I wish I could tell you that my knack for taking women on horrible dates is some sort of sado-masochistic fetish, but sadly it's primarily just a combination of poor taste and poor planning.
I've been wooing a lady (we'll call her Kierz, which is *definitely* a fake name) and I wish I could say things got better after our first date—in which I took her, an epileptic, to an arcade—but I can't. How this phenomenally patient human being still tolerates me is a mystery, but it's been two years since the arcade incident and apparently neither of us have learned our lessons about what constitutes a reasonable or successful date (referring both to the activity and person).
Being the deranged date as per usual I figured what better way to bond with a fellow disillusioned christian-raised atheist than to reignite a lifetime of quiet frustration with persecution-complex happy right wing protestants than to see God's Not Dead 2.
On opening night.
In the only theatre showing it, which just so happened to be on Division and 166th. An hour and a half bus ride from where I live. This is what we discovered about 166th. It smells like burning plastic and broken dreams, and there are naked baby dolls on the road sides. Why? Who can say.
Kierz, oh lovely Kierz, why do you agree to do these things with me? Is the Keppra so effectively managing your seizures that you now crave the jolts and fumbles of the comedically tragic series of foibles that is dating me?