DATING: AL DENTE
Chapter 2: The Guy Who Cracked His Head Open

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To quote Metallica: enter Sandman. After being thrown around the sky for a few hours and being denied a proper dinner, I was picked up, given a hug, then...silence. UH-OH. I might have made a serious vocational error along the way on this one -- he was frightened to even look in my direction, let alone joke about how musty his car smelled in comparison to mine back at home in the Park 'n Fly economy lot. In fact, everything about him stunk of mildew -- I wasn't sure if this was a New England thing or if it was him, so I hammered my mouth shut because I really needed to get that all-important ride back to the airport at the end of the week.

I won't subject anybody to details about the days leading to the main event -- suffice to say, I will breeze over his blatant lack of food in the house that otherwise could have been straight-forward preparation for an out-of-town guest...I will ignore the infestation of spiders and centipedes (my single most largest phobia) on the walls of the room I slept in...I will let it slide right by that he didn't have an itinerary drawn up for us to partake in...and I will overlook his lack of interest in finding the goddamned ROCK when we drove through Plymouth. No, I will let these horrendous examples just rolled off my back, slicker than snot off a rooster's lip. What REALLY pissed me off was the last day I spent in this dud-of-a-dildo's rain-drenched company.

Day 6: I wanted to take a simple drive up the coast to see big waves crashing against big rocks, just like the movies promised. Hell, we don't even get tides in my neck of the woods -- I was pumped for the thrill of some geomorphological phenomena.

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