I Hate Bus Stops. And Men. And Especially Men at Bus Stops.

When people find out that I’ve never had a boyfriend, their response is almost always, “Really? Why not? Are you too picky?”

What the FUCK is that supposed to mean? “Too picky” would imply that I have unreasonable standards, and I most certainly do not. I can’t help it that all the men in my “love life” have been total weird-asses!

Seriously, you’ve read the stories about my dates. And those are the men whom I’ve actually agreed to meet. Can you imagine the creeps who don’t even make it that far?

For those of you who lack imagination, I’ll give you an example that demonstrates the general caliber of the men who hit on me.

Last night, I waited alone at a bus stop after leaving a Halloween party. There were about 4 benches available, and they were all completely empty. I plopped down on one and began silently judging everyone who walked by.

A tall black man, whom I will call BJ, approached the bus stop (the rationale behind this name will be revealed shortly). BJ looked for a place to sit, and SAT DOWN RIGHT NEXT TO ME. God damnit! Three other empty benches of course this MoFo needs to sit down next to me! This doesn’t sound that bad, but let me tell you more about him.

First off, he was clad in all ivory pimp suit – including a ridiculous fedora and gaudy loafers. Was this his Halloween costume? No. No, it was not, as he informed me that he had just come from an “audition.” I don’t even want to know what the hell one auditions for at 1 fucking AM over the weekend.

Second, he had a grill. Yes, I actually just typed the words “HE HAD A GRILL.” You know, as in GOLD TEETH with jewels on it. GREAT. Nothing’s hotter than a 45 year-old man with rhinestones in his fucking mouth.

Third, I overheard his telephone conversation, where he made plans to meet his friends “at the KFC.” I couldn’t believe my ears. I was sitting next to a living breathing ghetto black guy caricature.

And I’m not even done yet. Lastly, as soon as BJ had initially sat down next to me, he fucking busted out BEEF JERKEY and snacked up a storm as he was spitting his game! Yes, he literally ATE beef jerkey the ENTIRE TIME he was hitting on me!!! Now you know why he will now forever be known as “BJ” (for those of you who know me well, you know that a man eating beef jerkey would normally be a turn on for me as I love seasoned, well-preserved animal products; however, in combination with the grill and head-to-toe matching, it became unacceptable).

And I was stuck at the fucking bus stop with BJ for over 20 minutes because there were no buses and no cabs and the universe hates me. I wanted to throw myself off the bridge. The only thing stopping me was the fact that I was wearing a ridiculous pirate costume, and I like to imagine that I’ll die with dignity someday.

Anyhow, BJ would NOT stop asking me questions (You got a man? Where you goin? Were you at the Timbaland concert?), DESPITE the fact that I had my damn BACK turned to him the ENTIRE TIME. Who the HELL talks to a girl’s back?!?! God, get some pride!

I loathe my love life.

So. Do any of you still want to tell me that I’m too picky?

Yeah, thought so. Bitches.

Proclamation to All Homosexual Men

To All Homosexual Men:

Please stop "romantically" pursuing me. Though I adore your fawning over my Giuseppe Zanotti boots and your willingness to drop $100 on a French meal at the drop of a hat, our time spent together is not "dating." This is because you are a homosexual. Some of you may not realize it yet, but you are.

I feel that I am partially to blame for I am such a swinging good time that it's probably easy to confuse your pleasure from being with me with romantic affection. Also, my own repulsion toward physical contact with men often drives me to stand as far away from you as possible, which only contributes to your comfort in knowing that a kiss is eons away for, subconsciously, you don't want to kiss me. Finally, I must admit that my voice is rather deep and manly, and the content of my words is neither ladylike nor feminine, providing yet another avenue with which to confuse you.

But your admiration is misplaced. You want to worship me, give me decorating tips, and laugh at my jokes. You would rather fondle an apple martini than my breasts. You want to give blowjobs. Your hair is prettier than mine. Your jokes are funnier. All because you are a homosexual.

And what has driven me to write such a declaration today? The same thing that has driven all of my crazy rants on this blog -- a truly vexatious dating experience.

Today's Homosexual Admirer of Mine (H.A.M.) is a man who looks, walks, and talks like a gay, but who refuses to give up on the dream of dating me. This is how he asked me out on our first date:

• He left me a voicemail at around 11 AM.
• When I did not respond by 12:30 PM, he texted me, "Hey, did you receive the voicemail about going out tonight?"
• I finally got around to texting him back (for I am a busy career woman), and he set the plan by texting "Let's grab drinks and then ride in my new hot air balloon to Tokyo. Bring a warm jacket, toiletries, and enough food for a 3 week voyage."
  

For the LOVE of ALL THINGS GAY... WHY?!?!?!

At the end of our first date, he leaned in for a kiss, which forced me to awkwardly turn my cheek to avoid the locking of our lips. I vowed to myself that this would be my last date with H.A.M.

Then, H.A.M. called me and asked me out again. He TRICKED me by calling from his work phone, so I answered and, being the people-pleasing, gracious girl that I am, was unable to reject the suggestion that we meet for drinks. We did so, and the date ended in exactly the same manner as the first. I vowed to myself AGAIN that this would be my last date with H.A.M.

Then, H.A.M. called me and left me a rambling voicemail about The Dark Knight, which we had both planned on seeing, though not together. He described the movie as being "amaaaaaaaaaazing on like, SOOOO many levels." This voicemail sealed H.A.M.'s fate. It confirmed yet again that H.A.M. had an unmistakable, incredibly gay accent that is the harbinger of Prada dress shirts and anal lubricant. So I knew I had to end things once and for all.

And how did I do so? The way any mature, dignified woman would. I sent H.A.M. a text message telling him a lie that I'd met someone else. Ahhhhh! Thank you, technology, for once again shielding and distancing me from live human interaction!!!

Of course, H.A.M. called me again because he, like many gays before him, is obsessed with me. I let the call go to voicemail, so he left a message telling me that he still wanted to be friends and keep in touch. OF COURSE!! This was of no surprise to me, though the request, like my insatiable appetite for pizza and vodka, will never be fulfilled.

Thank you, gays, for your time. I love you all. Just not like that. You don't know me like that.


LESSONS LEARNED:
-- Never give a homo your phone number (for romantic purposes. Definitely do so for interior design, fashion, hair, food, alcohol, and everything else in life).
-- If a man uses the words "hot air balloon," he is a homosexual because "hot air balloon" is a metaphor for "scrotum."

Taxi Cab Lovin

The other night, I left Ambassador, where I'd been drinking with a friend after work. Well, she was drinking, and I was playing with her iPhone and ignoring her completely -- the same way every man in every bar ignores me.

Fortunately, not all was lost that night because I stepped into a cab where the driver began our drive with the question, "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

YES. We all know what that question means --> I want to do you, but I have no idea how to start a conversation with you.

So I began thinking to myself, "GOD DAMNIT why do I live so far from Ambassador?!"

I assured the cab driver that I was certain we'd never met before. He then told me that he was on his way somewhere but picked me up because I was "so beautiful." Scoff. Puke.

He then proceeded to tell me all about himself. He drives only on the weekends because he's actually a writer. He's written a book that he usually brings along with him when he drives because he sells at least 4 copies each night. Oh yeah. He's also a rapper who freestyles.

He then handed me a flyer and told me I should watch him freestyle next Thursday night at some bar I've never heard of. I was like, "Yeahhhhh... I don't really go out on weeknights."

His response? "Well for you, I'd freestyle for FREE. Anytime."

My response? Silence.

I did NOT want my cab driver to start freestyling to me during what felt like a torturously long odyssey home. Thankfully, before he could start, we arrived at my house. Fortune was on my side for the first time. Thank you. Thank you so much.

Before I left, the cab driver introduced himself to me and shook my hand. His words were, "My name is MC Mars." OMFG. MC Mars.

Oh yeah. One more thing...

The best part...

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

Click here to see my cab driver.

The Mack is Back

Reader(s):

After a 1-month hiatus from the treacherous world of blogging, I'm back, and I'm better than ever!!!

First of all, yes, I meant to describe "blogging" and not "dating" as being treacherous because I thought I was going to get fired from my job when my stat counter started telling me that people (whom I thought = compliance and/or senior management) were logging onto my blog from my company headquarters. This is a scary thought for someone who lives month-to-month.

Second, I'm better than ever because I'm hoping to switch to a new job soon -- one where I will be able to blog all I want about whatever my onyx heart desires.

So what have I been up to since I last wrote? Drinking. Lots of drinking.

Also, I've just re-written my online dating profile with hopes of attracting new men, and it seems to be working! Fat old geezers with yellow fever from Florida and the UK are already reaching out to me. What could be a more ideal match for a mid-20s girl from Silicon Valley? I suspect that there will be many new dates and perhaps my first real boyfriend (which I define as a man going on 5 dates with me) to come!

But just to catch you up on some of my recent drama, let me tell you about a phone call that I recently had. A guy called me one evening and introduced himself by saying he was "X from [name of company where he works]," so I started freaking out because I thought that I'd scheduled a phone interview for a job about which I'd totally forgotten.

So I played along, although I was confused. I asked him, "I can't remember emailing you, but do we have an appointment to speak right now?"

He then sounded even MORE CONFUSED than I and said, "No, do I need an appointment to call you? I thought we had agreed we'd speak this weekend."

That's when I was reminded for the one millionth time why I hate my life. It dawned on my idiot self that this call was not about a job -- this was about a FUCKING DATE! This was someone whom I'd met through an online dating website with whom I'd previously agreed to chat. And I must have sounded like the biggest BITCH EVER by asking him if he had a fucking APPOINTMENT to speak with me!!! Can you imagine how you'd feel if someone you were courting said that to you?!?!

I wanted to die. I literally wanted to die. BUT it was also HIS fucking fault for introducing himself in such an idiotic way. DAMNIT. Who does that? We're talking about getting to know each other romantically, and he's fucking introducing himself to me like we're supposed to be networking! Why why WHY!??!!?

Whatever. The rest of the conversation was pretty normal except for that fact that he dropped the F bomb, which is a bit weird to do on the phone with a girl whom you've never met, right? I know. I'm the biggest fucking hypocrite ever. I can't even thank my mom for cooking dinner without dropping the F bomb ("Mom, this fucking bun thit nuong is so fucking good! Gimme some more of this shit!").

Anyhow, going forward, I'm going to refer to this new dude as F Bomb. F Bomb and I are going to hang out this week, which means that there will probably be [horrible, humiliating] details to come.


LESSONS LEARNED:
-- Nothing. I think that I was totally right in every way in this particular situation.

This is why you don't join the Peace Corps.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm branding myself as the next Oprah, only I'm young, I'm humble, and I'm unable (which you must distinguish from "unwilling") to publish a photo of my face anywhere (as I prefer to only get beaten up if it's part of "role playing"). Also, I, unlike O, realize that building schools for underprivileged girls is less important than talking to them about the importance of getting laid frequently and by the hottest man possible (please notice how I said "man" and not "men" as I also emphasize the lesson of Not Being a Ho).

So, as a humanitarian, I volunteer frequently. No. Wait. Come to think of it, perhaps I can only say that I dabble in volunteer work on occasion. No. Hmmmm.... Really, I think that I may have only volunteered once in my life, and it's the story I'm about to tell you.

I recently convinced my girlfriends to work at a charity benefit as hostesses. Basically, there's a group of middle-aged "bachelors" who regularly throws parties and then donates the money to The Ronald McDonald Foundation. We agreed to work at one of these parties, which involved sitting at a table, welcoming guests, and collecting their donations. Meanwhile, the "bachelors" kept our champagne glasses full. I know, I TOTALLY rough it when I volunteer. I mean, it's WAY more uncomfortable feeling gassy due to consuming 2 bottles of champagne than it is picking up a damn soda can off the beach. Puh-leeeease.

Anyhoo, one of these middle-aged "bachelors," whom I will call Pervy Viet Man, took a liking to one of my friends, whom I will call Alice. Alice is an attractive, fit, highly-educated girl in her early-20s. Pervy Viet Man is a 40-something year-old, overweight, balding, 5'4" Vietnamese man with a thick Vietnamese accent. For those of you from the square states who have never before heard a Vietnamese accent, let me tell you something -- it is perhaps the least attractive accent on the planet. The intonations are somewhat similar to the sound of elephants mating. [Sorry, Phuong and Lan (my Vietnamese manicurists).]

I'd like to share with you the email that Pervy Viet Man sent Alice after the event:

Hi, this is [Pervy Viet Man] from the XXX Bachelors Club. How are you doing skinny? Still clubbing with your friends?

Couple things I want to ask you:
1) The next party is at the XXX Club in XXX on June 29. Can you help? I know it's a long drive so you can stay over night at my house in XXX if you want. I'll let you have my master bedroom and king size bed. We don't send out invite yet until 2 weeks before the party. You're the first to know.

2) Summer is here I'm looking for somebody in the city to walk with to get more exercise as opposed to hitting the golf course over the weekend. Care to join me sometime? Your lunch is on me.

That email is officially the LAST MOTHERFUCKING THING any girl would want to find in her inbox. An email that announced the death of her ENTIRE fucking family by gunshots to their faces would actually CHEER HER UP after that creepy ass bullshit email!

Please, if any of you have EVER received a creepier email, forward it to me immediately and I will pay you $1 million. Or I'll post it on my blog. I know that both options would be equally rewarding to you, particularly given my widespread readership.


LESSONS LEARNED:

1. Volunteering is for suckers.
   

OMG. I am like SO fucking popular.

I hope the other female bloggers don't feel all threatened and shit about that chart above, which pretty much demonstrates that my readership base is UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLY GARGANTUAN.

Now, when I address my "readers," I can be more specific by saying something like, "my 6 readers." This is where you're realizing that the chart's scale is neither in the thousands nor tens of thousands. No way, baby! I'm rocking the SINGLE DIGITS!

Don't worry. I won't let this get to my head. For now. I can't promise I'll remain so down-to-earth once I hit the double-digits. That's a whole different ballpark, motherfuckers! But I know I'll get there. I'm going to ride my irresistible charm and razor-sharp wit straight to the top!! (Which I define as having 25 readers)

I'll continue to post my stats because I find them fucking hilarious. What on EARTH possesses me to continue to write to entertain 6 fucking people? And you must be TOTAL LOSERS and FREAKS if you actually read my bullshit! Shit! God, we need to get lives.

A question more important than "What is the meaning of life?"

I'd like to address a question that people stop to ask me on the street almost every day. No, it's not the question "Are you a model?" But that's a good guess. The question is, "What makes a hobag a hobag?"

I think it's important to answer this question for many reasons. First, nothing's worse than being a ho while thinking you're a normal girl who's "just having fun." This could lead to many awkward situations, such as turning 30 years old and wondering why none of the 485 men you've slept with have proposed to you yet. Second, ............................. second, ..............okay, I guess there is no other reason why the question is important. Basically, I just want to figure out whether my girlfriends and I are skanks or not.

Here's what I've decided are the symptoms of Hoism, which will now be the standard for the entire world going forward:

You ARE a hobag if ...

• you lost your virginity before you learned how to do long division (sorry, no exceptions for rape or child molestation as we all know that people who were sexually abused grow up to become skanks with low self esteen).

• your only criteria for whether you should give a man a blowjob is whether the dick will fit in your mouth, which is particularly relevant since there are already two other dudes' dicks in there. When it can't fit, you let him stick it up your ass.
  

• you tell people the number of men you've slept with, but you have to use the words "plus or minus 100." After you notice the looks of disgust on people's faces, you defend yourself by chiming in, "Just kidding! The real number is actually [insert amount of $ in your checking account]." If you fall into this category, then you're not just a hobag -- you're a broke ass hobag, which is the worst kind. But don't worry, it's also the most common kind. There are only a few rich ass hobags in the world. We commonly refer to them as "It Girls."
  

• you do the walk of shame so regularly that you've created an optimal route home that ensures no one will ever see you. This route involves a tunnel you've burrowed yourself and perhaps maybe a zipline or two. You've strategically hidden ninja outfits in bushes throughout your neighborhood. You carry your change of thong and your toothbrush in a hollowed-out Bible.

• you're able to ask 27 qualifying questions regarding condom preferences, but you don't ask any because you don't even use condoms. This is because it feels "sooooooo fucking amazing fucking without one!" You don't even care if it's a military man. Or a frat boy. Or an ex-convict. A dick is a dick, right?
  

• you purposely masturbate before an open window that directly faces the window of your neighbor; however, that window belongs to the room of a 6 year-old boy, who is also the son of a local pastor. You've repeatedly told the pastor that his son is a "little fucking liar."

CONCLUSION: Despite this unbelievably high standard I'm setting for what makes a hobag a hobag, it seems as though, somehow, I am NOT a hobag. I'm very relieved and will be emailing the results of this test to my parents shortly. Are YOU a hobag?!?! If so, it's okay. Don't feel bad. It's much better being a hobag than a prude. Everyone says so.

Craigie Awards: Photo Submissions

Hello, dear reader(s).

As part of my Masochistic Craigslist Experiment, I will be presenting awards, which I will call Craigies, to the unwitting respondents of my Craigslist ad.

I will first begin with Craigies awarded for photo submissions. Please note that while I'm ABSOLUTELY DYING (seriously DYYYYYYING) to post the actual photos I received in order to better tell the stories and also add a color besides pink to this vagtastic-looking blog, I think that posting photos would be heinously bitchy because stupidity and ugliness do not justify such cruelty. But DO NOT for one fucking second take this rare act of kindness on my part to be a sign of weakness because, in addition to being delightfully charming, I'm unbreakable. UNBREAKABLE.

• Most Annoying Photo: One dude sent me a photo of himself in a MASQUERADE MASK. Psst! Phantom of the Opera! I can still tell YOU ARE UGLY.
  

• Most Repulsive Outfit: A man with an afro sent me a picture of himself wearing a purple, leopard-print, short-sleeved, button-down shirt. No, I did not pull those adjectives out of a grab bag of synonyms for BUTT UGLY CLOTHING DESCRIPTIONS. What this shirt needed was flames on it. Not printed flames. Real flames. Engulfing it. Like in Backdraft. And I'm hoping for his sake that somewhere in the background of this photo there sits a faithful seeing eye dog that explains this "situation" (not that that would stop me from mocking and spitting on him or kicking his dog for not doing its job). Oh, by the way. This wasn't a candid shot where he was out with his friends at one of those "unbelievably creative, unique, and rare" Pimps and Hos parties that is the theme of EVERY OTHER FUCKING PARTY IN THE WORLD. No. This was a fucking posed, "professional" studio photo, so planning, time, money, AND delusions actually went into this bullshit picture. Let us offer a moment of silence for his penis, which has never before felt the soft, warm touch of a vaginal wall. Amen.
  

• Most Idiotic Mistake: One guy sent me two photos. In one, he looked hot and athletic in a basketball jersey -- totally bangable. In another, he looked like he'd spent the past 4 years eating fried, chocolate-dipped hippopotamus lardballs. Now, which is probably the more recent one? Yes, even the idiots among us (god why are there so many of you) know that we generally pack ON the pounds as we age. What was Tubbo McDoritos thinking?!!? Why the FUCK would I give a mother fuck if he USED TO BE FIT? Why the FUCK is he showing me what he WOULD HAVE LOOKED LIKE if he hadn't let himself go?!?! Do 47 year-old cougars try to pick up men by saying that they USED TO BE 17? Would I date a merely middle-class man who USED TO BE A BILLIONAIRE? Fuck no! Fucking grow a brain.
  

• Most Likely to Live with His Mother: Hmm... now WHAT on EARTH would possess me to think such a thing? Could it be because he sent me AN ENTIRE FUCKING PHOTO ALBUM OF PHOTOS OF HIM AND HIS DEAR MOTHER?!!!? Hey, Mama's Boy! Here's the typical order of events: 1st date where YOU PAY --> numerous other fun/romantic/creative/adventurous dates over the course of months/years --> asteroid-sized rock on my left finger --> introduction to your family where mommy dearest sits down and TORTURES me with your LAME ASS family albums as I feign interest about what an adorable boy you once were!!!
  

• Most Unnecessary Special Effects: One picture completely confused me because of its weird editing that added NO VALUE whatsoever. He took a photo of himself and then cut out the picture of his head and then pasted it slightly to the right of his body. As you can imagine, THERE IS NO APPARENT FUCKING REASON FOR THIS other than to show he has delusions that looking disembodied would get me off. HEY, FUCKOFF, nowhere in my ad did I mention, "BTW, my full name is Hannibal Lecter."

• Best Movie Impersonation: Ever see The Blair Witch Project? Remember how CREEPY AS FUCK the characters looked when they would turn the camera on themselves in the darkness, with only the tiniest bit of light shining onto their frightened, shadowy faces? Yeah, so how do you think I felt when I opened my goddamn EMAIL hoping to see an Abercrombie-Like Adonis only to have some FUCKED UP BLAIR WITCH MOTHER FUCKER LEERING AT ME?!?! SHIIIIIIIIIIT! I almost started crying (I never actually cry for I'm incapable of tears and most feminine emotions). I thought the freak was going to seriously come flying out of my laptop, kill me with a stick, and hang my half-eaten corpse from a tree in the wilderness. I still can't believe I live to tell this story. I now know exactly how cancer survivors feel, and beating death validates something that I've always believed -- that I really WAS put on this earth to mock and judge others and that I am meant to continue doing so for decades to come. And this is a blessing to us all.
  

• Most Age Inappropriate Suitor: I couldn't believe it, but a fucking GREAT GREAT GREAT GRANDFATHER responded to my ad. I actually read through his entire email hoping to read a story about how he used to sip tea with George Washington. To make matters worse, Father Time was wearing a fanny pack and about 45 extra pounds around his midsection. I don't even know how he was standing upright on his own. Suuuure, geezer, you're just "leaning" on that fucking pole. I bet you're hiding a defibrillator behind that damn tree, too! Are you also going to tell me how proud you are of your great great grandson, Alexandros, King of Macedon?! And is your baby picture found somewhere among the Lescaux Cave Paintings? Here's some handy advice: if someone is so fucking old he used to WALK ACROSS WHAT WE NOW CALL "THE PACIFIC OCEAN," a photo is utterly meaningless in his pursuit of a girl in her 20s. Either email proof that you are worth over $100 million or fuck off.

Please don't rape me.

I'm beginning a Masochistic Craigslist Experiment in order to (1) see if Craigslist is a good place to try to find a man and (2) entertain you motherfuckers!!! Do you see how GIVING I am? I could be wasting time re-building hurricane-torn homes, but I instead choose to find innovative ways to inject your lives with laughter while simultaneously inserting mine with mortification.

Yes, I'll date creeps off the internet for fodder. I suspect that I'm opening Pandora's Box of Social Intercourse, but don't try to tell me that it's dangerous or that I'm crazy because I'll do anything for a good story -- even if it means jeopardizing my dignity, sexual health, and life. Also, I've already been raped once, and I heard it's not so bad the second time around. Kidding. Really. Everyone likes rape jokes.

One of my girlfriends tried this Craigslist thing before and received hundreds of photos of penises. So far, I've received about 50 responses with 0 penises. Shit! What did I do wrong? I mean, Thank goodness. Penises....ewwwww!

Over the coming days, I'll share with you some of the unbelievably fucked up responses I've received. And, of course, I'll tell you ALL ABOUT the dates (minus the "action" because a lady never tells, and obviously, I am a refined, classy lady).

Let's be excited. What wonders will Craigslist hold for us?!?!

Gangbangs, though fun, are not romantic.

This is a little tale that will demonstrate how fucking clueless and inept I am when it comes to men, dating, and everyday common sense. In other words, it's no different from any of my other posts.

A boy I had met at a bar (stop judging...where else am I supposed to meet high-caliber man? my fucking "friends" aren't doing SHIT to introduce me to people) called me and asked me out for drinks. We agreed to meet at a local wine bar for we both happen to be quintessential yuppies (yes, between 7:30 AM and 6 PM, I am a real working "professional" who doesn't use the word "fuck" in every other sentence).

So I agreed to go out with this boy, "Google Boy #1" (I originally wanted to just go with "Google Boy," by my foresight cautioned me that I'd better number these dorks because I'll likely whore it up with Google to try to get a free lunch ticket to their world-renowned cafeteria). Ehhhhh.... fuck it! His real name is "Andy," which I'm revealing because the bastard later rejected me.

When I agreed to go out with Andy, I warned him that I had already made dinner plans with some friends visiting from the UK (for I am a beloved global figure), so I'd have to call Andy afterward to figure out where to meet up.

My friends showed up at the restaurant and had brought other friends, so I was now with four black men. Unbeknownst to me at the time, 4 black men + 1 girl ==> gangbang. Or, it might lead to something like these men running a train on me. Anyhow, I was oblivious to all of this at the time and never stopped to wonder if Andy, a white, boarding-school-bred, Duke- and Cornell-educated Googler, would find it weird if I were to show up to our date with these four black men. Fuck you. Even genius must rest at some points.

So I went to the wine bar to meet Andy -- with Arthur, Ole, Kole, and Ade in tow. I then witnessed the flesh of a white man somehow manage to lose even more color. Andy was both confused and scared shitless. I ignored this obvious discomfort and focused on my priority of the evening: DRINKING. So I screamed out, "Let's drink, bitchesssssssss!"

We proceeded to guzzle a few bottles of wine together and then moved onto a nearby lounge so that we could dance the night away (no, Andy had not run home crying like a little bitch yet ). Arthur, Ole, Kole, and Ade were amazing dancers. The girls all wanted to freak with them. Andy... Andy danced like a deaf white boy, and the sad thing is, he was getting ALL into it. NO, it is NOT fucking "cute" when a guy TRIES to dance even though he can't. It's fucking humiliating and uncalled for. It's the reason why I have to cram a damn straightjacket in my fucking clutch every time I take a white man to a club.

I eventually grew tired of watching Andy struggle to find the beat. A hooker would struggle less with reading An Introduction to Modern Astrophysics. So I invited him to sit down with me so that we could chat alone and get to know each other better. This is when Andy finally confessed his feelings about this first date of ours. He told me, "When you first walked in with four black guys, I was totally weirded out, but then I thought, 'This girl must be a freak!'" And so he asked me out on another date (he would later learn the hard way just how freaky I am, but that's a story for another day).


LESSONS LEARNED:

1. You can take a man on the world's worst date, but if he thinks you'll let him do anal, he'll ask you out again.
2. Nerdy white boys are intimidated by black men, even if the black men are highly-educated and have refined British accents; therefore, do not bring such black men on your dates with nerdy white boys.
3. You should arrive at your dates alone, not with a group of men (I actually had to go back and ADD this because it completely escaped me when I first wrote this).

Coming Soon: A New Target ==> ME!!!

An interesting issue was broached to me the other night -- fairness. I was at a bar with one of my four readers, and this reader told me that it's totally fine for me to bash on my dates as long as I tell my stories fairly. I immediately told him to fuck off and find another blog because I don't have time to worry about being reputable. I'm protected by ANONYMITY, baby!!

But then I pondered the possibility of my identity someday being revealed, particularly as the inevitable popularity of this blog spreads across the land and I am crowned the Carrie Bradshaw of the 20-something singles set. If you are to worship me, I must value honesty at least slightly. And so I've decided to present a more balanced tale of my "love life." I hope I can forgive myself for this someday.

Also, I must confess something that will come as a shock to you, particularly if you are someone who actually knows me: I'm not perfect. Yes, I know it's hard to believe. I spend most of my time finding the exact opposite of that to be true, but then once in a while I fuck up BIG TIME, and I'm reminded that no, I am not perfect, and, in fact, I am far from perfection. So far from perfection that I could squint into the Hubble Telescope and not make out even one corner of perfection.

So what does this mean for you? This means you'll get to hear stories about all the times that I totally cock blocked myself with a guy and then got spit out like the gum you just realized you've been chewing all afternoon but had lost its flavor and softness hours ago. By the way, that was the world's perfect analogy. It really cuts to how a man will keep you around because it's convenient and he's too busy thinking about other things, but he one day realizes, "UGH! Why the fuck am I still working on this when I can get something new and tasty?!" and then hurls you out of his life. Ingenious. I know. It can't be stopped.

I suppose that you're now expecting me to launch into a hilarious, self-deprecating story about one of my failures, but, sorry, nothing's coming to mind yet. Searching for my mistakes in my immaculate past is like trying to find dirt on Gandhi. Good luck, bitches! But I'll come back to you with some good shit. Seriously, I will. And it'll be worth the wait.

Step aside, OPRAH, a new humanitarian is in town.

How do you know when you’re having unusually bad travel woes? Could it be when you’ve already finished your in-flight movie, exhausted your laptop battery, AND caught up with an old friend on the phone all before the damn plane has even taken off? Yes, this happened to me because life kicks my ass from every angle, like it is Bruce Lee and I am merely a fat, middle-aged Chuck Norris fan. I was on a flight that was delayed SIX HOURS on the tarmac, so, needless to say, I had some time to think about things. Mostly, I thought about what kind of pizza I’d order once I finally arrived in NY [it ended up being a crispy, thin-crusted delight topped with basil and mushrooms].

But during the remaining 10 minutes, another thing popped into my mind -- my admiration for the humanitarian nature of this blog. This isn’t just a flurry of vulgar, meaningless ranting. This is me being real and completely open to reveal the indignity of what dating is like for an Ivy-educated, fit, attractive, confident, highly-paid, witty, charismatic girl in her 20-s, which is a common persona with which I’m sure every woman identifies. It’s like when we look at those girls in magazines and movies and think to ourselves, “OMG, she looks JUST like me!”

So then I thought to myself, as a self-proclaimed humanitarian, how do I want the generous blessing of my words to be used by those in need (i.e., all of you)?

I came up with the many ways that I believe my words serve as a lifeboat beside the capsizing shipwrecks that are your lives:

• If you have a girlfriend who wants to start “dating other people,” my writing would immediately convince her that it would be better to put up with your fucking bullshit than to deal with the other bullshit out there. I mean, at least YOUR bullshit is familiar. The rest of the bullshit out there will totally blindside her and fuck with her will to live, as it has done to me. Well, all of this assumes that you’re not beating her, in which case, you’re just fucked. Also, fuck you!

• If a man has ever said to you, “Girls have it WAY easier!” my writing directly slaps him in the face and kicks him in the balls. All men who make that comment deserve to feel that pain for they obviously know nothing about our suffering.

• If you’re a woman, my writing makes you feel better about your own love life because it couldn’t possibly be a bigger shitshow than mine. And if it is, don’t EVEN try to compete with my blog because you will never be as funny as I am. Skank. Just get back to working on your tan and whining to your girlfriends over brunch about how you’ll “never lower your standards.”

• If you’re a man, my writing teaches you what not to do, such as be ugly. It also gives you a glimpse into what women really think about love and dating, which is that when it comes to love and dating, we’re fucking ape-shit crazy.

• If you’re an impressionable youth, my writing shows you the multitudinous, wondrous, and – dare I say it -- MOVING usages of the word “fuck.” This contribution is perhaps the greatest addition to writing since Shakespeare’s iambic pentameter. If you don’t know who Shakespeare is, don’t worry about finding his work. Just keep reading my blog. It’s very similar. Sometimes, I think that he was reborn in me.

Where'd he get that cash from? He got it from his mama.

The one you're about to hear is a DOOZY. It's a prime example of why I now believe that it's okay to ask obnoxious screening questions before committing to a first date.

I was feeling adventurous, so I agreed to have drinks after work with a quasi-cute guy who seemed pretty nice. I met him at a bar that I chose because it's gorgeous and has an awesome happy hour deal. The awkwardness and hideousness of this tale is best expressed, I feel, in the format of a script. My date's character shall be called "Muni," which also happens to be the name of the San Francisco bus system. My name shall be "Alexis" in order to protect my identity and the feelings of those about whom I so honestly blog.

SCENE: The outdoor patio of a trendy bar in San Francisco.

Muni: Hi, Alexis ! Nice to see you!
Alexis: Hey, Muni! Thanks for coming all the way over here for drinks!

[Muni and Alexis sit down at a table for two, peruse the menu, and order a round or drinks.]

Alexis: So how was work today? You're a teacher, right?
Muni: Yes, but I didn't work today.
Alexis: Oh, really? Why not?
Muni: I'm a substitute teacher. I'm still trying to get my teaching credential.

[Alexis thinks to herself, "WTF?!?! You're 28 years old and you don't even have a full time job?!?!]

Alexis: Well, that's great. Teaching is a really noble profession, and I know that male teachers are really in demand. So where in the city do you live?
Muni: On Street I Forgot and Street I Forgot.
Alexis: Cool! Do you have roommates or do you live alone?
Muni: I live with my parents.

[Alexis thinks to herself, "OH HELLZ TO THE NO. FUCK THIS SHIT!"]

Alexis: Ohhhhhh... COOL. So what do you do when you're not teaching?
Muni: Ummm... I lift weights.
Alexis: Awesome. Do you like to run? I love running outside.
Muni: I can't run because of my knees.
Alexis: Awww, that's too bad. So what else do you like to do in your free time?
Muni: I like watching wrestling.

[The check comes, and it totals $10.]

Alexis: Do you want me to pay for half?
Muni: Yeah, that would be awesome!

[Alexis thinks to herself, "NO, he di-n't!!!" Alexis literally puts $7 on the table (to help cover the tip as well) and vows to herself that she's done with this man. Alexis DOES NOT date men who live with their MOTHERS because Alexis is not 14 years old. Alexis is a grown woman who needs to find a man who has moved out of his parents' house and who has a full-time job. Alexis decides that this date must end IMMEDIATELY.]

Alexis: Well, it was great meeting you. I have to run! I'm actually going to go catch a basketball game at [SF Bar].
Muni: Cool! That sounds like fun! I think I'll join you! How are you getting there? Are you taking the bus?
Alexis: Yeah, I was...
Muni: Great. Let's go.

[Alexis thinks to herself, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Alexis and Muni board a bus to the bar. The ride is painful. Alexis holds back tears as Muni tells her about how he had posted a Craigslist Missed Connection the prior week about a hot girl he had seen at the gym. Alexis and Muni arrive at the bar.]

Alexis: I'm hungry. I'm going to order nachos.
Muni: That sounds good. Can I split it with you?

[Alexis thinks, "NO! GO AWAY! I FUCKING HATE YOU!"]

Alexis: Yeah, sure!

[Hours of a basketball game pass as Alexis and Muni split nachos over very little conversation. Of course, the game goes into overtime. OF COURSE! The check comes.]

Alexis: I can get it.
Muni: Cool!
Alexis: It's getting late. I'd better get home.
Muni: Can I walk you home?
Alexis: No, I don't want you to know where I live.
Muni: [laughs]
Alexis: [laughs] Bye!!!

[Alexis walks home, vowing she will never date another man again. She occasionally turns around to make sure that Muni is not watching her to see where she lives. She arrives home and goes to bed, snuggled up closely to the feeling that she experiences after every date -- REGRET.]


LESSONS LEARNED:

1. Questions it's okay to ask a man before you agree to go on a date with him: Do you have a full-time job? Do you live at home with your mother? Are you too poor to take me out on a $10 date?
   
2. On a bad date, NEVER tell a man you're going somewhere afterward because you could end up going on a 6-hour date that should have ended after 30 minutes. Just say you're going home to sleep. Even if it's 6 PM. Fuck it! Lie! Do whatever it takes to shake him! To be extra certain he won't try to follow you, throw in a comment about how you were totally joking about being from town and that you're actually from Siberia but are leaving the next morning, never to return because you're terminally ill!
   

Shoo, Ugly, don't bother me.

My apologies to all of the ugly men of the world, but I've learned that an ugly man cannot grow on me.

I went on a first date with a guy who looked like Cro Magnon Man. The Old Me would have said, "Oh HELLLLLLLLZ no!" and busted out of that joint so quickly, but New Open-Minded Me decided to give this guy a chance because he had the potential to be socially unawkward, unlike all of my other dates.

Cro Magnon Man had a decent job (dentist), and he was from California, like me. He was also VERY NICE to me, constantly praising me for being cool, nice, hot, etc. Blah blah, I hear it all the time.

ANYWAY, I felt absolutely no chemistry with Cro Magnon Man during our first date, but I agreed to go on a second date with him, so we arranged a dinner at a nearby sushi restaurant that I love.

Dinner was fun, but my loins burned for him with the passion and heat of our raw sushi dinner. I decided that continuing this any further would only be leading this poor caveman on, so I decided that it was time to pull the rip cord on this not-being-shallow bullshit that everyone keeps trying to sell me on! I was over it! How am I supposed to date a guy if I am repulsed by the idea of him touching me?!?! FUCK THAT! That's BS!

So I conveniently planned an "out" by telling him that I had to leave at 10 because I was meeting a girlfriend at a club to see Ashley Simpson. I thought that surely this would get rid of him. It was FUCKING ASHLEY SIMPSON. I was literally going to watch Ashley Simpson lip sync her ass off, which should have been the most perfectly crafted escape hatch from this dungeon that Cro Magnon Man thought was a date.

Once again, because my life FUCKING SUCKS and is full of nonstop awkwardness, torture, and unrequited affection, Cro Magnon Man chimed in, "I'll come, too!"

FUCK! I am AWFUL at untangling myself from dates when the dude is actually nice, so, of course, I cheerfully proclaim, "Yeah, that would be awesome! Let's go!"

So we go to a club to meet my friend, and we wait around in this club for Ashley's emergence. Meanwhile, Cro Magnon Man can't keep his hands off me and keeps trying to kiss me because for some reason men think that being in a club makes grinding and making out in public socially acceptable. I spend my evening trying to run away from Cro Magnon Man, and I was at the point where I wanted to just run out of the club because his advances were becoming increasingly awkward to avoid. You can only turn your cheek to a kiss so many times. HOWEVER, I paid good money to see that ho Ashley "perform," so I didn't want to leave until I at least saw her!

BITCH didn't come out until one fucking thirty AM. In other words, it was a loooooooooong night with Cro Magnon Man.

Ashley danced around and pretended to sing, and she looked GORGEOUS. As soon as she was done, I grabbed my friend and told her we were getting the fuck out of there. We tried to bolt out of the club, but Cro Magnon Man found me and literally ditched his friend (who had met us at the club) to chase after me and climb into our cab!! FUCK!! It was like trying to lose Sherlock Holmes!!

So what did I do to finally shake this dude? I pretended I was sick and dropped him off! Then, my girlfriend and I got dropped off at another bar and proceeded to drink until the pain went away.


LESSONS LEARNED:

1. Don't give nice, ugly guys a chance. Men can grow on you, but not the ones who physically repulse you from the get-go. There's a difference between "He's sorta cute, but I'm not so sure" and "WTF?! Did homie ride here on a brontosaurus?!"
   
2. Ashley Simpson is way hotter than Jessica. Like WAY.
3. Don't assume that you can get rid of a man by mentioning "lame" plans. If a man wants to do you, he'll go ANYWHERE.
   

I need to stop getting drunk, generally, but on dates, especially. One step at a time. One step at a time.

Apparently, getting hammered on a date is a no-no. I don't know this for a fact. I'm just basing this on a pattern that I've noticed, which is that after I get wasted on a date, I never EVER hear from the dude again. Yet I keep fucking doing it!! I'm an idiot, I know.

So in order to try to convince myself to stop this filthy habit, I racked my brain for a list of reasons why the the drunken dates need to stop, and here are the best ones I could come up with:

• Because you slur your words and mutter incomprehensibly
  

• Because you spit so much when you talk that it rains on your date's face like Hurricane Andrew
  

• Because when you think you're whispering sexily into his ear you're actually screaming like the wailing hiss of death
  

• Because you might trip and knock out your two front teeth (this actually happened to a dear friend of mine)
  

• Because you might puke out the window of the car and then fall out of the car and onto the lawn with your left breast fully exposed (this actually happened to me)
  

• Because it's hard to tell whether you've had consensual sex or were date raped

Pretty good reasons, eh? I think I'm convinced. Let the NEAR-sober dating begin. Hey, I said one step at a time! Chill out! It's not like YOU have to date me. Well, unless you want to, in which case I'd like to direct you to the email address at the top right of this page.


LESSONS LEARNED:

1. Don't get sloshed because the above listed items will happen.
   
2. Don't black out in bed next to a man you don't trust. Wait, back up. Don't get wasted with a man you don't trust because he might end up next to you in bed as you are blacked out. I know, I know. I, too, enjoy convincing myself that the hot ones ARE TRUSTWORTHY and only have my best interests at heart, just like the nerdy-looking, Stanford-educated ones, but really, this is not the case. The hotter they are, the more likely it is they'll stick it in when (or WHERE) you least expect it.
   

If you withhold sex after a man cooks, YOUR ASS is fried!

Apparently, if a man cooks you dinner, he thinks that his spatula is a ticket to your vagina. I learned this the hard way during date #3 with a boy whom I shall affectionately refer to as "Dine and Dash."

Dine and Dash invited me to his place for dinner, where we cooked an amazing dinner together. We're not talking the amateurish spaghetti bullshit that a lot of guys cook to try to get into your pants. We're talking steak and bacon-wrapped dates. Dine and Dash was SERIOUS.

Unfortunately for him, seeing as how this was only date #3, I was SERIOUSLY not ready to put out, so when he tried to bust out a condom on me, I hurled it across the room and laughed in his face (playfully, of course... I think). Well, apparently Dine and Dash didn't take this too well because despite what I thought was a romantic and splendid evening, I never heard from him again.

You're probably thinking that perhaps he dumped me for reasons other than my prudish ways. I, too, contemplated this thought for 2 milliseconds before realizing that this is not possible for I am an unbelievable catch.

[Sadly, I continue to run into Dine and Dash as he lives 4 blocks from me. I last saw him walking to a yoga class, and I immediately hid behind a car because I was wearings sweats and looking like complete ass (even I cannot look do-able at ALL times). Hopefully, someday this blog will become immensely popular and he'll read this and know exactly who he is.]


LESSONS LEARNED:

1. Don't let a man cook you dinner until you're ready to put out because he'll be pissed off if he doesn't get some after all of that work. If you do mistakenly let him cook for you when it's too early for sex, at least give him head. Kidding. This isn't what I did. Mom, dad, you're not reading this, right?
   
2. You need to carefully define what makes a man geographically desirable. You want to be able to see him often without hauling your ass across a town, lake, or ocean. You don't want to constantly run into him at your local library or bus stop. If you make this mistake, you will no longer be able to roam around without make-up and with your hair in a ponytail. You'll have to wear heels even when you go to Walgreens. ARE YOU READY FOR THAT COMMITMENT?

If you think I'm giving you dirty looks, it's because I am.

I agreed to meet a guy for coffee. He wasn't just any guy. He was a DOCTOR, so I already went into this date thinking that this guy would have to fuck up BIG TIME in order to not get a second date. I was almost blinded by the halo surrounding his head when I first laid eyes upon him. Am I a gold digger? No, but I'm tired of dating men who live with their parents or haven't read a book since Green Eggs and Ham (although it is a masterpiece).

We sit down to chat, and the doctor begins loudly questioning me with Awkward First Date Questions that cue in every fucking customer to the fact that we're on a first date, which I find completely horrifying and unnatural. So henceforth, I will call him Dr. Loud Fuckup. Anyhow, I try to answer his questions with a low volume in order to see if he will respond as any normal person would, which would be to also lower their volume. But of course, because this is MY LIFE, he's completely oblivious and continues peppering me with his Awkward First Date Questions loudly enough for me to check my phone to make sure there isn't a 17th person who is listening in on this mess.

Dr. Loud Fuckup tells me about his life, and I must admit, it is FABULOUS. He works only 3 days a week and owns houses all over the place. He also has really exciting hobbies, like helicopter snowboarding. But as this freakshow is telling me these stories, he does so with his ridiculously loud voice that has become a complete distraction to me. My irritation grows to anger, and when I am angry, it's obvious because my face is the mirror into my black soul.

Interestingly, Dr. Loud Fuckup actually PICKS UP on the fact that I am giving him the look of death every time he speaks because he actually called me out on it OVER THREE TIMES by saying, "Oh my god! Stop giving me such a dirty look!" While it is odd (and surprisingly refreshing) for me to be called out for being a total bitch, I'm relieved because at least I know that once this dreadful date is over, I'll never have to see or hear this monster again.

WRONG!

Cut to 3 days later when I receive a call from a number not yet in my phonebook. I let my curiosity get the best of me and actually pick up only to hear, hollering at the top of his lungs as usual, on the other end of the line Dr. Loud Fuckup himself! He fucking tricked me by calling from another number! AND he called me to hang out again even though I sat there during our date imagining ways I'd like to witness his death. WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THE WORLD?


LESSONS LEARNED:

1. In order to reject a man, you must do more than just shoot him consistent venomous looks throughout the date. You must actually use the words, "I absolutely hate you. Never call me again. Thanks for the coffee though. Toot-a-loo!" (Men like when you are thankful when they pay)
   
2. Don't pick up the phone when an unknown number calls because most likely it is a sneaky and unusually loud doctor trying to trick you into talking to him again.
3. Meet for dates in places that are very loud, just in case your date happens to sound like he is talking into a megaphone at all times. This way, the Awkward First Date Questions will be drowned out by all of the hullabaloo of the environment.
   

Q: What do you do if you're on a date with a guy whom you suspect is gay?

Disclaimer: Why are you asking ME for advice? Would you ask a teen mom where she sees her career in 5 years?! Oh well, fuck it!

Answer: DITCH HIS GAY ASS! Are you kidding me with that question?

Okay, in all seriousness, you might someday go on a date with someone whom you suspect is gay. This has happened to me on several occasions because gay men are drawn to my strong personality, impeccable style, and quick wit. Oh yeah, they like cocky bitches, too.

Anyhoo, I agreed to meet this dude, let's call him Tinkerbell (Tinks for short), at a sports bar. Do you want to know what Tinks showed up wearing? A turquoise polo shirt. I was like, are we in Nantucket? WTF?!?!

I let this slide and didn't run out the side door because I really am trying to be more open-minded.

We then discussed our drink orders, and Tinks tells me he thinks he's going to get a COSMO a la Sex and the City. I looked at him, waiting for him to start busting out laughing out loud. He didn't. I kept waiting. He didn't. My heart started racing, and I realized, this motherfucker is gay! Tinks is fucking gay! He is literally ordering a cosmo at a sports bar!

But again, I do not yet run out the door because this is the new open-minded me. Perhaps he is a secure, modern man who just enjoys cosmos! Yes, that's it. PLEASE LET THAT BE IT.

We start talking more, and I am distracted by his voice and hand gestures. Is Tink's voice more feminine than mine? Indeed, it is. Is he signing to me? WHAT is going on with his hands?

OMG HE IS GAY! HE IS TOTALLY GAY!

Now, I have absolutely nothing against the gays. Half of my best friends are gay, but I don't date them. We shop together, and they tell me how fabulous I look in my Hermes scarves, but that's it.

Anyhow, back to the story, I had to draw the line. This boy was obviously completely confused, and I am not going to be that girl who taught a man that he was actually gay. So I busted out of that bar and shouted, "Taxi!" and left his ass in the dust. And I still believe that was the mature solution.

LESSONS LEARNED:

1. If a man shows up to a date wearing a pastel shirt, pretend you didn't see him and leave the scene immediately.
2. If he catches you trying to walk out, scream out "Keep away, gay boy!" and just start running. Don't look back because it'll just slow you down. I know from experience.
   
3. If a man drinks any of the following drinks, he is gay: cosmo, appletini, anything pink or red. Take that drink and chug it. Then leave. Apply lesson #2 if necessary.
   

Translation of a Man's Profile ==> Reality

Anyone involved in the world of online dating should read this post because I've taken the time to dissect stories about the divergence between how men describe themselves in personal ads and what's going on in real life.

• He claims he's 5'8" ==> Trust me, he is 5'6" (Universal formula: Posted Height - 2 inches = Actual Height)

• Describes his body type as being "average" ==> He hasn't run a mile since P.E. and drinks beer rather than water to quench his thirst. He will most certainly possess saggy man boobs.
  

• Uses blurry photo where he looks hot ==> He looks nothing like that in person, and he will most definitely not be hot. Also, you will not find hot men online. Hot men do not need to use the internet to pick up women. They can get laid as long as they can stumble all the way to the whore's house without puking. Sometimes, if a girl is desperate enough, she will pick up the puke-covered man, take him home, clean him up, and do him anyway. This is only what I've heard.
  

• Does not use a photo at all but when you meet him he is attractive ==> He is married or has a girlfriend and is lookin' for some side action. Be prepared to run into him on the street as he is pushing a stroller next to his pregnant wife.
  

• He says that his friends describe him as being "attractive" or "good-looking" ==> He is an idiot because no one ever says those words to a man. Those are words reserved to pump up the self-esteem of insecure girls.

• He's "not looking for anything too serious" ==> He has no desire to get to know you. After you put out, you'll never hear from him again, unless you're a freak-a-leak. Guys will keep freak-a-leaks around for a little longer. I also don't know this from experience; again, this is only what I've heard.
  

• He's only been doing this online thing "for a few weeks" ==> He's a total liar, and I guarantee you he's been doing this for months or maybe even years.

Mmmhmm... Online dating is a hot mess.

The Professor, The Magician

I went on a second date with a guy whom I shall refer to as "The Professor" because he is an actual professor and because he is so insignificant to me that I have already forgotten his name less than one month after our second date.

The Professor had been the perfect gentleman on date #1. He asked thoughtful questions, he opened doors, he walked me home, etc. , so I decided that he deserved a date #2. On date #2, however, The Professor stopped behaving like a gentleman and started acting like a complete creepster.

The Professor and I started the night off at a wine bar, and the date had gotten off to a hectic start because my power went out as I was looking up directions to our restaurant, so I showed up slightly late and with wet hair (since I couldn't use my blow dryer either). During dinner, he kindly offered to help me get my power back on at the end of the night, and I accepted.

The evening proceeded, and I started to get slightly creeped out because The Professor started asking overly sexual questions and making filthy jokes, such as "What's your favorite sexual position?" and "If you came to my office hours, I'd bend you over my desk and spank you." These remarks should have been red flags, but I was drunk at this point and laughed them off. Also, I really wanted someone to turn my power back on.

We then went to my house so that he could do whatever it was he needed to do with my fuse box so that I could continue living a life full of light and internet access. The Professor fiddled around in my garage, and we returned to my room so that I could test my power and internet. I opened up my computer to see if everything was working, and when I turned around, The Professor was standing before me wearing nothing but skin-tight, black BOXER BRIEFS (his body was sick, but that's beside the point)! Somehow, in the 4 seconds that I had my back turned, The Professor had QUICKLY, SILENTLY, and MAGICALLY removed nearly all of his clothing like he was fucking Houdini. I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing in his earnest face because it was the most desperate, weird, and shocking thing I had ever witnessed. He then tried to put the moves on me, but I was so creeped out that I, of course, didn't even want him touching me. I really just wanted him to leave, so I had to actually say to him, "I think it's really weird how you took your clothes off while my back was turned. Could you please put your clothes back on and leave?" Thankfully, he accommodated my requests and was out the door within minutes.

Needless to say, there was no date #3.


LESSONS LEARNED:

1. Don't invite someone to your place at the beginning of the date. There's still too much time for things to turn awkward, and then you'll be stuck having to figure out how to uninvite them to your place.
   
2. Don't turn your back on a creep for more than 2 seconds because he could get naked on you.
3. Don't date professors.
4. Learn how to use your fuse box so that you don't have to invite a creepy professor into your home to teach you how to turn your power back on.
   
5. It's weird for someone to talk about wanting to spank you on a second date.
6. All men are idiots, even the highly educated ones.