Princess MoMo

The Ancient Egyptians are rolling in their graves.  I got too cocky in my dating and didn’t prescreen properly.  Mr. Pharaonically Insane sent me a message with his number and I called him.  We chatted for a bit and he asked if I wanted to meet up.  He told me he lives in Somerset, which is 10 minutes from New Brunswick where we planned to meet (this is important for later).  Note, on his dating profile, there’s only one picture and it’s an unclear headshot.  That in and of itself was a warning, but I ignored it. 

His opening message:

Arabic translations: “Wallah ana asif” means Swear to God, I’m sorry.  “Gameela” means beautiful. 

Pre-non-date text that I misconstrued as amusing rather than FUCKING CRAZY!:

“And hey were adult” — SOME OF US ARE FUCKING CRAZY ADULTS.  BRACE YOURSELF FOR THE CRAZINESS YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ!

He offered to pick me up.  Thank the stars, the moon, the sun, and whatever else in the galaxy that I rejected that offer because had I agreed, I would have been putting the lotion in the basket for the rest of my days.  I drove to New Brunswick to meet him at a place called Hotoke.  I texted him announcing my arrival and stood outside Hotoke waiting.  Remember, I didn’t know what this character looked like.  He didn’t respond to my text, so I called him.  While the phone was ringing on my end, a guy walked by me that I thought might be him.  I said, “Hey.” But the guy walked right past me into Hotoke.   THEN THIS HAPPENS:

Apparently, I’m the George Foreman of ice grillz.  Well, you see, once I read that, my inner Moses said to me, “Let my MoMo go.”  I moved my heeled feet as quickly as possible around the corner and back into my MoMo-mobile because I knew nothing good could come of this.  He called me.  I reluctantly answered.  He begged me to come back and asked if I would just talk to him.  I politely declined.   Then this plague fell upon me for the next FOUR HOURSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!