Back when I was twenty-one, a friend and myself went to a local concert. So Many Dynamos was the band. It was a killer, energetic show. And just our luck? The venue emptied out quick and we ended up talking to a couple of the band members. They were willing to hook us up on merch, but I wanted my %#*# signed and there wasn't a Sharpie anywhere.
My friend took the quest upon himself to ask everyone still around for a signing utensil. Maybe ten minutes pass. He comes back, tells me, "Hey, I found a girl with a marker. But she wants something in return." He laughs as he says this. Well I've had a couple drinks and I'm a curious bastard. I tell him to bring her over. She comes by and on the patented "male attraction scale," I mentally give her a two out of ten. If she was stabbed by BGS, she'd have been given a 2.0 on shape, a 1.5 on face, and a solid 3.0 for pure desperation. So what does this monstrous creature of another, profoundly frightening world want from me in return for this $1.50 Sharpie?
She wants to "make out." For the sake of brevity, I somehow agree to this "deal" straight from the most horrid abyss of the underworld. I walk her down the street. She goes on about her intense mental issues and eventually tells me, "You don't have to do this." The Heavens shined on me, giving me the most direct of outs. How do I respond? I do it anyway because Punishment is my middle name, sandwiched between Youidiot and Whygodwhy. Apparently I'm a "good kisser." Yeah, no &$@%. Thanks for that.
Going forward, the Sharpie is secured. Our albums get signed. Happy days. Crazy Behemoth Woman gets me to watch her drink. Five minutes pass and she's out back having a smoke. I get chewed out for finishing her drink as she expected me to wait fifteen minutes in an empty venue, while she blathered about "how so amazingly awesome that band was!" Another five minutes pass. Now she essentially asks me, through my friend, if there's "anywhere we can have sex tonight." Thankfully, my friend talks me out of it. Me and him end up running down the street, trying to escape before she noticed.
But I already feel bad. I feel like she deserves an excuse or something. We go back. I make up some bull&@$# about further plans with friends. Busy all night. That jazz. She gives up eventually, only after we give her a ride home.
Fast forwarding. I see her at another venue. She wants to "make out." I half lie this time. I tell her about how I'm moving to Santa Cruz soon and "I don't want to get attached to anyone before I move." She's dejected. I feel bad again, but figure it's too much crazy and ugly to deal with in one person. Either trait would have killed the deal for me, but she had both in a powerful way.
I get a MySpace message from a random friend of hers. "You shouldn't have treated Ashley that way! You're a #%&@ing punk!" or something to that effect. Eh? Did I do anything that wrong? Never said I wanted anything from this girl. I don't bother responding.
Flashing forward to our final meeting at yet another concert. "Do I have a stalker," I wonder? She asks if I have my medication on me. She wants some. I lie. "Nope. Sorry!" I have to sever ties completely at this point. She sits at a table in the back. I take a table right in front of the band. She gets the message and doesn't approach me again.
I felt equally horrible and relieved over the situation. Obviously she can't help her looks, but her personality was a complete bust too. Put Paris Hilton in this girl's body? Hell, I would've rather chatted with Paris over the phenomena of dogs inside purses.
Thus is the story - the inside joke that my friends still tease me about six years later - the epic tale of "How Brian was Sold for a Sharpie."