Tag Archives: dating

The Third Most Traumatizing Event To Ever Happen to Me Happened Last Week

Man Friend (from here on out I’ll refer to him as Monkey JUST BECAUSE) and I recently adopted a cat. It took me three months to convince him it was a good idea, and he finally came around due to the persistence of me, his friends, and the gun I put to his head. He agreed, but not without conditions, first and foremost: the cat will not be allowed on our bed lest we inhale cat fur while we sleep (or he rolls over the cat at night). By our cat’s (Theo) second night at home, Monkey was sitting on the bed trying to coax Theo to jump up and cuddle, all his previous conditions promptly thrown out the window. They’ve been pretty good friends ever since, and to my extreme disgust I think Theo likes Monkey more than he likes me.

After Theo had been home for one day, we discovered his favorite place in our apartment was the windowsill. (It should be noted we adopted him on one of the hottest weekends in Los Angeles, and the poor guy was panting and slightly afraid after we trained four fans on him). We went around our apartment and closed every window where the screens weren’t secure considering we were on the second floor. After one terrifying day where it reached 105 in our apartment, we decided to open some windows that we normally keep closed so Theo could hopefully not die.

Let me set the scene. It’s night. Our entirely black cat has blended into the window screen so we don’t notice he’s there until we’re in bed. I inquire, “Isn’t that a window we usually keep closed?” Beat. Then Monkey and I both jump up to grab Theo, which causes him to jerk backwards in surprise, and then he’s gone. There’s a quiet moment where our hearts drop out of our butts and Monkey sticks his head out the window and then everything happens at once. I literally start sobbing the contents of the Pacific Ocean repeating, “Is he okay? Is he okay?” Monkey says he thinks he saw Theo take a step, and then we both bolt downstairs. I’m still sobbing (“Isheokayisheokayisheokay”) while Monkey runs barefoot over the loose gravel to grab our cat. He retrieves Theo and holds him to his chest and I can’t really see him and we run upstairs and collapse on the floor in a big heap and that’s when Monkey starts crying too. Now we’re both a big sobbing mess and Theo seems fine, if not a little shocked. He slowly starts to regain his senses, realizes these sniveling humans are holding him too tight, bites Monkey’s hands and runs to his food bowl. We make sure he’s not limping and shower him with treats and for the rest of the night we’re pretty much traumatized. We watch Bob’s Burgers to decompress, and worry the rest of the night that we’re terrible, irresponsible cat parents who should have cat social services called on us. We close every window in the house while sobbing and wishing ourselves into Cat Hell, all the while Theo is licking his balls like nothing happened.

Because I am an unabashed cat lady, here are cat pics:

Theo's first night home. He immediately went to the windowsill.

Theo’s first night home. He immediately went to the windowsill.


Theo sleeping on the windowsill. I KNOW I’M BIASED BUT HE’S SO CUTE.

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Cause Baby Now We’ve Got Bad Breath

A couple weeks ago at work I got so busy that I literally had no time to eat anything. My stomach, normally accustomed to snacks every minute or so, was freaking the fuck out. When I finally returned to the office after running errands, I grabbed the first edible thing I could find: Mustard and Onion chips. Seeing as it was 5 PM and they were the first thing I had eaten all day, they tasted like freedom, or early retirement, or Zac Efron’s nipples. I ate a bag and a half before dusting myself off and retreating to my desk, where my horrified coworkers recounted watching something similar on Animal Planet.

Exhausted from the day, I was ecstatic to see Boyfriend when I got home. Now, I had just absorbed a shit ton of Mustard and Onion artificial flavor, which in hindsight should have been a red flag for me to keep my mouth shut until I got near some mouth wash. But I remained blissfully unaware, ignoring those flags like the pile of unopened envelopes on my kitchen table from something called the DWP. When I finally saw Boyfriend, I jumped all over him, kissed him a bunch of times, and told him all about my day, much to his utmost horror. Looking back, I can recognize the signs of him turning his head away from me every time I spoke, subtly trying to hide his gagging, and generally keeping a distance of at least fifteen feet from me. But in the moment, I was content to exhale my toxic fumes all over the place.

That night we walked to Ralph’s together and while I browsed the aisles, picking out the items from our grocery list, he zoomed to the check out. When we met up again, I had our groceries and he had one thing: tic-tacs. “Why did you get tic-tacs?” I inquired. “Those weren’t on the list.” “Because…………” Boyfriend is bad at making excuses. “Because?” “Just……..because.” “Uh, okay.” As we walked home, he produced the tic-tacs and ate one. He offered me a handful. “Want some?” He was holding at least six in his hand. “Why? Do I have bad breath or something?” “Uh……..” It was then the night flashed before my eyes. The avoiding, the head-turning, the gagging. “Wait. I DO have bad breath?!” I was mortified. How could I not see it? Mustard and fucking Onion?! I don’t even know why that flavor exists! The only time someone would need Mustard and Onion simultaneously is if they were a hot dog in desperate need of condiments. I hate-spiraled the rest of the way back, convinced that there was no longer a situation in the future where Boyfriend could find me sexy. Not after he smelled my lovely aroma reminiscent of raccoons diarrheaing in a garbage can. When we returned I brushed my teeth so many times my gums started bleeding, which only made my appearance more disgusting (“Love me” I cried as blood poured out of my mouth, or something like that). Luckily for me, Boyfriend has forgotten about the whole incident and we’ve moved on (I think the sharp blow to his head I administered to induce short term memory loss helped).

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A Week of Failures

While my life as a whole is chockfull of failures, I was particularly successful this week in failing at being an adult. I’m like the opposite of Midas. Everything I touch turns to poop.

First, one of my old bosses hired me to dogsit. I was running late (what’s new) and didn’t have time to scour the streets of LA to find parking for the night, so I parked on a street with a billion signs and vaguely remember seeing words like “Permit Only” and “Will be towed”, but I was like, “Pssh they don’t really mean it, I’m 21 and invincible” and proceeded to park there anyway. After the dogsitting in which the dog growled at me and ran under the bed when I offered to walk her, my boss drove me back to my car. While we were driving down the street I parked on, he asked, “Are you sure this isn’t permit parking? They’re really strict.” And then we saw the tow truck with my car attached and forgetting I was in the company of my employer I stated, “Fuck.” My boss then proceeded to argue with the tow guy about their ridiculous towing laws while I stood quietly in a cornering whispering, “It’s okay it was my fault please let me pay I’ll do whatever it takes stop fighting I want to die” (I hate confrontation). Too busy arguing, they missed me drowning in a swamp of my own embarrassment, begging them to let me pay so I could take my car, drive home, and die in a ditch. Eventually I convinced them to let me pay the $160 fine and I finally got to go home, listen to The Smiths, and vow to myself that neither parent will EVER find out about this.

A couple days later, I was at the 10-East entrance on La Brea where a homeless guy stood at the stoplight right before you get on the freeway. He violently shook an empty cup at my window hoping to appeal to my humanity, so of course I did the ‘ol avoid-eye-contact-and-shove-my-purse-under-the-seat. As the cars inched forward, he suddenly stopped, turned towards the guardrail, and stuck his hand in his pants. Fascinated, I watched what I thought was about to be a homeless guy whipping his dick out on the freeway entrance when I felt a minor crash… and realized I just rear-ended the guy ahead of me. FUCK. Now I was going to have to tell people I got in a car accident because I wanted to see a homeless guy’s penis. We pulled over and I ran out repeating, “Oh god I’m so sorry I’m so sorry the homeless guy had his hand in his pants I’m sorry I thought he was going for his thingy, I’m sorry!”. Luckily, the guy assessed there was no damage, stated, “That’s what bumpers are for” and gave me a hug. I wanted to nominate him for Time’s Person of the Year award and bear all his children.

Finally, I went for a run after I stormed out on Boyfriend because I felt self-conscious about what I looked like and blamed it on him (moral of this story: I act like a menopausal baby when dealing with relationship problems). So, I ran around the track by my house to blow off some steam and improve my self-image when these guys started staring at my butt, prompting me to think, “Aw shucks, they like my buttocks. Maybe I’m not an ugly she-hulk after all. Self-confidence! Woman power! I love my body!” My thoughts were interrupted by something hitting the back of my leg. I reached around and felt some sort of material hanging out of my shorts. When I pulled it out and held it in front of me, I was face-to-face with a pair of dirty underwear. Apparently, when I had grabbed my running shorts out of the laundry, dirty underwear came along as a bonus and had been the object of the oglers at the track for the past ten minutes. Mortified, I grabbed it and stuffed it into the front of my running shorts, which only made matters worse. This is the Universe telling me no matter what I do, people will always stare at my butt for reasons other than “That’s a cute butt.” I NEVER WIN.

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The Genesis of this Blog: It all Started with a Queef

About a year ago, I was dating an asshole. I met him on a film set and we had absolutely nothing in common, but I thought he was kind of cute and he had this thing for me and before you knew it we were having sex (which I regret to this day). Some people say, “Only have sex with people who care about you,” which I always thought was lame, but now I know if you’re going to have sex with someone who doesn’t really care about you and who you don’t trust, at least make sure it’s fun and they have a decent-sized dick. Otherwise you’ll be left cringing to yourself a year later, wondering why you don’t respect your vagina enough to keep it away from guys like that. Sorry, vagina.

One particular sexing with this guy (we were at his mom’s house…I know, I know), I queefed so loud you’d think a part of my soul departed with it. I. Wanted. To. Die. I immediately thought how this would be at least number four on the list of “Top Ten Embarrassing Moments in Carly’s Life”, and for the next week I obsessed over every second of that moment and wished I could erase it from my memory. It got so bad I felt like I had to get it out of my brain through some means or another or else I would explode and my gravestone would read, “Died From An Embarrassing Queef”. So, I wrote about it. At the time, my blog existed, but only as one of those angsty pre-teens rants that people make fun and I only published about once a year. Plus, they were all shitty posts. With my essay reflecting on the queefing nightmare, I now had a couple paragraphs on my hand and a forum to release it into the wild. So, I published the post (The Night I Queefed) to my blog because…well, I don’t know why. Maybe I thought there was someone out there who could read it and assure me that they, too, had queefed and survived. Sure enough, a day later I had a comment from a reader about how they sympathized with my queefing PTSD. The rush of emotion that came from sharing a deeply embarrassing, personal connection with a faceless stranger was addicting. Not only that, I had tapped into what would fuel the content for the rest of my weekly posts.

I’m a fairly awkward person who does awkward things and to whom embarrassing things frequently happen. For example, a couple weeks ago Boyfriend and I were doing a crossword on his laptop together while eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch. In the middle of quiet contemplation over a particular clue, a chewed up, saliva-soaked piece of CT Crunch shot out of my mouth and landed on the keyboard. We sat there looking at it until I wiped it off with my finger, looked around for a place to put it, and then ate it when he wasn’t looking. When people laugh at embarrassing stories like these in my posts, or say, “This happened to me too!”, I feel in control of the embarrassment, which feels so much better than constantly worrying about it. Don’t get me wrong, these posts are hard to write (completing that masturbation post was one of the most difficult things I’ve done). It’s like willingly displaying your diary to your high school, and then going home to your Boyfriend knowing that he just read about how some guy once peed in your mouth (and then understanding why he avoids kissing you). But at the end of the day, people are (hopefully) laughing at what I wrote, and that’s pretty much all I ever wanted out of life.

P.S. Thanks to Beanie for nominating me for a Liebster Award!

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The Weird Hair Growing Out of My Face

The other day, Boyfriend and I were in line for churros when he inspected my right cheek and said, “You have a weird hair.” Imagine you’re a girl with insecurities, doubts, fears, and the conviction that you’re terrible at being a girl because you only shave, like, once every two weeks and every morning you forget that brushing hair is something you have to do. Okay, now picture that you just heard from your boyfriend, the one who’s supposed to be physically attracted to you and all that crap, “There is something weird growing out of your face”. I think we can all agree that you immediately want to die. You want to crawl into a hole and never, ever, ever see the sun again. But, there were no holes to crawl into and die in at the churro stand, so I was left to awkwardly avoid Boyfriend (which was difficult since we drove there together) while trying to make sure he was always on my left.

As soon as I got to a mirror, I searched for the hair. Sure enough, there it was, long, black, and growing out of the side of my face like goddamn pioneer. It looked like a freaking pube was protruding from face. It was on one of those spots on your body that you would never think to look at unless someone pointed it out to you. I started thinking about all the things this hair had witnessed while I was living my life stupidly thinking there were no weird hairs growing out of my face. It was long (like an inch? Inch and a half?) which meant it’d been there for a while. Oh god, this hair was there on all my first dates, accompanying us to the restaurant like an eager third wheel. It was there when I got my hair cut, glaring my hairdresser in the eyes as she shampooed me. It’s been there for every class, every game of Settlers of Catan, every dry hump on a stranger’s couch (I have actually never dry humped on a stranger’s couch. I just wanted to make my life sound more exciting). How many times had I assumed people were listening to me talk when in fact they were just staring at this hair and wondering why I had no hygiene? How many times?! My life flashed before my eyes as I stared into the black soul of the hair on the side of my face. As I pulled out the tweezers, it stood strong, accepting its fate nobly. Then I plucked it and it went to hair heaven. Now I’m paranoid there are weird hairs growing elsewhere on my body in all the nooks and crannies too difficult for me to find. I need a best girl friend. Or a hand mirror. Either will work.

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Your Boyfriend Gives You Flowers, Mine Tries to Murder Me In My Sleep

When I first start dating someone, I try to be on my best behavior. I shave my legs every day instead of every two weeks, I pretend to eat all the food groups instead of just pizza, ice cream, and cookies, and I act like I’m normally a good person by always giving homeless people money. It’s not until two months later when all the weird quirks and habits feel comfortable enough to expose themselves (it only took one month for me to stop trying and start exclusively wearing sweatpants around Boyfriend). Luckily for me, Boyfriend turned out to be just as weird as I am. Now that we’ve been dating two months, I’ve discovered: he frequently snapchats me while he poops, he constantly has the hiccups, he sneezes so loud I’m pretty sure he caused the 5.3 earthquake, and, minor detail, he loves to pretend-assassinate me.

I discovered the latter when he snuck up behind me one night, stabbed an invisible dagger into my back, and held my head as he whispered, “Sh sh sh”. Then he kissed my cheek. While some couples get massages together or ride tandem bikes, Boyfriend and I try to murder each other. One of his favorites is to use a katana (Samurai sword) to slash my face while whispering into my ear, “You will shed tears of scarlet” (and though I’ve argued several times that I’m not sure how this would actually kill me, he does it anyway). Now that I know the Assassination Game exists, I’ve taken to walking around his apartment with my back against the wall to avoid any attacks, which has just made the kills more unexpected. Not one to be left out, I tried my own methods of sneaking up and killing him, and I won’t get into detail but I suck at it.

After several failed assassination attempts on Boyfriend, I finally had the perfect chance to bury a knife in his back once and for all (this is clearly a healthy relationship). The apartment was dark, he thought I was asleep…it was a perfect storm. Huddled in his giant sweatshirt and sweatpants, I tip-toed down the hallway and hid behind the door to the bathroom. (On a side note, whenever I’m hiding from someone, I always have to pee. Like really bad. It’s a problem). The light in the bathroom turned off and the door creaked open. My heart was pounding and my bladder was bursting with anticipation. I stifled a giggle as Boyfriend stepped out and I jumped at him, my fist poised with my weapon of choice – an invisible kitchen knife. Without a moment’s hesitation, his hands shot out in front of him and he shoved me so hard I flew into the wall. Apparently, when Boyfriend is taken by surprise, some sort of sleeper-agent-military-training-self-defense shit takes place and he goes into full-on protector mode. Which is great if the apartment ever gets broken into. But it sucks when you’re trying to scare him in an innocent game of Assassination. It took about five seconds (way too long for a normal person, in my humble opinion) for him to realize that it was me under the bulky sweatshirt. Then the apologies started flowing. It’s a miracle I didn’t pee my pants. Even though I’m now forced to restrain myself lest I take the risk of actually getting murdered in self-defense, I’m glad I found someone as weird as I am. Although if he reads this blog, I’ll probably be single again (if you ARE reading, I promise I always give money to the homeless and eat my vegetables on the daily).

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I Asked for a Prom Date on a City-Wide Radio Station and Still Ended Up Alone at Prom

I attended a small, private high school with about one hundred kids in each grade, which meant there was a lot of inter-dating between the “cool” kids and a lot of awkward nothing between everyone else. As you might have guessed, I was “everyone else”. In some ways, it was good I didn’t date because I fostered amazing friendships instead. In other, more important ways, it was terrible because it made me weirdly desperate for a boyfriend and aware that “buttering someone’s muffin” was some sort of sexual phrase but completely oblivious as to what the muffin was and why it was getting buttered.

One particular morning on the way to school, my mom tuned in to her favorite radio station where two old guys try to stay relevant and it’s mostly sad. The DJs were doing their regular segment where listeners call in, ask for things, and the DJs try to help them out. I dialed on repeat, trying to make it past the busy tone. While some high school kids were smoking weed and getting drunk, my adrenaline rush stemmed from trying to make it on the morning radio show. And this time, the phone started ring. My heart jumped, terrified that I had gotten through, panting like a dog who finally caught the car he’d been chasing. “Star one hundred point seven, hey-o Carly, what do you want?” I froze, my heart feeling like it might explode from fear, and uttered the first thing that popped into my boy-obsessed hormone-driven mind: “A prom date.” Because I live in a reality that is totally heightened and unrealistic, I guess I immediately thought it was going to be one of those situations where a nerdy high-schooler makes a case for why he deserves to go to prom with X or Y supermodel and some version of it actually happens due to media involvement. I imagined arriving in a limo in front of all those “cool kids” while motherfucking Ryan Gosling gave me a corsage.

“Okay, we’re going to try and get Carly a prom date! Tell us a little about yourself.” Acutely aware that my voice was projecting through mini vans across suburban San Diego, my mind was able to access only the most basic facts I could remember about myself: “I’m short.” “Okay…What else?” “And…and…” I searched for something, anything, to make me sound appealing to my future soulmate who could be listening in right at that very moment. “And…I’m awesome?” The fact that I said it as a question only served to cause everyone to second guess me, begging the answer, “No. No you’re not.” The DJs bantered a little more, attempting to get something worth listening to out of me before finally realizing I was as fascinating as a rotten potato and abruptly cutting me off the line. I spent the rest of my morning in a daze.

When I got to school, I had mostly recovered from the shock of failing over public radio, clinging to the fact that the 100.7 fan base was so minuscule no one would know my embarrassment. Until a teacher walked past me in the hall. “Hey, did you call Star 100.7 this morning to ask for a prom date?” My face froze, my expression identical to the look I had when my mom caught me masturbating. I ran down the hall, only to discover throughout the day from students and teachers alike that practically the entire school listens to 100.7 in the morning. Now the whole school knew I was a) pathetic and b) undateable. Needless to say, I did not get a prom date that year. Or the next. But I went with friends, had a decent time, and…I’m still awesome?

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I Experienced the Worst-Case-Scenario Blowjob

I was giving my (non-current) boyfriend a blowjob. The facts are these: I have a very sensitive gag reflex (not as bad as my sister who will gag violently if she sees a sock close to someone’s mouth because she can’t stop thinking about the feeling of sock material on teeth). I also hate blowjobs (well, who really loves giving blowjobs). Specifically, I hate the feeling of something blocking my esophagus, I hate the weird noises that make me sound like a mentally challenged vacuum, and I hate the saliva. All the saliva. But, if I’m really into a guy, I like doing stuff for him and blowjobs seem to do the trick. This particular night, I think I was trying to get my boyfriend to do something and therefore precedented it with a blowjob to persuade him in my direction (this is how feminism works, right?).

So we’re on the bed, I’m giving him a blowjob, and everything is going as fine and dandy as it can be while a dick’s in your mouth. He’s getting super into it because apparently the world turns into butterflies and unicorns and rainbows when your private parts are in someone’s mouth, when, all of sudden…he peed a little. In my mouth. The place where I eat things and home to all my precious taste buds. I jumped backwards and, in my surprise, I swallowed. I swallowed the pee. It took a half-second to process what had happened before the intense gagging began. I shit you not, I’m gagging thinking about it right now. In that moment, my brain zeroed in on one thought and wouldn’t let it go: JESUS CHRIST I just swallowed pee. I ingested someone else’s urine. Ex-Boyfriend is all like, “What?! What happened?” because apparently guys can’t tell when they pee in a girl’s mouth?! In ideal Carly world, this is what I would’ve said: “Holy shit, you just peed in my mouth! Go get me a toothbrush, toothpaste, gallons of mouthwash, and you owe me a month straight of going down on me while simultaneously massaging my feet.” In real Carly world, this is what I did: *gags vehemently* “Oh, sorry, it’s nothing. I just need to get some water.” If you hate me by this point, I don’t blame you. I hate me too. I just really didn’t want to embarrass him. I mean, I didn’t know if we could come back from that. That’s like, a dealbreaker for sure.

I jumped out of bed and drank all the water I could, taking breaks only to alternate between breathing and gagging. When I returned, a changed person, he stared at me. “So…” He was lying on my bed naked, implying the obvious. And then I finished the job I started because I’m not a quitter. Well, at least I’m now confident that if I were ever stranded without water, I could drink my own pee and not die.

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The Kiss that Almost Redeemed the Awkward Dry Spell I call High School

Late one night, some friends from an improv class invited me to a party at their house. I agreed because it was either that or eating frozen yogurt in bed, and I knew deep down I preferred the froyo. Guys, this isn’t how I want to go: ‘The victim was found dead in bed with frozen yogurt.’ Fearing for my future, I biked to the party. When I got to their porch, I was confronted by two different doorways and a stairwell. I stared at my phone trying to figure out where this party was when two very drunk guys stumbled up to the door in front of me. I immediately recognized them from my high school. One of the guys was familiar looking but I didn’t remember his name. The other was one half of a pair of identical twins that were cute, popular, and talented x 2. Since they were identical, I had no idea which one was standing in front of me. It was either Jimmy or Joey (names changed for anonymity – I’m sorry I couldn’t think of better names than Jimmy and Joey). Normally when I see someone from high school, I duck and hide until they go away. But, for some weird reason (I think the threat of dying alone was looming above my head), I asked, “Did you guys go to Bishop’s?” They turned to look at me. I could immediately tell Jimmy/Joey was extremely drunk. And in an all white sailor uniform. Not Jimmy/Joey stared at me. “Yeah, did you?” Of course they wouldn’t remember me. I was awkward, self-conscious, and barely spoke to guys in high school. “Yeah, I’m a senior now.” “At Bishop’s?” I just love looking like a senior in high school. “No. At USC.” At this point, the guy that was Not Jimmy/Joey lost interest in the conversation (ironically how most my dates end) and went upstairs, leaving Jimmy/Joey and I alone in the stairwell.

Jimmy-or-Joey moved closer and began a slurred, convoluted conversation that I couldn’t transcribe even if I tried. I think it had something to do with him thinking I was on the water polo team. He insisted over and over again that I say, “I’m in one of the best programs.” “But I’m not on the water—” He drunkenly waved a hand at my face. “Don’t lie! You’re in the best program!” “Okay, okay, I’m in the best program.” He grinned and grabbed my hand, pulling me towards the stairs. At this point, a million thoughts went through my very sober head in a fraction of a second. Here in front of me was Jimmy-or-Joey, who I would’ve killed to have made out with in high school. The world probably would’ve imploded if that had happened to me at fifteen. This could be my chance to take back that awkward high school girl who didn’t kiss a boy until college, who was attracted to any guy that showed her attention, who never so much as held someone’s hand. And in that moment, as a senior in college with Jimmy-or-Joey standing in front of me, dilated eyes hinting at a sloppy makeout session that would probably end with his vomit on my shirt, I knew I would go back to my high school friends a victor.

Jimmy-or-Joey swayed on the steps, eyes kind of rolling back into his head. I giggled. “I’m actually gonna go find my friends.” He slowly nodded, attempted to walk up the stairs and pretended to almost fall. I screamed and he laughed. Drunk guys are lucky sober girls actually take their death threats seriously. Jimmy-or-Joey smiled as I shoved his ass up the steps and finally helped him through the door. As I went to find my own party, I had to fully accept that I didn’t redeem my high school love life. But you know what, I’m proud to say I didn’t take advantage of an extremely drunk person just to make myself feel better.

Recently, I went to a party with some old high school friends and fuck standards, that story would’ve been totally worth it.

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Don’t Eat Dumplings on a Date (Unless You Want To Look Like a Sad and Unattractive Chipmunk)

I recently went on a date with a guy (“Jay”) I met on OkCupid. He’s super nice, funny, cute, into all the things I’m into…and yet I’m not attracted to him. At the end of the date, I could tell Jay wanted to kiss me (and we all know how I like to avoid those things). I was waiting for my Uber and staring intensely at the app that counted down how long until the car arrived when Jay stepped closer. Three minutes away. I tried to start a conversation that would distract him from his current objective. Two minutes. He shifted, antsy, trying to get me to face him. One minute. I turned to say goodbye and he kissed me. Godamn. One minute to go and the bastard snuck one in. Soon after, he asked for a second date and since I’m a girl who can’t say no (I clearly have a very healthy sex life thankyouverymuch), I agreed. I mean he’s a great guy. He opens the car door for me and insists on paying for everything and pulls my chair out at restaurants. The dude is hardcore chivalrous. It’s very sweet. When my cat died, I decided to cancel the date. I texted Jay and realized how much it sounded like a thinly veiled excuse after I pressed Send. “Hey, I’m so sorry but I have to cancel…my cat died.” Being the gentleman he is, Jay offered his condolences and we rescheduled.

I drove to his place for our second date and, as usual, was running late. I just love to start off dates where I make him wait twenty minutes (this is a lie; I was sweating and wanted to cry). I finally found his place…which was literally adjacent to the Animal Hospital I used to take Pickles to (“Oh man, please don’t associate that with this date,” he stressfully pled). I hurriedly parked my car in a lot and met up with him. When we got to the movie theatre, he smoothly slipped his hand in mine. In my mind, I cringed, but out loud I was like, “That was smooth.” He chuckled. “I didn’t know there was going to be a commentary on this date.” “Yeah, this is the special features version.” UGH. Who narrates a date? I might as well have been live tweeting the whole thing. When we got in the theatre, it was completely empty. I was disappointed; he was delighted. A couple in an empty movie theatre…I knew where this was going. Sure enough, we sat down and he immediately inserted his tongue in my mouth. Thankfully, a couple walked in shortly after. I was delighted; he was disappointed. Fast forward to the awful movie (“I’m so sorry that was bad. Please don’t associate this with the quality of the date!”) and dumplings for dinner. While the dumplings were delicious, they were difficult to eat in a ladylike fashion. Too small to bite into pieces yet too big to attractively eat, I shoved each big-ass dumpling into my mouth like a caveman, successfully emulating a chipmunk storing up nuts in his cheeks for winter. I have this thing about people watching me eat on dates; I imagine tiny men in their heads holding up signs rating me on my chewing technique. That and my sister says I chew so loud it gives her migraines. Self-conscious, I tried to eat when he wasn’t staring at me, but that rarely happened so I hardly ate. Awkwardly, he wouldn’t take another one until I had eaten mine, so we sat there not eating until he went to the bathroom and I stuffed, like, six whole dumplings into my mouth.

When we finally got back to his house, I discovered that the lot I had hastily parked my car in had been locked by a giant chainlink fence and padlock (“Oh god, don’t let this reflect on the rest of the date!”). I called Uber and while the seven minute countdown began until the car arrived, I tried to eloquently tell him how I felt. Quite the opposite of eloquent, I vomited out a mangled paragraph that resembled this: “So I really like you, but I think I have to be friends with people first, you know, and oh my god I sound like an asshole…Jesus, okay so this sounds cliché but it’s not you, it’s definitely me that has issues with physical contact. That’s not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say that you’re an awesome person and can we be friends first.” And he was like, “Um, so, you don’t want me to kiss you or anything?” And I was like “No!” Even though I meant yes. He forced a laugh. “This is new for me actually. I always used to ask girls before I kissed them but I thought I would try not asking…guess that didn’t work.” I felt so bad for him because he’s such a good person that I tried backtracking: “Wait, wait, girls love that. Just not me. I mean yes, do that with all the girls. They love it. I’m weird.” After that train wreck, my Uber arrived and he asked me for a kiss because I was leaving for winter break. And what was I supposed to say? No? Instead, I agreed, endured, and slunk into my Uber feeling pretty sure that nothing had changed.

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