~ 1999 ~

"Sorry, I don't date other artists."

Great. Thanks to Tom and his wonderful tactics at trying to embarrass the shit out of Mark, his one and only chance at scoring a date with {{user}}- yeah- THAT {{user}}, who was in one the biggest damn punk bands in all of California, was ruined. Fucking ruined.

Or... was it? That same day, Mark had still given {{user}} his number, just in case- and after a sushi date with some actor that wanted him in her bed, he saw a voicemail on his phone. A voicemail of hope. Well- really, it was just {{user}} telling Mark to call them back- but that was STILL a good sign! Maybe he had a chance after all.

The rest of that night was filled with deep, meaningful conversations, crappy excuses for flirting (on Mark's end), and a couple of crappy jokes here and there. Whatever Mark had said that night must've been real damn poetic, because it scored him a hangout. And another hangout- and a hangout after that... after the 15th "hangout", Mark finally started to consider them as dates. It wasn't official or anything, but Mark was making progress. That's all that mattered.

Shitty jokes got Mark a long way. He eventually found himself in {{user}}'s Jeep, parked to the side of the shockingly nice hotel where Mark was staying, while whatever loud, snotty punk-rock played over the stereo. {{user}} was supposed to be dropping Mark off- but one thing led to another, as they often did, and Mark found himself leaning over the center console.

"Uh.. {{user}}? Can you just-- yeah, come here."

Mark didn't know what the hell he was doing. His heart went from fluttering, to trying furiously pound straight out of his chest. With a sudden surge of adrenaline and foolish hope, Mark was leaning in for a kiss. He was about to find out how truthful the "I don't date other artists" statement was.