Lizbit31415: You’re “special” all right

ManMeat4Sale: Ouch…my little goose has claws

Lizbit31415: What are you doing on here?

ManMeat4Sale: Is that a trick question? Attempting to Rule Them All…duh

Lizbit31415: You’re a dork

ManMeat4Sale: I know you are, but what am I?

ManMeat4Sale: I bet you $10 you just rolled your eyes at me

Lizbit31415: Shut up!

ManMeat4Sale: I’m not talking. And you owe me $10

Lizbit31415: No way. I never took the bet!

ManMeat4Sale: Fine. I’ll make you a deal…

Lizbit31415: Another deal?

ManMeat4Sale: Yep. I let you welch on the bet if you give me some game pointers

Lizbit31415: While I still say I am under no such financial obligation, I’ll help you out. What are friends for, right?

ManMeat4Sale: So, we have a deal?

Lizbit31415: Sure, Mav…we have a deal

A few minutes later, my screen pings with a notification.

You’ve received a gift of foreign aid from Uforia in the amount of—ten dollars.

Guess Elizabeth can admit when I’m right after all.

I’m amazingly content spending my Friday night nerding it up with Elizabeth. The game is as complicated as I want to make it. I can set a lot of crap to be automatic, or I can micromanage the shit out of it. Elizabeth is clearly a micromanager.

She’s right, the game is boring as fuck. It’s more like econ homework than a video game. But how excited she gets about it is cute as shit. I swear, she gets turned on talking about her trade policy. Between her enthusiasm and having SportsCenter on in the background, the night goes by pretty quickly.

ManMeat4Sale: I’ve gotta hit the sack, early game

Lizbit31415: ok

ManMeat4Sale: What’s the dress code for Sunday?

Lizbit31415: Collared shirt and suit, tie optional

ManMeat4Sale: Ties are never optional. They’re either required or they will not be worn

Lizbit31415: I’ll try to remember that

ManMeat4Sale: Pick you up around 5:30?

Lizbit31415: Perfect. Good luck tomorrow!

ManMeat4Sale: Thanks. Sweet dreams, Goose

Lizbit31415: Night, Mav

* * * *

Staring at Elizabeth’s closed apartment door on Sunday evening, shifting my weight back and forth nervously from foot to foot, I can’t decide if I should knock or just walk in. We’ve both gotten used to me waltzing in. But tonight I’m dressed up and taking her out. This doesn’t have the comfortable feel of our normal nights together. It’s more of a date. Jesus, I sound like a pussy.

Just knock on the damn door, Jacobs!