I met a lovely gentleman on OK Cupid. He messaged me, and his two pictures were both cute and properly hairy. Great beard. Great chest hair. I’m a sucker for those things, as we know.

There were no pictures that showed his body at all, which I should have taken as a warning sign, but I let it go. We texted a little bit. He mentioned three times that he was a “big, teddy-bear type.” I thought it was kind of weird that he was so obsessed with telling me that, but I actually like solid guys. They’re good cuddlers. I told him not to worry.

But he kept emphasizing the “big guy” thing, and said he wanted to make sure I would be attracted to him. I told him we’d cross that bridge when we came to it, but I began to realize that “teddy-bear type” might not mean what I thought it meant.

By the time of our date, I was not looking forward to it at all anymore. I knew that I was signing up for an unattractive fat guy with a couple of decent pictures. He was just way too insecure about himself. No chance anyone remotely good-looking needs to qualify himself that many times.

“Do I even try to look cute for this?” I asked my friend.

“If you do, you might ruin his life. He’ll fall in love with you and pine after you forever.”

I realized she was probably right. I elected not to shower, and just slap on a little bit of mascara. For his sake. It was a mitzvah.

We had planned to just share a bottle of wine in my apartment. As I am wont to do. When he showed up at my door, he was hugely fat. Like, not what I would call a “teddy-bear type.” Just a very fat dude.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m totally fine with a little extra weight. I like it, actually. But this guy was grossly obese. Not cute.

I started sucking down the wine. Turned out he was an (aspiring) actor and stand-up comedian. Two immediate red flags. He told me how hard it was to make it as an actor in New York. I didn’t tell him that people with talent actually found jobs, and if he wasn’t getting them, he probably just wasn’t good enough.

He told me about his two cats that he hated. One was named after Redd Foxx. He said that with meaning, and looked at me, expecting my acknowledgement of the great name he had chosen for his cat.

“I don’t know who that is,” I said.

“What?” he said. “I have to show you!”

He pulled out his phone to look up a video of Redd Foxx doing stand-up.

I hate being shown things. It’s almost as bad as people reciting scenes from movies. I’m not gonna watch some 10 minute stand-up video while this guy expects me to laugh. I just don’t care for that experience. And I don’t do things I don’t like.

“Nuh-uh,” I said. “I don’t want to do that. I’ll look him up later.”

“But he’s one of my favorites,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said.

After that, every suggestion I made was met with a passive-aggressive fake-jokey “no.” Like, as revenge for not wanting to watch the stand-up that he thought was fucking brilliant and hilarious. Someone was bitter. So I kept drinking.

He told me that I needed to re-arrange the rugs on my floor, because the floors were such nice hardwood and I was covering them up too much.

“But I like my rugs,” I said.

“It would look better,” he said.

I humored him and let him move my rugs around. It did kind of look better. Ok, so he was right.

Not really sure what else we talked about. I was probably a dick, as my dear readers know I am wont to be. I definitely drank about a bottle of wine on my own. By the end of the evening, I thought I might actually be kind of having fun.

“I’m not attracted to him,” I texted my friend, “but he might be kind of cool. I’m not sure.”

Then I woke up the next morning and realized that I was just drunk. And he was fucking irritating.

I never watched that video of Redd Foxx.

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