I met my husband on the internet. We had a few acquaintances in common, but not nearly enough to keep him from murdering me when we first met if he really wanted to.

That photo is so unrealistic!
He definitely would’ve just strangled me instead.

By the time we had our “official” first date (read: we finally spent money to see each other!), the butterflies were hovering closer to an 8 than a 10. But this was still a very new boy with some very real potential to be THE ONE, so I was dressing to impress. I didn’t wear crazy heels that night — instead I slipped on some fuchsia patent leather one-inchers.

We decided on dinner & a movie because we are such traditional motherf*ckers.

Before we go any further, you should know that my left ankle is weak from a now 15-year-old injury that may or may not have occurred while pretending to play soccer when in actuality I was staring at cute boys who… you know, in retrospect? I’m pretty sure they were actually playing soccer.

So, when Joe opened the doors to the theater for me, POP! — my ankle gave out and this b*tch went down in what you could pretty much call the opposite of a blaze of glory. It was more like… a fizzle. A fizzle of shame.

For good measure, I banged up my knee on the way down — but my face was spared and THAT’S WHAT REALLY MATTERS so we continued on to the movie.

Joe later confessed that he felt bad he couldn’t catch me — because he was busy holding the door for me LIKE A G*DDAMN F*CKING GENTLEMAN. I may have paraphrased that.

Bodily injuries and embarrassment be damned, our date was still better (and FAR more memorable) than the movie we saw that night.

More like “HEEEYYY, EVERYBODY BE COOL AND
MAYBE THEY WON’T NOTICE WHAT A
STEAMY TURD THIS MOVIE IS” rrrrrrriiiiiight?

Right.