Its official. It doesn’t matter the time nor the place… nor the age of the man involved..
I have a sign on my forehead… a look about me… something that draws out the weirdest of the weird, the dumbest of the dumb…
The worst lines ever. Or statements. Or questions. It never fails and I don’t know just what it is. Perhaps I need a new perfume? A new hair color or style.
Cue Mr. 6’4 baby blues from last weekend. A seemingly normal conversation, an actual normal offer to buy a drink…
Yet inevitably here it comes… “Can I ask you a question?” Mr. 6’4 wonders. Though I can feel it coming I let him ask his question.
“You are beautiful and seem to have your life together, but you’re 28 and single, are you bat shit crazy?” asks Mr. 6’4….
And cue my exit.
You know what really is bat shit crazy? And I mean bat shit crazy good?
Cuban food. In Minneapolis.
Yes, in Minneapolis.
Hello Bistec Encebollado. I ate the entire thing. In front of my work team. No shame.
The only time the phrase, Bat Shit Crazy, should be used, is to describe how good this food is.
What new restaurant have you checked out lately?