Handsome McStalkerface

Let's get real for a second.  I'm gonna spit the truth in 5-4-3-2-1: 

I am really good at making up dance games.  

No matter the venue, "Where am I dancing?" "Dance Language" and "He Doesn't Know You're Dancing With Him" are three of my favorites.  Patent pending...

About a week and a half ago, Lolu, Chapman, and I (the HAWKs) went to Surprise Bar.  This particular establishment is a dodgy, RIDICULOUSLY DUTCH, singles joint where, according to Mikey D, "girls go to get plucked."  As we stepped inside, Chapman's description rang true: they play 45 seconds of your favorite song ever,  ring a cowbell, and change the song to something from a completely different genre/time/country.  Surprise!!  It's perfect for my as-yet-undiagnosed ADHD crazy ass.

After cleverly evading a few double lip lickers (eww!) by the bar, I arrived at my favorite dance corner.  (I never like to dance in the middle of a room...my booty is too magnetic.  The bar would turn into a black hole.)  Almost immediately, I noticed an adorable blonde dude in a white and black scrabble hoodie was dancing rather Dutchly nearby.  Maybe it was his slender 6'3" frame, maybe it was the way he obviously couldn't understand a single thing I said (he asked what I would like to drink--a Vodka Soda--and brought back a Malibu Cola Light), or maybe it was the power I sucked out of his soul like Bette Midler in Hocus Pocus...but I decided it would be a good idea to give this boy (Marco) my number on the street outside the bar after last call.

He insisted that he sweetheart me home (he did, after all, live in my neighborhood). 

Chapman asked his coworker where they are employed.  Marco proudly stated "I am train to be manager at MacDonell's."  Chapman started giggling.  "I wear a tie," Marco went on, beaming.  McDONALD's?!?!? 

Oh god.  Oh god.  I've made a huge mistake.

Let's see...

In America, McDonald's managers look like this:

In Holland, they look like this:

Still.  I knew I had to let him down gently.  "I'm not the kind of girl who goes home with a boy on the first night.  Maybe we'll get a drink some time."  I thought that was over.  That's HOW. I. DO.

The next day, I received 4 SMSs from Marco.  Three from his phone, one from his friend's...

"He's so cute!" 

"No, Jessica.  He works at McDonald's." 

"But think of all the McFlurries!  UNLIMITED McFLURRIES!!!  It would be a McFLURRY STORM!!"

 "He's 21.  You creep.  Four weeks in the happiest place on earf done make you lose yo' mind." 

"Hmmmff."

"Stop playing Farmville.  It's weird."

Then, when I didn't reply for two days, all was Quiet on the Marco Front.

Yesterday, much to my surprise, I had an email.  Not in my Boom Chicago mailbox.  Nono.  My personal gmail.  HOW THE EFF do you find that?  Is he a Narc?  Oh God.  What have I gotten myself into.  Oh goodness. 

What do I do, ether?  Comment!!

xo, J