There is a barista at the coffeeshop I go to who I spent a month and a half flirting mercilessly with. He’s super cute, and very funny. Plus he totally appreciated me.

The first time we talked, he said, “Oh, it’s 11:11.”

“I don’t believe in 11:11,” I said.

“What do you believe in?” he asked.

“Chicken soup,” I said.

Which is true. I have this theory that boiling down the bones of the chicken imbues the soup with some of the chicken’s soul, and that’s why chicken soup makes you better.

I explained it to him, and he totally loved it. I knew I was well into Manic Pixie Dream Girl territory.

Another time, I told him about my edited lyrics to Beyonce’s “Bootylicious.”

“You know that part that goes, ‘I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly?'” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Well, I revised it.”

The lyrics I made up are:

I don’t think you’re ready for this spaghetti

I don’t think you’re ready for this spaghetti

I don’t think you’re ready for this

Cuz my pasta is too delicious for ya babe.

I sang it to him, and he was smitten, obviously. I don’t blame him. Those are some fucking brilliant lyrics.

Anyway, every time I came in we’d flirt and giggle. It was fun. So, one day, I left him a little note in his tip-jar. This is what it said:

4: [his name]

OH Hi!!!!

We should totally hang out.

I decided that leaving you a little tip-jar note would be way more fun and exciting than telling you this in person.

TXT Mii

[My number]

Eliza

He texted me after he got off work, telling me I had totally made his day and also fulfilled every barista’s dream. We made a date for the next night.

That day, however, I finished my second final paper, and celebrated with spiked hot cider. I accidentally drank way, way too much, and was completely drunk by 6:00.

Our date was at 7:30. I only had one drink for the couple of hours we were there, but the damage was done. I was super, super wasted.

We had a great time talking and laughing. And then he told me he wasn’t really interested in anything serious at this point in his life. It was totally nice and reasonable, but it hit a nerve and I burst into drunk tears. Like, full-out sobbing. He was so, so nice about it – he just held me and rubbed my back while I cried. But I seriously fucking cried. For a while.

The next morning I woke up, very hungover and very embarrassed. I texted him saying that I was so, so sorry, and had gotten way too drunk, and I was really embarrassed, even though he had been such a good sport. He was super nice about it, and told me it was totally fine, and not to worry about it. I still worried about it.

Anyway, I ran into him at the coffeeshop the other day. After all, I don’t drop a good coffeeshop just because I burst into crazy drunk tears in some guy’s arms! I mean, come on. I resolved to be normal with him. And it was fine. He was lovely and treated me just like he had before.

Now we have a good story to bond over, right?

Yeah. I’m a fucking crazy person.

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