As mentioned in my previous entry, I am trying to ease
myself back into the dating scene. Actually, fuck that. I haven’t eased in. I
jumped in head first without even checking how shallow the water was and
risking breaking my god damn neck. Whatever. Big risks equal incurable STD’s
right?
Friday night I had a date with my number one internet D.
I had a good feeling about this one. The dude seemed normal. He wasn’t overly
attractive so I didn’t get nervous potential diarrhea about meeting up with
him. Being the more attractive one always gives you a good upper hand and
ensures you won’t be paying for shit. He found a bar that was totally my style,
very dark so my under eye wrinkles are hidden and my smeared eyeliner looks
like an on purpose smoky eye, and had decent beers on tap so I wouldn’t have to
pretend that I truly believe Miller High Life is the champagne of beers.
(Spoiler alert: it is not, unless you are from Wisconsin.)
Parking was a little aggressive near the bar so I had to
do a drive by to circle around and saw my date standing outside the bar. Initially,
was not attracted to him. But, during my extensive and tragic dating career I’ve
learned that physical attraction can happen later. Or after 16 jager bombs and
an ecstasy pill. I’m not going to lie, the shallow skeezy little bitch in me
half considered bailing and going back home to my cat, Netflix, nacho cheese
Doritos and wine; but like I’ve said before I’ve already accumulated some
fucked up dating karma and I’d like to not have a shitshow date sometime in
2017, maybe?
I parked, walked up to the bar, greeted the internet D
and told myself either way I’d probably have a good time. Turns out, I’m an
idiot. I did not have a good time. In fact, I would have rather been curled up on
my bathroom floor expelling waste from all of my orifices. I hope the internet
D reads this and learns something. Because this is how you lose the chance to
touch a girl’s vagina, or if you’re Donald Trump, grab a woman by the pussy.
1. Create a
scene that makes your date feel uncomfortable.
As we walked up to the front door of the bar, there was
a cute little old man in a wheelchair checking ID’s. He was chatting with a
couple and so I stood to the side, patiently holding my ID and waiting my turn.
Internet D loudly proclaims, despite the fact that NOBODY WAS FUCKING LOOKING
AT HIM OR TALKING TO HIM, “She’s with me!” and drags me into the bar. What in
all the fucking fucks!? Instantly I hated this man. I am not with you. I am
with her. And by her I mean anyone else in the bar besides you. That was my
first impression of Internet Dbag. After this awkward scene at the door,
Internet Dbag proceeds to throw a fit that someone was sitting at “his table”
as I awkwardly sat by myself at a different table because who gives a fuck
about what table we sit at you fucking psychopath. Literally 3 minutes into
this date and I contemplated murder/suicide. Shut. it. down.
2. Take your
date to a bar that you basically live at and all of your friends work at.
It became very clear, very quickly that Internet Dbag
was a regular at this bar. It was like a fucked up Cheers episode. The bartender
was his best friend. Which in theory sounds great, except he was a freak of
fucking nature. As I uncomfortably tried to get past the fact that I hated this
dude and make polite conversation, his friends kept walking by our table and
high fiving him like he just lost his virginity. They didn’t acknowledge my presence, nor did
they congratulate my vagina. Who at this point had sealed shut like a fucking
dungeon. Rude. I like attention, but I don’t want to be shown off like a prized
pony. I’m a person. I don’t want to hear your side conversations with your
friend about your last circle jerk. PAY ATTENTION TO ME OR DIE. Also, his
running commentary on what his friends behind me were doing while I was talking
made me want to slice him open from throat to sternum with a fucking butter
knife. This rage is real.
3. Talk about
all the famous people you’ve met.
I tend to avoid dating dudes who live in Los Angeles. Mainly
because I don’t give a shit if you’re an out of work “actor” who handed
Channing Tatum a water bottle once and now you think Channing Tatum is your
friend. Channing Tatum doesn’t give a fuck about you. Channing Tatum wouldn’t
let you towel off his ball sweat. CHANNING TATUM IS BUSY. Lo and behold, people
in Orange County still think they are best friends with celebrities. Internet
Dbag talked over me constantly to talk about celebrities he’s met who think he’s
the tits. In summary: Iggy Pop, Hunter S. Thompson (RIP), the Descendants (the
whole band) and Nine Inch Nails (the whole band) think this guy is so great
they basically want to pull down his pants and kiss his ass. Pretty sure it’s
more likely that I’m going to grow a third tit out of my armpit. Iggy Pop doesn’t
care about you. I saw Iggy Pop perform once and almost pull his dick out and I
know that Iggy Pop and I are not friends. THIS IS REAL LIFE.
4. Start talking
about our next date when I’m clearly casing my exits so I can get the fuck out of here.
My face doesn’t lie. When I’m not having a good time, it
goes beyond resting bitch face. I’m pretty sure the words “I’m having a bad
time” actually appear on my forehead in flashing lights. Everyone in that bar,
maybe even the entire city, knew I was not having a good time. But dipshit was
too distracted by his homies, the tv, his own idiocy to notice that I hated the
sound of his voice. He mentioned three follow up dates. ARE YOU DUMB? Did you
not notice that each time you mentioned another date I stared into my beer and
clicked my feet three times hoping a tornado would hit and we would all die? No
I don’t want to go to the wine bar that your friends own where you drink “$100.00
bottles of wine” and I sure as fuck don’t want to go to Big Bear with you and
your family who are probably just as obnoxious as you are. I WOULD RATHER GET A
COLONOSCOPY, PAP SMEAR, AND ROOT CANAL AT THE SAME TIME THAN HANG OUT WITH YOU AGAIN.
Good day, sir. I SAID GOOD DAY!
5. Mention an
ex. Any ex. EVER.
I’m 67% sure I asked dude if he’d ever been married
before. I might be wrong, so I won’t harp on the potential lie. But everyone,
every single person in the entire world, knows that you do not under any
circumstances talk about your ex. Sure you might need to mention her once,
especially to say you were married before but are now divorced. But do I need
to know that your ex was there that time Iggy Pop metaphorically blew you
backstage? NOPE. Not relevant to the story. Do I need to know that your ex who
you were only “briefly” married to is somehow the focal point of every single
fucking story of your entire 40 years of life? FUCK NOPE. Next time, just do
everyone a favor and immediately start crying into your beer about how you miss
her because clearly you’re a tragic ass mess. I can at least then leave the bar
with another dude guilt free. BYE.
6. Brag. At all.
About anything.
If you’ve done cool shit, that’s awesome. Good for you.
If it seems relevant to our conversation to throw in an interesting fact about
yourself, go for it. If you completely take our conversation off topic to brag
about something, GO FUCK YOURSELF. Example, I was talking about the last
concert I’d gone to. This guy blurts out, “I’ve been shot and stabbed.” Listen Terri
(not it’s real name), no one fucking asked you. I’m slightly interested to hear
how these things happened, but because you interrupted the 2 seconds you gave
me to speak to brag, I will not hear your story. I will act like a child and
cover my ears to not hear the words coming out of your face. I will stab my
eardrums out to not hear one fucking thing you are about to say. My entire soul
hates you.
7. Refuse to
accept defeat.
I tried to be polite and hold out for as long as I could
on this sinking ship of shit. But eventually it became too much. I started
throwing out hints that no one was touching genitals today. I declined another
drink. (Breathe in, I know this is shocking.) I started yawning. I pulled out
my phone and feigned surprise like, “Oh my gosh it’s already 11:00!?”. Mother
fucker refused to let it go. He suggested a second location. A second location?
Unless it’s a shallow grave somewhere, no fucking thanks man. When I realized
that he was not going to let this not be awkward, I summoned my inner bitch,
looked him right in the eyes and said, “I’m going home.” He looked surprised.
Probably the same face I made when Donald Trump actually became a viable option
for President. WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING. Is this real life? He honestly
thought he was getting somewhere. If females had the same false sense of
confidence that dudes have, it would be insane. We would legitimately run shit.
This refusal to accept defeat created the most awkward walk to my car where I
did one of those hugs where none of your body parts touch theirs and peeled out
of the parking lot like I just kicked someone’s baby. Clearly, even the molestey
uncle hug and peel out wasn’t an indication that I was not at all interested.
Dude texted me yesterday like things were good. You guys, I just can’t.
Dudes, on a real note, us ladies make a lot of effort
when we go on a date. I know I definitely down play it, but I do stress over
what to wear, if my make-up looks good, what the fuck my bangs are doing, and
if my ass looks video girl luscious or Kim Kardashian pregnant horrifying. Don’t
make me go through all that effort just to be a douchebag. Shut your fucking
mouth and listen. Don’t take me to a bar and make me hang out with your friends
and feel uncomfortable. Don’t talk about your ex. Don’t brag. Don’t keep trying
to take the banter to a sexual level if I’m blatantly refusing to take the
conversation there. I get it, you’re trying to be funny. I’M NOT LAUGHING.
I’m not giving up. I’ll respond to your message One_Man_Party
in a minute. But I’m not taking any shit. And if I’m not laughing, you’re not
getting laid. So if you wanted to tell me about how you toweled off Channing
Tatum’s balls, DON’T. But feel free to tell me that story about how you shit
your pants in a Costco as an adult man with bills. That, I want to know about.
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