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.

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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.

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