Last year I had a very emotional email exchange with a boy who confessed me that he loved me (HOORAY!) but also that he’d been banging other people (GOD DAMMIT!). What’s important is that I learned two important things:
- Gmail reads your emails and targets ads accordingly.
- Gmail is a dick.
… your boyfriend sending you a 12-step letter from rehab.
Got a better one?
I recently went on a date with a blonde haired, blue eyed, 6’ 2’’, successful, ivy-league educated, prop trader at Goldman Sachs. For those of you who aren’t Laxtitutes-turned-BankerBangers, that’s like hitting the mother-effin jackpot.
Despite the fact that he didn’t exactly set my world on fire at our first encounter (met at a party of a mutual friend), I decided to give it a whirl. His impressive stats, combined with my nearly negative bank account and the free (and fancy) meal on the horizon were enough to woo me (I’m a real romantic, if you couldn’t already tell). Fast forward to our date—
- At least three times during dinner he referenced American Psycho. I love Christian Bale and dead hookers as much as the next gal but when those references are intended to draw numerous parallels between you and the dreamy leading man……. Not so much. “HA like, not even kidding, I had business cards made JUST like his. No joke.”
- More times than I like to remember, he used the phrase, “Oh…… I mean I’d explain it but… I feel like you wouldn’t understand.” OR “See, my job is pretty complicated. I’d get into details but I don’t want you to get confused.
- And the cherry on the sundae—at one point during the meal I asked him a question (WHAT WAS I THINKING!? I SHOULD KNOW BY NOW THAT I WOULDN’T UNDERSTAAAAND IF HE EXPLAINED IT TO ME!!!)… after a pitying laugh, slight shake of the head, and the kind of look that screams, “Oh, you silly thing!”, he smiled, reached across the table to touch my hair and said, in complete seriousness, “Hm… well….. at least you’re really pretty, right?”
The night took a turn for the unstable after that and everything becomes a blur of red wine and uncomfortable encounters with waitstaff… particularly when I INSISTED on ordering 4 desserts (for myself) and a $75 glass of scotch to wash it ALL down. While we were waiting for my treats, I (without notifying my date) invited a friend who was nearby and on a date to come and sit with us. At our table. During our date. And order food. On his bill. Naturally, they did.
After he paid the bill (HE TOTEZ MAKES SO MUCH MONEYZZ), he went to the bar to close out a tab he’d opened where we had before-dinner cocktails. My friend, her date, and I walked out the front door, hopped into a cab, and enjoyed the rest of our Friday night. Sure, probably not the nicest thing in the world, but, hey……. at least I’m really pretty, right?!?
During our freshman year in college, a friend of mine brought a girl back to his dorm. They both woke up to a fire alarm at 6am. My friend noticed he was wet, but figured it was from the water bottle he drinks after a night out. He and his lady ran outside into the early morning sunlight and, in front of the entire dorm, he realized she had peed his bed, and subsequently him, during the course of the night.
Afterwards everyone consoled him by letting him know she was well known for this exact act.
“I would like to stab you to death, though. My dick as the sword and your rolling orgasms as sequential, back-to-back deaths and resurrections.
I want to play around in your blood on a monthly basis.
Now I have to go study.”
First of all, I don’t think it counts as “an amazing night out’ if you’re just inviting yourself over to my place. That is a mediocre night in. I do this anyway. And now I have to entertain you and do things like pick the socks up off my floor? Not amused.
Second, we are sure as shit NOT going to be drinking red wine in bed. That is neither comfortable, practical, nor sexy. I mean where would we even put the glasses? And oh my GAWD just think of the stains. Visions of Tide Stain Sticks dancing through my head.
Third, Make love. Lolz.
Fourth, AFTER we’re “comfortable and connected with each other” you’re going to feed me? No no no, sir that is NOT how it works. You feed me FIRST and then when I’m in an Alfredo-induced endorphin rush you can try to test the boundaries of 16 years of Catholic upbringing.
Fifth, Do people still go dancing? Like at a discotheque? This part intrigues me.
In conclusion, here is my counter-offer: You send me the wine. I drink it in my kitchen. And as a token of my appreciation, I’ll keep your stupid name blurred out in red. Your move, Casanova.
I dedicate the following to the worst date you’ve ever had. To the emergency calls to your roommate, your parents, or the police. To every walk of shame in a Halloween costume. To your generally lowered standards. And to being able to laugh at it all.