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I waived the apology and complimented her on her skill, causing her to giggle more. And, to be honest, I was always excited when the cue ball landed on my side of the table. She said she had to get home as she had some errands to run, being new in the neighborhood and all. After about seven months of dating, I asked her to marry me.

You know, 'cause she bent over to take her shots, as many pros do. I agreed, since I had a facebook application that I had to update (obviously I didn't give her that reason. I popped the question on the seventeenth, as that's how many games we played on our first date.

Smiling at her and thanking her for her listening ear (no wonder I had been single for so long...) , I got up to the next table. Despite the torment in her life, she never seemed depressed about it.

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Right off the bat she told me about how she was four days sober from methamphetamine and was looking to settle down with a nice man who didn't look like a walrus. I had thought that these events were age regulated and had different meetings for people in different stages of life.

I spent the next four minutes making general small talk, quite literally fearing for my life. I'm no pervert, but the whole idea of taking her shirt off and seeing two runny eggs nailed to the wall did not appease me.

Disgusted by the company of my left hand, I decided to go out to one of those speed dating events. Keep in mind, I worked at Burger King, so the best clothes I could afford were some mediocre dress shirts and tattered khaki pants I bought at Wal Mart during a clearance event.

I walked into the event, trying to display the shred of confidence I had left.

She tossed me an invite and, seeing as I was a lonely 32 year old man, she didn't have to ask twice.

I never understood what she saw in me over all the other guys.

I wanted a wife, I wanted kids, I wanted a steady job.

I was tired of working at Burger King and living alone in a studio apartment, and I was almost certain I memorized ninety percent of pornstars on the internet by name.

I asked her if she'd like my number as the session ended, and she consented. If I wanted to sit and stare at a wall, I would have stayed home. She told me that the cancer was entwined with her lineage, dating back as far as the eighteenth century; therefore, in numerous fits of emotional rage, her ex husband blamed her for giving the children cancer and left.

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