IT WASN'T A DATE

We crept through the haunted house (themed with clowns, which, ew) with obnoxious 3D glasses that made the Distraction look like a lame superhero. I was so intent on making my way through the warped mirrors I didn't notice the Distraction mouthing to the creature sneaking up behind us to get me.

I screamed bloody murder, startling the older women ahead of us, before doubling over into a fit of giggles.

Those same older women also laughed at me for saying, and I quote, "Hold my hand, goddamnit," to the Distraction about halfway through. Right about the same time we were accosted by a CREEPY-ASS CLOWN, and I am not a fan of the clown in the BEST of circumstances, thankyouverymuch.

I also clung to the back of the Distraction's shirt as we felt our way through a choking, smoke-filled shack where he almost whacked his head on, well, a decapitated head hanging from the ceiling.

Ohhh! And there was definately the having of the cotton candy. Which he paid for.

But it wasn't a date. I asked.

"No." He glanced quickly in my direction. "Yes? I don't know! WHY DO GIRLS ALWAYS HAVE TO LABEL EVERYTHING?!"

I laughed maniacally, "Well, I have to know, because if it IS a date, it would be a first date, and that means I can't put out."

He eyed me suspiciously.

I punched my leg in self-righteous indignation. "It's the PRINCIPLE of the thing," I declared. "Besides, that would make me a whore."

I think it was about that time he realized I was kidding.

He looked at me, a bemused smile on his face. "So you can put out if it's not a date?"

I laughed.

"Yup," he said, "definately not a date."



The coolest thing I saw all night was a skeleton doing a keg-stand while his decomposed buddy bonged a beer out of a spine. HIGH CLASS.