I did not make resolutions for 2015. It seemed redundant and futile, as though setting myself up for a year of continous little failures. Avoid processed sugar? Take full advantage of the gym membership that costs 1/3 of my salary? Attempt to write this marvel of a blog more than once a week? These are generic promises that I make to myself on a weekly basis, with often questionable results.
A blog is nothing without its heroes. As the magical year that was 2014 draws to its grand finale, we would like to honor the five men who contributed to making Dbag Dating the masterpiece that it is today. The five douchebags nominated in this category delivered resonating, evocative and captivating performances, sending shock waves through the Internets and making many of us consider rethinking our sexual orientation. And yet, only one of them will have the honor of being named the Dbag of the Year 2014. Without further ado, here are the nominees.
(I listened to 10 Oscar acceptance speeches to write this.)
Dbags come in all shapes and sizes. Some reveal their true colors right away, letting the freak flag fly on date one and leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Others, the more dangerous kind, parade around pretending to be manicorns, reavealing their true nature only later on in the game. Such is the story of Dan, the Dbag in Disguise who stole about 4 months of my life earlier this year. (I figured this might be a nice cathartic post to step into 2015, not to mention an excellent contender to our upcoming Dbag of the Year Awards!)
This story dates back to the end of February, when I had just finished dating Cyrano de Bergerac and was perusing Tinder on a regular basis in order to find him a worthwhile replacement. On one hungover Sunday morning, I swiped right on a guy who looked like a happy teddy bear in a checkered shirt, which I must have found comforting, given my troubled mental state. The minute after Tinder had declared our match, I received a hyper message proclaiming how excited he was to meet me. We chatted on and off all day, until he finally suggested that we expedite the process and meet up that evening.
“How do you dress during the holidays?” I ask a group of French girlfriends over lunch at Cojean, an overcrowded Parisian chain with green juice. “Quoi?” The confused silence that ensues makes me feel as though I just asked them how they dress to do their laundry.
Read on HERE!
Remember the duck purse?!
The other day, I woke up to a hysterical text from a friend:
MARINA CAN YOU PLEASE WRITE A DBAG DATING STORY ABOUT HOW MY BOYFRIEND BOUGHT ME A WATER PITCHER FOR CHRISTMAS!!!!?????
I almost rolled out of bed laughing, imagining this poor girl unraveling the Christmas wrapping in anticipation of a romantic gift from her fresh, exciting new love, only to discover…a glass jug. She seemed to be in dire need of lashing out, so I told her to go ahead and send me a recount of this incident. Curious, I began asking others around me about the strangest presents they had ever received from significant others.. As it turns out, people have some pretty colorful stories to share!
Illustration by the mega-talented Kelcey Vossen
I have always wanted to date a doctor. I doubt this is a statement that requires much justification: doctors are sexy, their lives serve a purpose, their selfless deeds warrant them prime real estate in Heaven that you may get to share by association. I’m not referring to the basic dentists and dermatologists, or the more profit-driven plastic surgeons, which are a dime a dozen. No, I’m talking about the bona fide miracle-workers, the surgeons, the guys with higher brain capacity and willpower and stamina than the rest of us mere mortals. Granted, this naive generalization is exactly what got me into the predicament that we will hereby refer to as the story of Doctor Douchebag.
