Tattoo Parlors and Vomit on the Second Date
You mean your second dates don't involve vomit and tattoos?
Okay, so this was for sure #MyWorstDate experience ever.
It happened when I was about 17 years old. This older guy from school and I had been friends for a while, but after months of flirting in class, we finally decided it was time to admit that we liked each other and do something about it. So, that was the beginning. Upon this admittance of our feelings for each other, we decided we should go on an actual date. Our first date was fun, filled with tacos, laughter, and a great performance of A Chorus Line that a mutual friend from school was starring in. The evening was a success. We thought, "Hmm, tonight was a lot of fun. We should do this again!" For our second date, however, we decided to spice things up by making it a double date with two of our mutual friends who had been dating for basically forever. So, we settled to attend this date, and then began the night of my woes...
Excited for the night out and fun events ahead of us, my date pulls into my driveway to pick me up. He comes inside dressed nicely, talks to the 'rents, they try to intimidate him just like every American-family-comedy scene on TV, then we're on our way to meet our friends at our local semi-nice, chain restaurant steakhouse. We're sitting there enjoying our steaks and mashed potatoes, having great conversation about life and laughing about the funny things that happened to us at school that day (the three of them were a year older than me, so their stories were different from mine). The food really was delicious; so delicious that I never would have guessed how it would betray me in the hours to come.
All-in-all, it was a wonderful meal enjoyed with wonderful company. As we are preparing to end our time together, our ever-adventurous friends decide to keep the night going with something a little more interesting. "Hey, LB and *****, why don't we go downtown to get tattoos?" See, they had been wanting to get specific tattoos for a while now, and while I wasn't going to get one I thought it would be fun to accompany them, so we headed to the tattoo parlor and soon began the most traumatic experience ever.
Throughout my entire life, I have never been one to throw up. Occasionally I'll get nauseous, but usually it just passes and nothing comes of it. This was not the case this evening. We arrive at the decrepit tattoo shanty after a fairly lengthy drive. As the other couple goes up to the flip-book to get tattoo ideas, I sit in the waiting area with my date. We're just talking, enjoying life, being young and "in love" and all that. Then comes a rumble. Now, keep in mind, this is a tiny tattoo parlor, yet for some reason there are a ton of people in it this night. Responding to the aforementioned rumble, I thought to myself, Hmm, maybe I just need to release some gas after that hearty meal. So, accordingly, I head to the little bathroom in the back. Junior-in-high-school me politely leaves my senior date and heads to the bathroom. As SOON as the door behind me shuts, the series of unfortunate events ensue.
UNCONTROLLABLE. PROFUSE. VOMITING. If I remember correctly, it got on the walls and everything. Every time I think the apparent demon inside of me will let me take a break, more vomit. I have tears streaming from my eyes from the liquid aggressively lurching from my body. Here I am, on my second date with an older boy that I really like, hugging this ratchet tattoo parlor toilet and contemplating if life is even worth living after this moment. To make matters even better, on the rare occasion in life that I do end up vomiting, I cannot help but make the horrible, loud vomiting noise that sounds like an effect added to a cartoon TV show. I know for a fact that everyone in the tattoo parlor, including the artists in the back inking my friends' skin, can hear the toxic acids exiting my body. After spending what had to be at least forty-five minutes draped around this STD-infested, bacteria-laden latrine, I wipe the tears from my cheeks and vomit from my mouth and prepare myself to return to the waiting room and its most likely horrified occupants after a pep talk in the dirty mirror.
I return to the waiting room, relieved to see that only my date is sitting there, as our other friends are in the back receiving their tattoos. In the middle of our conversation, I leap up and return to the bathroom as duty urgently calls again. After counting each individual time I vomited that evening, I ended up with a total of somewhere between twelve and fifteen separate occurrences. This was more than all the other times I had thrown up in my life combined. I return once more, and our friends come out with their new tattoos. My date and I admire their new ink, and he begins to drive me back home after I explain to him my horrible episodes.
After abruptly pulling over once more in a notoriously dangerous area of town because I naturally had to throw up AGAIN, he takes me home, where I throw up for the rest of the night and pee on my floor from the absolute punch to the gut that this angry illness forced upon me.
So, friends, that's the story of how I got horrible, furious food poisoning on a second date and spent half of the date on a tattoo parlor floor. #MyWorstDate