In the age of predator crackdowns and pussy-grabbing presidents, women are adamant about their desire for conscientious men. They want partners who are not threatened by strong females, who are in tune with their emotional selves and are not afraid to talk about their feelings, or cry, or meditate, or whatever.
Or so they think. Clearly, none of them have ever actually been out with a Highly Emotional Male, i.e. the Pink Panther.
Nota bene: This story initially appeared on Dbag Dating circa 2014 but was shortly removed due to the author’s fear of public scrutiny. It is now back, for she no longer has anything to lose. Just kidding! It’s back because it’s funny, ok? Also, because it has a new illustration by our resident Picasso, Kelcey Vossen!
I am a firm believer that there are two types of people in this world: those who bring out our best, most rational selves, and others who unleash our inner Girl, Interrupted, and I don’t mean that in a hot Angelina Jolie kind of way. If you have any desire to live to enjoy old age, I suggest that you stay away from the latter. This is a lesson I learned the hard way.
Sketch by the inimitable Kelcey Vossen.
Oh, what a difference a year can make.
This revelation comes to me after days of racking my brain deliberating on how to welcome you, my dear readers, to the inception of the surefire shitshow that is 2017. I was aiming for an aspirational, heartfelt post, a mission made impossible by the fact that I am currently on a crazy Asian voyage that has left me with bout of food poisoning and confused all my emotions like a bunch of legumes haphazardly tossed onto a skillet. And so, I decided to do what I do best and deliver you a step-by-step disaster that inspired a pivotal change in my mindset over the past year. Since the best of us learn from the mistakes of others, I hope it will service you better than any heartfelt BS ever could.
Illustration by sketch wunderkind Kelcey Vossen
The Cross-Cupper (whose nickname will be deciphered towards the end of this pièce de résistance) and I met on The League, a dating app that was originally created to connect cerebrally blessed Ivy League graduates but is now banking on its subscriber roster by allowing regular folks to join at a whoopin $150 a year. (I, however, got in through some beta mode loophole that allowed regular chicks to join for free for a hot second.)
In a digital sea of boring bankers, the Cross-Cupper stood out, as he looked more like a Raya reject with his sexy Jason Statham physique and a Rick Owens-esque vibe that instantly tickled my hipster-loving pickle. Thirty minutes after we matched, I received a message.
“Your blog is hilarious.”
Aw. After the initial moment of feeling flattered, I became confused. This was not an uber-transparent app, which means that users were more or less anonymous. I asked him how he had found me.
“Google Image search, babe. I had to vet you.”
When it comes to most situations in life, I am a firm believer in controlling the course of your destiny. Perhaps, there are some people who have incredible things simply “happen” to them, but I have never been one of them, and so I have learned to seize life by the balls and make cool stuff happen on my own. This has been known to work to my advantage – except when I recently tried to apply said approach to my personal life.
I recently had the pleasure of revisiting a valuable lesson that most people learn once and for all in their teens: never drink on an empty stomach. Especially on a date. Particularly on a date with a man who happens to combine an intricate balance of douche and alcoholic.
Jason* and I met in a way that, I suppose, could be perceived as “fateful”, unless you happen to be me, who has serendipitous stuff happen to her on a regular basis, without any fate-altering results.
*Fake name because I’m a respectful person.
Our meeting commenced, like all the best things in life, via the virtual cesspool of winners that is Raya. With his Howard street hipster vibe and aloof text manner, he seemed overly douchy even by my high standards, managing to somehow slip into one conversation that he was a filthy rich designer whose “brands were sold at Barneys,” before inviting me to come to his loft for Christmas leftovers at 11pm. I passed on the delicacies and quickly forgot all about his existence up until May, when fate got back in action.