I wasn't a wanker, it was the anchors!

I love writing on this sight because it's the one place none of my Wilmington friends know about. I do re-post some of these writings elsewhere. But not all of them. Not this one. Here goes, enjoy.

Pokey Pants got pissed at me the other night. I didn't know it 'til we got home. She bitched me out. And I didn't even do anything! (Maybe using the phrase: "Look! I can't help it if I'm so damn charming!" wasn't a good response, but other than that, she was way out of line.)

I'm not mad at her, though. She doesn't bitch at me very often. Hell, we never bug each other. And even during her "end of the night I hate you right now" tirade, she even beat me to saying what I was going to tell her. She said, "I don't bitch at you very often, but dammit, I'm pissed!"

She said that at the exact moment I was about to say, "You don't bitch at me very often, so I'm just gonna let you run with it. Get it all out."

You gotta love a girl who even says your lines for you in a fight. Because no man ever really wants to talk during a fight anyway. So I just let her rapid fire me with words while I layed on the bed with my feet on the floor and looked at the ceiling. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't looking at the ceiling to convey that I was ignoring her, she knew I was just tired but still listening. So what happened?

We went to a bar. I'm an extrovert. Pokey Pants is not. I recognized some TV news people and started talking shop to them. I tried to include Pokey in conversation the whole times. I tied every topic to her and her hospital job. (Example: If me and the news crew talked about a fire, I would ask Pokey to explain how you treat burn victims when at the hospital.) The problem with Pokester is that when you lead her to telling a group story in a circle at a bar, she inevitably speaks in a quiet voice and turns to just me. I KNOW THE FUCKING STORY! TELL EVERYONE ELSE. I'M INCLUDING YOU, BABY! I SHOULD BE THE ONE BITCHING - WE JUST LOST THE WHOLE CIRCLE BECAUSE YOU CUT THEM OUT OF YOUR STORY!

Still, I didn't complain. That's not me.

So what was Pokey pissed about? I'll tell you the real answer, but you'll think I'm being an arrogant dick. I'm not. It would be more disrespectful if I tried to bullshit you and faked some humility. So here's what she was pissed about:

I couldn't help it if I was so damn charming.

That's it.

It's true. I'm sorry. I was on. I mean, on. I wasn't flirting. I was just amazing. Every word came out of my mouth right. Every punchline was incredible. Every response was so quick you'd think it was scripted. I was the funniest guy on Earth. And that's what pissed Pokey off.

She was pissed because our new news friends consisted of a dude reporter (who was cool) and a super hot weeknight news anchor and an also super-hot weekend news anchor. And they loved me.

Is it my fault that the weekend girl was constantly touching my arm and saying, "You are the funniest guy ever! Seriously!"

Is it my fault that the weekday girl was saying, "You are an absolute character... I mean it!"

And is it my fault that the weekend girl wasn't just touching my arm - she was also always walking over from five feet away to touch my arm while I was standing with Pokey when she would say it? I mean, what was I supposed to do say, "Please don't touch my arm." That would've been weird. And besides, I was with Pokey, she should've known I was only going home with her... unless of course she wanted to give out "join us" invitations. (That'll be the day!)

Look, did I like the attention? Fuck yeah. Did I do anything out of line? Certainly not. Should Pokey have been at least a little flattered that young hot TV girls were messing with her man? I would think so. (That means I'm worth something, right? Which by associative property means she's even better than those chicks since I'm with her and not them? That's how I see it.)

But the way I saw everything about that part of the night was entirely not how Pokey saw it. So I let her bitch, and bitch and bitch. And when she apologized, albeit half-ass, I dismissed it and told her she shouldn't. (Although, I was secretly glad she gave one she didn't mean.)

I love my Pokey. And I know you do, too. And I know you hate me. I know that any girl reading this right now hates me. You know I'm right. You know on paper, by law and by every technicality I am not in the wrong at all. But for some reason there is an unknown, unexplained and physically undetectable part of the woman's psyche that doesn't give a shit about proof and fact, it only knows "feel." And it feels like saying "You're a dick, Roth Wriscey. Fuck you. Pokey is right. You don't deserve her. If I ever meet those anchor bitches, I'm gonna smack them. No, nevermind. While they deserve a smack, I'm gonna transfer my empathetic anger for you and all men and smack you, Roth Wriscey. This is for Pokey. This is for me. And this is for all girls everywhere who get mistreated by men - which is all of them: "SMACK!"

Yeah, go ahead. Get it all out. You don't smack me very often. So just smack away. But at least just let me lay down while you do it, so I can lay down and look at the ceiling.