Date Stories, J

J: Watch your tongue

Context: I matched with ‘Hiker’ on Tinder, after being entranced by his various pictures in front of mountains (wow so scenic much adventure) and his job that sounded important and wallet-like. We chatted for a while, and then decided to meet at Dacha beer garden on a Friday evening.

On Thursday night, I died.

Well, maybe not died died. That would be a shame, because I have so many more things to accomplish in my life – like getting a fuckboy to fall in love with me, spend a year saving up his salary to buy me an engagement ring, and then taking the ring and running away with it to a tropical island where I will never be found and can live in luxury as pool boys fan me and feed me grapes.


What I did do is the following:
– Drink a full bottle of wine before happy hour
– Drink ALLOFTHETHINGS at happy hour
– Take 90 shots because when a senior manager buys you shots you don’t say no
– Tackle-hug every person I work with and ruin myself professionally
– Overuse the dog filter on my snapchat story
– Flirt with two guys until finding out they were Canadian, at which point I said “EW CANADA IS GROSS” and ran away
– Call an Uber for myself and another guy who lives close to me
– Immediately cancel that Uber when BP pulled up and order him to drive me home (40 minutes away)
– Copy and paste the same “you up” text to four guys because I’m a fuckboy
– Lose the keys to my house, mailbox, and car
– SOMEHOW break into my home
– Leave a fucking trail of tears of Tostitos scoops between my kitchen and my bedroom (and in my bed) (and in my pillowcases)
– Fall asleep fully clothed, shoes still on, on top of my covers
– Not hook up with anyone (BAD THOT)
– Die


So, quite the eventful Thursday! Which explains why when my date on Friday rolled around, I looked a little bit like this:


But, as they say in weird strip clubs, the show must go on. I was supposed to walk over to Dacha to meet Hiker at 7, so I did a little test run and walked my sorry ass to Giant to pick up some electrolytes. Three things of note occurred on this walk:

  1. I realized that I was fully incapable of walking even to the nearest Metro station if I did not want to end up in the hospital after taking my first sip of beer. Dacha was out. Sorry bout it, dude.
  2. Men will literally catcall at ANYTHING. This little dude was yelling out his car window at me, at the toddler in front of me, and at the 400-pound Puerto Rican woman behind me, and it took all the strength that I had (which wasn’t much, tbh) to not yell “I’VE THROWN UP EVERYTHING I’VE EATEN AND DRANK TODAY, DICKFACE! YOU THINK THAT’S SEXY?! DO YA????”
  3. I may have anger issues.


Back in bed, armed with a Powerade and still wearing my pajamas, I moved onto the next step – moving my date.
J – Hey, I really hate to do this, but I’m super hungover and I don’t think I’ll be able to make it all the way to Dacha. Would you mind meeting at The Coupe?
H – Sure, no worries! I could also reschedule, if that works better for you!
J*thinks about the 2-week business trip I’m leaving for the next day* Hmm…
*thinks about how much I love free drinks* Well…
J – *thinks about the great blog entry if I throw up on him* NOPE NOT RESCHEDULING LET’S GO TONIGHT

Do it for the stories, friends. For the stories.


And, amazingly, my date went well! I managed to down two beers over the 2.5 hours we spent at The Coupe, and one more once we migrated to Meridian Pint, and didn’t even feel sick! And he was cute! And we got along! Yippee! Romance! How grand!

…this was, until he started making out with me at Meridian Pint. And this is NOT some neighborhood-dive-turned-Friday-night-dance-club where you’re supposed to make out with another 20-something while Fetty Wap plays in the background and your friends fist pump around you and pretend not to notice. This was a nice bar, half-filled with a mix of young professionals and nice-looking couples (who I will hopefully never ever see again).


I broke away fairly quickly, informed him that we were in public, and suggested that we leave (it was now 11 PM, and I was ready for B.E.D., y’all). He closed out his tab and walked me home, where things went from bad to worse.

As we stood outside my house, he lunged at my face and started trying to find my tonsils with his tongue. NO, SIR! GET OUTTA THERE! THOSE ARE MINE! I pulled back, and he spoke.
H – So, I’m pretty fucking cool, right?
J – Yeah, I guess you’re pretty cool…?
– OH. Not pretty FUCKING cool?!
– pretty fucking cool, sure, idk?
– So, can I come inside?
J – Umm, no. This is a FIRST date, sir. I am NOT some street hussy!*
– Wow, that sure is a shame… *lunges at face again*


I ran into my house, slammed the light switch to ‘On,’ and immediately became aware of the fact that a mouse had taken up residence in my kitchen. GRAND. JUST GRAND. EVERYTHING IS GRAND.

Maybe the mouse will be my friend. Maybe I can marry the mouse. We will live happily together and eat cheese all the time.


Maybe I need to sleep.

*I TOTALLY act like a street hussy on a regular basis, but my hangover had reminded me how much I need Jesus.


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