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.
“Night at the Urban Farm” by Kelcey Vossen
(Warning: this story contains numerous bad cookie puns. Dieters must proceed with caution.)
I love cookies. You love cookies. Everyone and their mother, elusive French people included, love ‘les cookies’, a universal symbol of comfort and happiness. That said, when Raya recently matched me with the owner of a trending New York cookie chain, I couldn’t help but be very excited. Unlike the DJs, producers, photographers (shudder) and actors (double shudder) that Raya stocks in abundance, the profession of cookie entrepreneur suggested an appreciation for other things warm and cuddly like curvy bodies and quirky personalities. The cookies, granted, were vegan and organic but, hey, tomayto tomahto, right?
Illustration by the uber-talented Kelcey Vossen
In the game of sourcing Dbag Dating content, I often feel like the mountain that is constantly chasing down Muhammad via every Bumble and Raya vehicle available, which makes it quite nice when Muhammad occasionally shows up to the mountain in the form of a completely impromptu encounter, reaffirming my faith that meeting unhinged human beings really is my true calling.
Let’s throw it back one month, to the first Friday night in February. #DryJanuary is officially over, I’m back to myself drinking, the world is making sense again. I also have no social life to speak of, so I take a friend up on an offer to go to some random guy’s going-away party in Nolita. Two hours later, I’m standing in the middle of one of the most bizarre places I have ever been to in NYC – it’s called Tropical 128 and it looks like a merger between a Cancun beach bar and a traditional pool hall, swarming with underage NYU kids and the occasional LES hipster. Our party is concentrated by the pool table, where I spot human kryptonite in the form of a tall, tattooed, man-bunned hipster strutting around with a pool stick and a very serious look on his face. It’s one of those situations where I can probably spend all night swapping cool stats with him if I really want to, except that it’s a new year and I have resolved to grow a brain.
“Do you think ‘View Collect’ is a good name for a company?”
Illustration by the amazingly talented Kelcey Vossen.
Going on a sober date is difficult enough.
Going on a sober date with a 45 year-old photographer who is chugging down Mezcal like he’s on his first Cancun Spring Break, while projecting the sins of his Russian ex-wife on you, is difficult on an altogether new level, best categorized as Dante’s Malebolge.
Papi Mezcal and I met as a result of a fleeting experimental mood in which I temporarily tampered with my Raya age settings, one of those momentary lapses of judgment that comes from looking at too much Birkin-Gainsbourg paraphernalia. To my credit, he was a young-looking 45, with a punchy slideshow that advertised his numerous tattoos, globetrotting adventures, and overall affinity towards all things cool and colorful. Numbers were exchanged, and, by some technological glitch that I still cannot comprehend, he suddenly appeared on my Snapchat feed (Follow me! marinakhorosh! I’m awesome at it!), the yellow hole of procrastination where nobody’s life mundanities go unnoticed. This is when I discovered that Papi Mezcal was a rare Snapchat wunderkind way beyond (or, in this case, before) his years. Picture Snapchat videos of ample-bodied security guards, walking backwards in slow-motion with emoji donuts in their hands and turds on their behinds – an imagination level that, for normal people, only comes by way of Cannabis but, for Papi Mezcal, seemed to come via steady flow of creative genius.
Hi guys! I’m back! I apologize, but even the most committed pr0-bono bloggers occasionally have to take a short break in favor of.. Proliferating their alcoholism? Field research? Luckily for us, New York provides both in abundance, offering a two-week plethora of holiday festivities that finally reached their cumulative peak this past Saturday, bringing alongside a Dbag Dating fairy-tale that truly captures the holiday spirit!
Some men speak only when spoken to. Others (the best kind) only speak when they have something valuable to say. And then there are the third kind, the ones who think that every trivial thought in their head is worth articulating. Ladies and Gentlemen, meet The Voice, a man who’s pretentious Queen’s English still rings in my head like an incessant buzzing bee, threatening to morph into a fragment of my paranoid nightmares.