis the Dumb-Ass Divorcé
IV The Big Payback:
Horace the Human Ape
Igor the Ignoramus
Cecil the Circus Midget 184
It may be that your whole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to others. —Anonymous
I’m not saying I was always right. I’m not saying I was always wrong. What I am saying is that I always did what I felt in my heart at the time. People sometimes get caught up in the moment. Act without thinking. Do harmful things. Then live to regret them. Lucky for me, I’m not one of those people. When I take revenge, there are no regrets.
When it comes to certain situations, I have no conscience. I learn to accept and oftentimes welcome my vengeful behavior. Like the time when I set Dennis the Dumb-Ass Divorcé’s apartment on ﬁre. Or when I drop kicked and beat Cecil the Circus Midget in the middle of a crowded party. Or when I attacked Horace the Human Ape with my stun gun and blasted pepper spray inside his mouth. I could go on, but I don’t want to reveal the entire contents of this book in the intro. My point is, I don’t want you to pass judgment on my behavior until you know the whole story. Give me a chance. Find out how the dirty deeds of these people warranted my disinfecting behavior.
The thing is, I never wanted any trouble. All I wanted was to ﬁnd a man. A husband. A soul mate. But for some reason, my search never led me to the promised land. Instead, I consistently fell into a deserted ﬁeld of broken dreams and glass bottles.
Some may blame me. They may say that my chosen tactics were a little less than desirable. But I don’t give a shit. It’s over now. I’ve been had. I’m tired, sweaty, overworked, never paid, drained of all hope, and still single. That’s depressing. I’m getting off the subject.
This book is not about singlehood. The book covers some of the ridiculous dating situations that I’ve gotten myself into and somehow got myself out of. If I hurt or humiliate anyone during the process of telling my story, too goddamn bad. My mission here is not to consider the feelings of those who have scorned me. My mission here is to offer a book that will act as a generous contribution from me to society. To provide a vital guide to what not to do when seeking a mate so that you won’t make the same mistakes that I made. Walk down the same path of destruction that I laid. Go broke from the same huge prices that I paid. It wasn’t worth it. It never is. So pay close attention.
For further guidance and understanding, I have concluded each chapter with an afﬁrmation. A brief yet priceless afﬁrmation that will encourage you to stop blaming yourself, the drugs, the alcohol, and the lack of sex (or too much bad sex) for your behavior. These critical afﬁrmations will teach you who the hell to stay away from. You’ll learn how good judgment alone can prevent you from performing senseless, damaging, life-threatening acts that you may one day live to regret. So if you do not comprehend the overall teachings within the chapters, you can always refer back to the afﬁrmations at the end. Marvel at them. Memorize them. Live by them. Die by them. Ball them up and stuff them inside your brain. Share them with others. And you will never go wrong. Now on with the story. . .
One Night Only
There are those of us who love to go out and socialize. Toast with good alcohol. Dance to good music. Puff on good cigars. And, if appropriate, meet good potential mates. When the right encounter occurs, we unattached individuals are convinced that things will go from the exchanging of phone numbers to the ﬁrst call to the ﬁrst date to the ﬁrst kiss to the ﬁrst time to the ﬁrst anniversary to the ﬁrst wedding RSVP to the ﬁrst baby carriage. Right?
Wrong. Doesn’t always happen that way. Sometimes we may approach someone and not get any conversation whatsoever. If we do, we may not get the digits. If we do, we may not get the returned phone call. If we do, we may not get the ﬁrst date. If we do, it may be a disaster. If it is, we never make it to the kiss, the sex, the wedding, or the baby carriage.
Then there are those of us who get tired of the random party scene. We are looking for an alternate route. So we abandon the barren bars and corny clubs. We decide to talk to family, friends, co-workers, and churchgoers to ﬁnd out whether or not they know a good, compatible person to introduce us to. We listen closely to our options. We take our pick. We sit on the edge of our seats and wait for that initial phone call or e-mail. One of the two occurs. We love the conversation or message exchange. We anticipate that ﬁrst date. We pray that this could be it. But what if it isn’t?
If it isn’t, we decide to hit the party scene again. But on a different level this time. We attend only events that are being thrown by someone we know. That way we already have an idea of what types will be in attendance. Hopefully we trust, admire, and respect the host or hostess. If we do, then we eagerly assume that the majority of his or her guests will be worthy of the same adulation. If we meet someone interesting, the ability to obtain a reliable reference is there. In case things don’t work out with the person we’ve selected, we take mental notes of other options so we can ask about them later. But considering the faith that we’ve put into the host or hostess, we have already assumed that our ﬁrst choice will probably work out. Probably is the operative word here.
If things don’t work out, then we get tired of all forms of socialization. Period. All parties become superﬂuous. All matchmaking options have been exhausted. We decide to end our quest altogether. We stick to our regular routine and stop going out of our way to meet someone. But we still secretly hope that we’ll experience a close encounter at the gas station, grocery store, health club, or church. That way, after telling everyone that we’d given up on relationships, we can lie and say that our furthest expectation was to ﬁnd that special someone. We’d just been minding our business. Taking care of our affairs. Feeling content simply being alone. Then along came a miracle. Fate was on our side that day. Or was it?
As you will soon discover within the ﬁrst three chapters of this book, nothing I just said really matters. It doesn’t matter where or how you meet a person. Nothing is guaranteed. No territory is safe. The enemy could be lurking anywhere. Segregating sinners from do-gooders is illegal. So the boldest adulterers are still allowed to go to church. The most devious deceivers are still allowed to shop at the grocery store. The biggest liars are still allowed to work out at the gym. And the most despicable individuals are still allowed to befriend our matchmakers and pull off an unsuitable hookup.
I’ve run the gamut. I’ve been through it all. The parties, the matchmaking, the subconscious searches, and the letdowns. The situations where eager anticipation lasts so much longer than the actual event. How did I get through all of these ill-fated encounters and learn to prevent similar situations from occurring? Turn the page and ﬁnd out.
Chapter 1: Doug the Heinous Dragon
It was the worst blind date of my entire life. And believe me, I’ve been on some fucked-up blind dates. But this one took the cake. It all started the night I went to dinner with a married girlfriend of mine. As I sat there all night, complaining about the ridiculous men I’d been meeting, my girlfriend suggested that she introduce me to a wonderful man named Doug.
Doug was a great friend of hers who she’d worked with prior to meeting and marrying her husband. Prior to meeting and marrying her husband, I say. Question: If he was all that, why hadn’t she gotten with him? As I wondered about this, my girl explained that since she and Doug had developed such a lovely working relationship/friendship, they’d decided to keep it that way. Yeah, right. I smelled a rat. But rather than exterminate the situation immediately, I foolishly opted to pinch my nose and allow the hookup to unfold.
According to my girlfriend, Doug was the bomb. He was in his mid-thirties, had a kind, generous personality, a great job, beautiful apartment, luxurious car, grand bank account, vast interests, impeccable wardrobe, active lifestyle, etc. Now, Doug wasn’t “a looker,” as my friend put it. But he was tall, husky like a football player, attractive enough, and very well put together. “Perfect” to be exact. I told my friend that he did indeed sound like a great guy. Plus, tall, husky, football player look-alikes need love too, right? And since my girlfriend was very attractive, intelligent, kind, and Godfearing, I trusted that she could rate our compatibility well and use good judgment. My now overly excited girlfriend said that she’d call Doug that night and arrange for him to contact me.
Doug e-mailed me the following Monday. His message was articulate, and he sounded interesting and distinguished. After exchanging several messages, I was looking forward to meeting him later on that week. But he was facing a very busy schedule and put me off until later on that following week. I ﬁgured that big Doug must have it going in a big way, putting me off like that. But the diss extended my anticipation even further.
During the middle of that next week, Doug and I made plans to meet after work at a Mexican restaurant that was close to both of our jobs. Since I took the train in, darling Doug offered to take me home after dinner. I declined at ﬁrst, thinking that might be a bit much. But he insisted that it would be no trouble at all. When I remembered how my girlfriend had described him, I ﬁnally agreed. After all, if things went as I hoped they would, maybe we’d go somewhere after dinner and I’d invite him up for a drink afterward.
At last, the day of our date arrived. I took a change of clothes to work so that I’d be so fresh and so clean for this one. I had to come correct. The workday dragged on for what seemed like sixteen hours, as opposed to the normal eight. By the time ﬁve o’ clock ﬁnally rolled around, I was anxious and nervous as hell. I charged to the bathroom to begin my transformation. I emerged laced in a dazzling sleeveless silk ice blue Armani blouse and ﬂowing cream pants. My strappy sandals were severely heeled. My hair was simply ﬂipped, and my makeup was freshly applied. I hate to brag, but my shit was tight.
I felt like a movie star when I stepped from my building and into a cab. It was hot as hell, but I was conﬁdent that the extra blot powder, deodorant, and perfume that I’d applied would preserve my look and aroma. People were staring. My hair and pants were swaying in the wind. My nerves were buzzing around the pit of my stomach like bees in a hive. I was scared. What if Doug didn’t like me? What if he didn’t think I was good enough for him? What if my conversation didn’t appeal to him?
Many more thoughts of insecurity had ﬂown through my mind by the time the cab pulled up in front of the restaurant. I paid the driver and stepped out into the dense heat. I thought about just going home. Social outings weren’t supposed to make me feel this sick and distressed. But it was too late to turn back now. Doug was probably waiting for me. My girlfriend was probably depending on me. Plus, as panicky as I was, I really didn’t want to leave. This could be it. This one could right all of the previous wrongs. But there was only one way to ﬁnd out. So I inhaled deeply, hoping that the hot summer oxygen would calm my jagged nerves, and walked into the restaurant.
I looked around for Doug. I saw no one that should have been Doug. The only thing I saw was some hugely oversized man staring intently at a menu hanging from the wall. He looked over and smiled at me. I just stood there and stared at him. Eventually, after he wouldn’t take his eyes off me, I acknowledged him with a nod of my head and looked around again for Doug.
Other than the hugely oversized man, the place was empty. But the hugely oversized man couldn’t be Doug. Because Doug was husky like a football player, not fat like a pregnant woman headed straight for the delivery room after passing her due date by ten months. Doug was well groomed, not shabby and ashy with a neckline that ended somewhere in the middle of his back. Doug dressed impeccably. So I knew that he wouldn’t be caught dead in a tight ass, dusty, used-to-be-white-but-now-it’s-gray, Catholic school uniform shirt, moth-eaten pants that used to be black but now are also gray because they’ve been washed too many goddamn times, thick ass, faded black sweat socks, and ﬂat, beat-up, run-over, soleless, navy blue shoes similar to the ones worn by Dorothy’s mother on The Golden Girls.
The Doug I’d heard about wouldn’t have been caught dead rocking bifocals as thick as his ass that tightly clutched a face reminiscent of Professor Klump’s in The Nutty Professor. And he wouldn’t dare wear a paper-thin nylon coat that wasn’t long, wasn’t short, wasn’t any sort of length you’ve ever seen. It was a coat that just fell somewhere in the middle of his ham-hocked, knock-kneed, overstuffed thighs.
I convulsed and almost cried as this hugely oversized man came bobbling over toward me. Run, I thought to myself immediately. He doesn’t know who you are yet, so just run! But I didn’t want to do my girlfriend like that (even though the bitch had done me like this).
The hugely oversized man approached me and introduced himself. He was indeed Doug. His high-pitched voice squeaked around his lispy tongue. When I managed to ask how he was doing, he giggled, wheezed, and just shook his hugely sloped head. The rolls on the back of his neck did the jitterbug. At that very moment, I suffered a mental breakdown, but I somehow kept my composure. I’ve been bamboozled, I thought to myself as I watched the mountain of ﬂesh hanging from Doug’s chin and neck jiggle with excitement. I just gave him a strained smile, turned toward the hostess, and reluctantly asked for a table for two.
I walked through the restaurant and prayed that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. If I did, I would swear Doug was my uncle. I stared at my feet and wondered where I’d gone wrong. As my eyes locked with the ﬁery red Spanish tiles that lined the restaurant ﬂoor, I connected with the ﬂames in hell. What had I done to deserve this, Lord? I asked myself. I was a good person, prayed every night, treated others as I wanted to be treated, all that. So why was this happening to me? Why was I suffering this diabolical damnation?
When Doug and I sat down, I got the close up view. And it was worse than I’d thought. His teeth were unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Well, maybe they resembled something I’d witnessed on Wild Discovery. Doug’s teeth were very, very small and very, very sharp. And there were so many of them. So many that they had formed their own rows of existence. They were the teeth of a piranha. The type of teeth that would fuck you up to the bone if you dare upset or attack their owner.
And Doug was sick. Not sick in the head, but sick with a cold. It was 110 degrees in the shade and this man had somehow managed to get ill. He called it a “slight cold.” Along with his “slight cold” came a mucus-ﬁlled chest, extensive wheezing, and major coughing. Along with all of that physical exertion in the sweltering heat came sweat. And not just regular sweat. I’m talking about that sick-ass, VapoRub, heating-pad, soggy-bathrobe type of sweat. And along with all that sick-ass sweat came a pungent odor that oozed through Doug’s damp, infected pores. Bottom line, I was in a fucked up situation that I didn’t know how to get out of. If I left, I’d be rude and mean. If I stayed, I’d slit my wrist with my butter knife. I was stuck. In the end, I decided to just stay. What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, right? When you get lemons, make lemonade, right? I know. That bullshit never worked for me either.
Throughout dinner, Doug’s clammy, stale, musty aroma burned the hairs that lined the insides of my nostrils. (I know because the ashes fell into my plate.) In between his phlegm-ﬁlled whooping coughs, I had to hear about his cheap-ass apartment out in the suburbs, his data-entry club, the little girl from church who he didn’t want to give singing lessons to on weekends but did anyway because he’d promised her mother he would, his brother’s kids, his cousin’s reptiles, his bowling league, etc. I didn’t give a damn about anything he was talking about. Doug was a very uninteresting man. I found myself talking about sports and anything else that would keep me awake throughout this smelly, hellish experience.
Finally, dinner was over. But was it really?
“So, do you wanna take a walk?” Doug snorted.
I gasped in horror. A walk? Was he crazy? I sat there with my mouth hanging open, my eyes darting from side to side, not knowing how to appropriately address such an absurd question.
“My car is parked about three blocks away from here. Wanna walk?” he wheezed.
I breathed a sigh of relief after realizing that he didn’t mean a romantic walk, then decided to walk to the car with Doug in order to help speed up this funky situation.
When we got outside, I began walking at what I thought was a normal pace. But as Doug rambled on about his data entry club, I noticed that he was several steps behind me, hobbling along and breathing quite heavily. I caught the hint and slowed down so that Big Daddy could catch up. When he did, I turned my head in the opposite direction so that I wouldn’t have to inhale the putreﬁed odor coming from his bacteria-infested system. Yet as Doug’s paper-thin coat blew ﬁercely in the hot wind, the pungency emitted at an even more alarming rate. I swallowed continuously in order to stop the bile that kept creeping up in my throat.
As we continued walking for what seemed like forever, Doug began talking about the data-entry club’s membership roster. I sang old Negro spirituals to myself in hopes that some of my ancestors’ strength would rub off on me. When we ﬁnally arrived at the car, my eyes began to tear up at the mere thought of having to sit so close to Doug and his stench.
Once inside, I quickly rolled my window down and stuck my head out of it, acting as if I was truly enjoying a view that I’d seen a thousand times before. Doug told me he could turn the air on, but I insisted that I preferred fresh air. There was no way in hell I was going to sit in that car with the windows rolled up and allow Doug’s funk to continuously circulate and violently suffocate me.
As Doug rattled on about absolutely nothing, I absentmindedly threw in an “Aha” here or an “Uh-huh” there, whenever it seemed appropriate. I was just glad that the date was almost over. I thought about what I would tell my girlfriend the next day. “Thanks, but no thanks,” or “Rot in hell, bitch.” Considering how much she cared about Doug, I decided to try to be nice about the whole thing.
Now, here’s the kicker. When we arrived at my building, I knew this man was not going to try to kiss me, come upstairs, or anything like that. But what he did do was even more asinine as far as I was concerned. Doug pulled up to the curb, put the car in park, turned to me, and smiled that spiked-tooth smile. Then he wheezed, “Now, when you talk to our friend tomorrow, tell her that I worked out for the past two days straight, shaved, and wore my Sunday best!”
“Oh, uh, okay,” I stammered, struggling to ﬁnd the damn door handle.
“I’ll be in touch,” Doug assured me, shaking his head and jiggling the pork hanging from his chin and neck.
“Okay,” I repeated, already out of the car. I broke ass toward my building before he could say anything else. I walked through my lobby and felt like vomiting. I’d been shocked into a hypothermic state. I was numb. Gangrene was setting in. I felt cold and desperate and vulnerable, like my world was coming to an end. I had no backup plan. No B, C, or D plan man to turn to. I had to ﬁgure out a way to shake this hopeless feeling off me.
As I walked through my apartment door, everything looked different. My world was now tainted. I felt dejected, yet relieved. I was ﬁnally away from that man. He was behind me now. I had no one to turn to, but at least I could start over again. I immediately picked up the phone and called one of my best friends, who’d been waiting anxiously to hear about the date. As I ﬁlled her in on the gruesome details, she laughed so hard she cried. “On to the next,” I said as we attempted to run through a list of other bleak-to-nonexistent options.
The next day, the girlfriend who’d hooked Doug and me up e-mailed me ﬁrst thing in the morning and asked how my “meeting” had gone. Oh, so suddenly we had gone from a date to a meeting, huh? The fool must have realized the huge mistake she’d made.
“The ‘meeting’ was okay, but Doug and I didn’t seem to have much in common,” I replied. That was good, wasn’t it? Not mean, but ﬁrm enough to let the girl know where Doug and I stood. Nowhere. She caught the hint quickly and never mentioned his name again.
Bottom Damn Line: Fuck a blind date.
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