Jake GyllenhaalWhile slurping at a tepid cocktail of one parts Boredom and three parts Lagging Social Life, I decided it might be fun to sign up for Critic’s infamous blind date. This was my first miscalculation.
Arriving at di Lusso entirely too early (second miscalculation), I sat down with a pilsner and a dozen games of 2048, anxious to get under way.
My date arrived, and, rather than the Basic Bitch I’d secretly hoped for, turned out to be Basic Bitch V. 2.0 – the far sexier model. I was in no way prepared for this, and immediately forgot her name upon its declaration. This is one of many social difficulties of mine that would be alleviated if people were more like Pokémon.
We fired off into the ole’ faithful of conversation topics – study, hometowns, work, etc. – but found that just about all we had in common was our dismay at Critic’s matchmaking ability. My icebreaking efforts led to an enthusiastic declaration of love for Taylor Swift and ironic uses of “OMG” that clearly missed the mark (third + miscalculations).
Clearly eager to blur her own vision, my date proposed to skip ahead to desert (unfortunately not, I discovered, an innuendo – what’s that, fifth miscalculation?) and put the rest of the tab into booze.
With a little perseverance and a great deal of alcohol, the conversation progressed away from T-Swizzle to the livelier topics of taxidermy and hunting, but this was never to be the sextacular evening I had naively, vividly imagined the night before.
We rounded off the tab at di Lusso with tequila and hit up Craft Bar for another pint each before heading our ways. Personally, this meant going back into a bar for some heavy drinking that led to a blurry and lonely night, because, as we all know, these things come in twos.
Cheers, Critic, for setting up the evening, the di Lusso staff for your delicious cocktails, and, of course, my date for her incredible patience and artfully feigned interest. I had a good time, babe, but we, are (never, ever, ever) gettin’ back together.
Taylor SwiftI was really nervous about who this lad might be and required some liquid courage to lubricate my social skills. I signed up last week during a midweek crisis and wasn’t expecting to get the call up so soon. But I put on my best Basic Bitch outfit and braved the date.
I arrived fashionably late (sorry) and he was already there. We got straight into the tab, easing into the evening with beers. We both agreed that eating minimal and spending the rest of the tab on getting turnt was the way to go.
We tried to skip all the chat about where we were from etc. etc. etc. but couldn't avoid it. Chatted about degrees and all that jazz. No mutual friends. He’s from Dunedin; I’m not. Blah blah blah.
We jumped into talking about music where I revealed my musical past consisted of the recorder and marimba. My date was a little more talented in the department. Somehow the conversation turned to Taylor Swift … And he knew a lot about her, giving a vivid description of her new hit. I can’t decide how I feel about this. Definitely friend zone.
But we got along really well. Chat flowed though topics like ska being reggae on speed, to the thinking hats. Apparently I am yellow? We bonded over tartare sauce being the number one sauce. I admit parts of the evening are a little blurry – a few cocktails too many.
Sent a few sneaky texts about the date. Some friends did a cheeky walk by. Then I began to get FOMO about what was happening at home.
We polished off the bar tab with shots of tequila. Just a standard evening. I was on Struggle Street the day after.
Unfortunately nothing un-PC occurred; he was a perfect gentleman, sorry readers. No trumpets were blown, didn't dabble in the sax.
The date ended with a cheeky Facebook add, and we headed off into the night. Thanks Critic cupid, but I don’t think he is the D for my V.
Oh and the bar tender is so hot.