The Real Life Equivalent To How Seattle Lost The Super Bowl

Elsa/Getty Images
Elsa/Getty Images

You're consistently unlucky with love. You've never had a girlfriend, and the last date you were on was when you went to the grocery store to buy a bag of dates, and you accidentally sat on the bag while driving back home. You are lonely. Desolate. You're a tumbleweed on a windless day. A candle with no string. A Big Sean CD on the shelf. You're Youngstown, Ohio.

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And then, you meet her. Her name is Chloe. And she's perfect. Not even "perfect" because your loneliness has you stuck on a low-expectation curve. But legitimately perfect for you. You have the same sense of humor. She likes comic books and fried chicken. And she even looks like Yaya DaCosta. Who you've had a crush on since the last person you had serious feelings for ("Kim") used to make you watch America's Next Top Model with her. Which makes you remember that Kim would invite you over to watch the show, and you'd always bring a bottle of raspberry ginger ale (her favorite). And when the show was over and you were sitting on Kim's couch, recapping the show and drinking raspberry ginger ale, Kim would get a text from this guy, and Kim would get excited, and then Kim would ask you to leave. You hate Kim now. And, oddly, J. Alexander too.

Anyway, you and Chloe go on a date. And the date is spectacular. It's the best date anyone has ever been on. You're head over heels with each other. The date is so awesome that, after a couple drinks, Chloe asks if you want to come over. Tonight.

You drive to Chloe's place. You get there. Things get hot and heavy immediately. You don't even do the perfunctory "Let's talk for 15 minutes about something we have no interest in talking about" dance people do when they want to get hot and heavy, but feel like it would be wrong to do it immediately. Chloe asks if you have any condoms. You don't. It's late (past midnight) but you know there's a 24-hour CVS a couple blocks away — the only open store in a 30 mile radius. So, you leave and drive to the CVS.

As you near the CVS, you notice some smoke. And some fire trucks. When you turn the corner, you witness the horror: the CVS is on fire. You get out of your car and curse God. You can not believe your fortune. You even shed a tear. You happen to be standing next to the cashiers who were working at that CVS. Between tears and curses, you overhear one of them say "The entire store is gone, aside from these boxes of condoms I was able to salvage."

You scream. You can not believe your fortune. But in a good way this time. You ask the cashier if you can buy a box from him. He says "Don't worry about it. It's on the house." You speed back to Chloe's place. You can't wait to tell her this story. And have sex with her. And then laugh some more. And then possibly have more sex if you're not too tired.

You get back to Chloe's building. You run up the stairs to her apartment. You open the door, laughing "You're not gonna believe what just happened!!!"

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And Chloe's dead.

Damon Young is the editor-in-chief of VSB, a contributing opinion writer for The New York Times, and the author of What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Blacker (Ecco/HarperCollins)

DISCUSSION

misstlee-disqus
miss t-lee

Good gawd this story.
Sh*t was like a Tarantino film.

The lone Seahawk fan I know in my office (and dude is like real deal, just moved here from Seattle and sh*t) told me this morning, "I never knew real pain, until that play last night."

Homie was absolutely crestfallen, I wanted to hug him. Almost.