future ex-husband friday, booty call edition!

my name is coco, and i’m a drunk texter/caller…there, i said it.  normally i’m VERY in control with what i say and what i do in my pre-grey goose greyhound times.  but get a minimum of 0.5 cocktails in me (and a max of 4 because then it just gets all passed out and pukey…hi cheap date!), and i’m a menace to society an open book.

for my dc peeps

booze is my truth serum.  want to know the pin number to my ATM card?  where i hide my most valuable shoes possessions?  what i’d do to you if i got you alone (that’s one’s meant for george clooney)?  just add a martini, and i’ll text you/call you with the answer.

remarkably thankfully, today’s future ex-husband friday has NOTHING ZERO ZILCH to do with any of coco’s recent inebriation-rhythm nation communications (insert SIGH OF RELIEF here).  instead, it celebrates the drunk texting of someone who is clearly meant to be THIS WEEK’S…

let’s do this!

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backstory: last night i received a text from someone not in my contacts.  and after a few nights of epic moderate beverage consumption at some insane-alicious low-key events, i, of course, thought…who the *#&*%#&*# did i give my number to and is he hot why is he texting me the following?:

and then i pondered about what, in fact, he needed me to do.   maybe he needed me pick up his drycleaning?  maybe he’d fallen and couldn’t get up?  maybe he needed a hug?

or perhaps…this was a good, olde-fashioned booty call text.  and that’s when i got really embarrassed that i somehow managed to give my number to someone who i didn’t remember and clearly gave him the wrong impression that he was welcomed to use it to send me sexytime texts.  rut-roh!

and then i looked at the phone number of my texting romeo.  202 area code.  hmmmm.  DC guy.  since i’ve not lived in the DC area for nearly 6 years but still proudly sport a northern virginia area code (703 represent, y’all!)…and since my 3-night fiesta spree did not include a trip to the east coast (at least that i can remember)…i realized that we had a…

dum dum duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum…

wrong number.

and this is how the rest of the correspondence went down:

poor andre.  not only does he have to suffer the embarrassment of drunk texing a perfect stranger, but then he has the double wammy of blue balls an unsuccessful booty call.

so now, i am fascinated with poor andre’s back story.  so here it is!

future ex-husband’s name: andre kirk agassi (the circa 1995 version)

future ex-husband’s occupation: tennis player.  duh.

future ex-husband’s star sign: taurus

how we met: um, text message…you can read, right?!

how we fake fell in love: after he realized he texted the wrong person, he decided to find out more about the mysterious coco.  he immediately flew out on his private jet and invited me to play tennis.  within 3.5 seconds, he realized that i might be the worst tennis player in the world. but when i told him that i’m actually really good at doing home perms. he fell hard.  without fear of professional competition (you hear that stephi graf?!) and with the promise of great hair for a lifetime, he was completely and utterly smitten with the coco.

how he fake proposed: he made his and her spandex shorts with “mr and mrs agassi” emblazoned on the a$$.

why our fake marriage fell apart: have you seen me in spandex shorts?

terms of the divorce: he got the perm supplies and spandex, i got the box seats at roland garros.

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happy friday, y’all! drunk text irresponsibly 🙂

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for scm. te desidero.