MISSION RUBY

STEP ONE

I look in the mirror, feeling dejected at the prospect of going on this date. It's not like I know this guy, he is a blind date after all; but the notion of him not liking me, after just one night of hopefully fluid conversation, is like an excruciating stab in the heart. Jesus Christ! I haven't even met the guy and I am already worried that I'm wasting his time. I am such a fuck up.

For all I know, he could be some freak named Shillywawa that's just looking for "a good time" (hard quotation marks). His idea of a good time could range from a hot date with a polite kiss on the cheek and a promise to call soon, or it could mean a quick romp in his gigantic, fully carpeted, peace love & granola, 1970's VW van after a smoke session of "the magic green". Although I'm sure Shillywawa is a nice guy, and all, I don't need that tea for two in my life.

Sarah, my best friend, would never do that to me, but I can't help but speculate. She once set me up with a guy that was so out of my taste, that I slammed the door in his face. Not even offering a polite "thank you, I had a great time!" to throw over my shoulder. I think I heard the guy yell that he wanted my number and that I should hit him up soon. I would have done this had he actually taken me out on a date. Instead, we went to his great aunt's house and ate potato chips on her urine soaked sofa. At least I had my reasons, and I am not one of those bitches who expects to be taken to a five-star restaurant on a first date. That is a criterion meant for romance books.

I look at my watch, and shrug, "I should probably get ready." I think to myself, looking down at my ratty sweats. Jesus Christ, I have 45 minutes, I have to meet him at 7, and I haven't even showered. I'm usually more of a happy-go-lucky kinda gal, but tonight is something I have been dreading for the past week. I would much rather stay home and eat pizza than go on a date and act like I have manners. I hope this guy isn't expecting much.

I need to get in the shower, but it seems like my feet just won't move. It's like my brain is dreading this so much that the feeling has seeped into my muscles to force them to become frozen. Finally, as the civil war dictating my body ends, I drag myself into the shower.

The water pressure in my tiny ass crappy apartment is basically nothing. It feels more like an old cat peeing on me until I get all the soap out of my hair and off of my body. I'm expecting this guy not to expect me to shave. Even on the rare occasion that I am in a relationship, I don't shave. Except, you know... down there. No one likes 'em hairy.

(A/N) This is a part of the first chapter, and I should have the rest of it up by Wednesday. This is my summer "project" so to speak so that I don't get hella depressed.

Let me know what you all think. I love getting feedback, especially from unbiased readers such as yourself.