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.
As we step into the booze-fueled debachery that are the Holidays, I’m tempted to write you a cheesy post about being happy solo, wearing glittery Dries while hooking up with random strangers, cuffing it up with your tennis instructor, and generally having all the fun a human being can while consuming their weight in spiced eggnog. Except, you’ve heard it all before. And so, I propose that we take it one step further and start focusing on what is more beneficial to us in the long run:
Making space.
It’s no secret that Art Basel, or any other art fair for that matter, now attract not only the creative classes, but every Joe Shmo seeking a quick escape that masquerades as a cultural endeavor, equipped with a bustling social calendar and a built-in pickup scene to match. By Day 3 of these shenanigans, half of South Beach starts resembling (and smelling like) Saint Patty’s Day left for two days to fester, with a dbag smog so dense that its practically blinding. Luckily, I am here to help you decipher the different douches you may have met this past weekend, with an accompanying strategic recommendation!
Everybody has their area of expertise. While my friends work their way towards becoming functional members of society, real career paths included, I continue accumulating experience in douchebag analysis, tallying up those 10,000 hours to become an expert. As a result, I have garnered a rather keen understanding of the nature of the Dbag game, equipped with its own repugnant code of conduct!
Brought to you by my spirit animal Jordan Nadler (follow her here @nadleresque)
“Soo… you are my girlfriend now?” asked the 33 year old, man-bunned Basque man sitting next to me in the cab after our third date.
I laughed. I didn’t mean to, but what the hell was he talking about? We had probably spent a total of six hours together.
“No, Gaston (not his real name). I am not your girlfriend.”
He looked confused. Genuinely confused “But I like you!” he exclaimed.
There was a bit of an awkward pause. Our Uber driver glanced at us quickly from the rear view mirror.
