Archives for category: I Can Be A Dick, Too

I recently got this lovely message on OKCupid.

So obviously I responded with this.

Nice try, bitch. I’m always gonna win.


Boh and I had gotten bored of asking this self-absorbed, narcissistic fuck questions about itself. So we decided to just be fucking weirdos. Shit’s about to get really stupid.

The thing asked me about my favorite bands. I slipped and wrote “Bob Dylan” and “Joni Mitchell,” who I do actually love – and then Boh and I started in with bands I could never possibly love.

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The thing’s response was, “I doubt it, but I don’t really know.”

And then I replied, “Are you not your brother’s keeper? LOL”

Which I thought was fucking hilarious. It was a weird-ass phrase, an awkward reference (and to the Bible, at that), and I ended with net-speak. SO GOOD.

The thing was unfazed. “I get it!” it replied. Then it started talking about how it had been raised Catholic, so had mixed feelings about the Bible, but really liked the book of Revelation (well, it called it “Revelations,” but that’s incorrect, so I’ll be nice and fix it for a friend).

“Oh yeah,” I responded. “I really like the part with the garnets.”

(You don’t even need to know what I’m talking about. I was purposely being dumb and vague, and Satan or someone sits on a garnet throne at some point)

It replied with some statement about the mark of the beast, which I did not respond to. Then, I started in with the best game ever.

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The Horsegirl.

All of my dear readers probably knew, or were, a Horsegirl growing up. Horsegirls read books about horses, and spent their weekends at “The Barn,” picking dirt out of their beloved horse’s hoofs. They talked about horses all the time, and often had really know-it-all facts up their sleeves about their favorite animal.

Basically, the Horsegirl is a perfect nerdy, on-the-spectrum trope. So we went with it. The person messaging with the thing had turned into a character – Erin the Horsegirl.

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I thought this was a nice mirroring to the shark facts. So Boh looked up “Top 40 Horse Facts” online, and I sent a quick series of three.

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Ignore the thing’s input. I did. Instead of acknowledging what it had to say, I just kept naming horse facts.

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Now this girl is seriously crippled, when it comes to social graces. Obviously the thing was kidding. But I kept going. More facts about horses, please.

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My friend the thing was starting to get tired of the horse facts. I can’t imagine why. But I was determined to keep going, perseverating as well as the person with the worst Asperger’s in the world.

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I thought I’d give it a break, because I didn’t want it to lose interest when it (understandably) got tired of its love interest spewing horse facts. I talked about science fiction books a little bit, and let it riff on some dumb idea about Moby Dick in Space.

Then it started talking about how, when it had writer’s block, it came up with bad movie titles. And I was not down with that conversation. So, I said:

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“Nice!” it responded. Then I listed some great horses. Including fictional ones. I had to Google most of them.


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“Smarty Jones would be a great name for a band,” it followed up. Then it started talking about how much it loved making up band names, which is so fucking annoying that I had to change the subject back to horses, only with a variation this time – the band the Horsegirl wanted to start, named after a kind of horse (also Googled), and the completely inane and contradictory “sound” she wanted the band to have.

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I listed a purposely nonsensical sound, but, of course, as a band connoisseur, the thing had a band on hand to tell me about. I just went along and pretended I knew what Jesus and the Mary Chain was.

“Yes, exactly,” I said. “Only with less religious overtones.”

“I’ve never gotten religious overtones from Jesus and the Mary Chain,” it said. “But then again I hardly pay attention to their lyrics.”

“They started out as a Christian rock band,” I responded. “Not many people know that.”

Of course, they didn’t. But I thought just straight up lying would be fun. Like, if it called me out, I could insist that it was wrong. If it just knew I was wrong (or knew I was lying), that’s amazing, too. And if it believed me? Well, why not.

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Because that’s nonsense.

Then I wanted to try to get personal/offensive again. Boh and I tried to brainstorm a question I could ask a genderqueer person that was both offensive and weird. We came up with, “Do you wear women’s underwear?”

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So then we just fucked around a little bit more.

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Blah blah, didn’t care, until –

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Ugh. Thank you, again, for never conserving words and expanding on some dumbass detail about yourself. No one was saying you were a man or a woman. You could clearly understand the fucking question. But, an opportunity for more pontificating? The thing couldn’t pass it up.

After this, I bowed out. It was after 1 am, and I needed to go to sleep. Boh and I rolled over, back to back, and nodded off.

Stay tuned for Part 3, either later tonight or tomorrow, in which the thing falls completely under the control of Erin the Made-up Horsegirl.

I just got back from the Jersey Shore this afternoon. I had an amazing time, got a bunch of freckles, and sunburned my chest, despite constant re-application of SPF 50. My amazing friend Boh came to stay with my family for a few days, too, which was lovely.

While I was at the beach, I got a message from a lovely man on OKCupid.

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That was nice. And, it’s true, I love black licorice. So I checked out his profile, and it was so, so, so obnoxious. I obviously didn’t want to date this person. But a profile that obnoxious required some serious interpersonal contact – for the blog. I showed it to Boh, and Boh agreed.

Here are some highlights of the profile, just so you get some impression of what we were working with before we started messaging.

First of all: gender identity.

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Now, let’s be clear. I don’t give one fuck what gender people identify as. I have tons of trans friends, blah blah blah, that’s a stupid thing to say. But I am totally on board with gender being a spectrum, and being fluid.

What was obnoxious about this was that this human being (who I had been misgendering as a man) couldn’t just say that they were genderfluid, or gender non-conforming, OR non-binary, but had to include all three – plus “other,” because the three other descriptors just weren’t enough. They were just too fucking complex.

It felt like a straight guy trying to appropriate being queer, or some shit like that. Like, someone who needed to demonstrate JUST how queer they were. And desperately.


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We can skip over the fact that this person definitely, definitely speaks, like, six words of Catalan and twelve words of Portuguese, but felt the need to include 5 languages in their profile.

Let’s focus on “Other religion.”

Boh was convinced that this meant that our friend was a witch.

“Every queer person in New York is a witch,” Boh told me. “I’m always going on dates with fucking witches.”

Now, let’s explore “My self-summary.”

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I respect my readers enough to trust them to know exactly what is so fucking irritating about most of this profile. I will, however, point out a few choice things.

First, crypto-fag? What the fuck is a crypto-fag?

And then, “I live life in all caps lock!” Who thinks this is a good thing? Caps lock should never have been invented. Has anyone ever received an email written in all caps and thought, “Hey, this is so cute!”? I certainly have not. Shoot me now.


“What I’m doing with my life.”

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This person is right. All caps are required to interact with them. Because it is impossible to express how appalling this profile is in lowercase letters.

Oh, also – note the second mention of sharks.

And, finally, “I spend a lot of time thinking about.”

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Note a third mention of sharks, and then – phew – we can move on from the profile.

After reading this abhorrent mess, Boh and I decided that we definitely, definitely had to learn more about this queer, sapiosexual, genderfluid, gender non-conforming, non-binary other. Because this person was clearly the fucking worst.

We had no idea what we were getting into.

We decided to start with a series of questions, to see just how horrible any illuminating conversation about the profile could be. I responded to the licorice query with, “I love it!” Then I asked our friend if they could tell us some shark facts.

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How clever. A fact about a fake shark, a fact about a real shark, and a fake shark fact. It’s the sort of thing that’s, like, almost clever? Almost funny? Maybe it could be if done right? But, this way, it just seemed like the person was trying so hard.

So we moved on to our next question.

Boh and I both spent a lot of time in precious, progressive liberal arts schools, so we were familiar with the question, “What’s your PGP?” “PGP” stands for “Preferred gender pronoun,” which is a perfectly fair question and not necessarily obnoxious. But we had already flagged this person as fucking irritating and potentially obsessed with gender to a performative degree, so we wanted to see how obnoxious the gender identity thing was gonna get.

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Jesus Christ.


That is so fucked up. Like, what are you, an inanimate object?

At this point, Boh and I started referring to our friend as “it.” Which is fucking absurd. I have enough trouble using “they” in the singular, because it often makes for awkward sentences and just raises a flag in my writer’s brain every time the grammar is incorrect. Generally, with genderfluid or non-binary friends who prefer “they,” I just use their names and avoid pronouns altogether. Saying “it” to refer to a person felt so fucking absurd to Boh and me that we laughed hysterically every time we had to call him/her/them “it.”

Anyway, next question. If you will remember, it had mentioned that it was a “professional punk rocker.” Musicians are almost universally fucking annoying, so we thought it was important to explore this matter further. We asked about our most pressing concern.

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Notice that I did not ask about what being a “professional punk rocker” entailed. But it decided to explain, in detail, what it did when it had been one. Basically: dumb shit, like getting people’s groceries or doing their dishes. Oh, and buying them weed, which it clearly thought was a little racy.

It sent three or four paragraph-long texts about being a PPR (professional punk rocker, obviously), which I chose to ignore. I was beginning to understand that my friend was incredibly self-absorbed and just wanted to talk incessantly about itself.

Also, let’s remember it identified as an “it. We couldn’t get over how dumb that was. So we decided to keep nudging, a little bit, with a more irritating and kind of (well, actually) offensive question.

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DUDE. Come on.

I was sure that this question would ruffle feathers, and that I’d get an answer along the lines of, “No, I’m a person.” But no. Apparently, it sometimes feels like a thing – but not always. So, sometimes they are a person, sometimes it is a person, sometimes it is a thing, and sometimes they are a thing. This is so complicated.

The worst part was – the thing obviously thought it was being intriguing. It considered itself this special enigma that any human being would find fascinating.

I did not. Boh did not. We just hated it even more.

The next question addressed my favorite phrase in the thing’s profile: “crypto-fag.” Boh and I Googled the phrase, and nothing came up. Literally nothing. So we knew we had to find out what obnoxious meaning it had.

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Full. Stop.

As obnoxious as “I like being cryptic” and “I’ve always kinda identified with the term ‘fag'” are, let’s jump straight to the stand-out sentence of this message.

“I like the secretiveness of things sometimes (like, in general).”

What. The fuck. Does that mean.

Nothing. Like, actually nothing.

“I like the secretiveness of things sometimes (like, in general).”

Seriously, if any of my readers have any idea what that’s supposed to mean, please tell me. Or maybe it’s just meant to be cryptic. Such a fucking crypto-fag.

Next, and on our last question, we decided to ask about religion.

At this point, Boh was still convinced our friend the thing was a witch. I thought that it definitely had a special worldview that it had invented all by itself. It didn’t subscribe to any religion – not even a fringe one – instead, it had its own system of spirituality that was just too complex for anyone else to have thought up, or to share.

So I asked.

“What’s the “other” religion in your profile?”

The thing’s answer did not disappoint.

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I win.

Then it turned the conversation to me.

“I have a question for you,” it wrote. “How good is Moby Dick?”

I mention on my OKCupid profile that I thought I’d hate Moby Dick, but it’s actually a masterpiece. So the thing was trying to relate, right? After all, the whole conversation had been about it, and I really hadn’t shared anything about myself, or what I liked, or who I was as a person. So it was reaching out!

Oh, wait. Its “question” was actually a rhetorical one. Basically, it just wanted to talk about itself more, and didn’t really want to know anything about me. It didn’t ask, “What’s your favorite part of Moby Dick?” or, “Why do you think it’s a masterpiece?” No. Just a rhetorical question that would take the conversation nowhere and facilitate more of the thing’s wise and insightful thoughts about the world.

I spent five or ten minutes trying to figure out what to say to move the conversation along, but I couldn’t think of anything. It had brought the conversation to a halt. So I just said, “I love Moby Dick!”

Fortunately, the thing didn’t actually care what I wrote back, because it had more to share about itself.

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How lovely. It reads Moby Dick every August. A special ritual, a delicate homage to a masterpiece that is really, really hard to read and a pretentious book to say is your favorite, anyway. And it had to make sure to brag that it took it longer than usual – a whole two weeks! – to read the tome this year. And it had to make sure to share (entirely unnecessarily, and entirely unprompted) that it had ADHD. This time, after a full fifteen minutes, I had literally zero idea what to say other than, “That’s cool.”

“This is the most unbearable creature in the world,” I said to Boh. “Obviously I have to keep talking to it, but I’m just getting irritated, and it’s not really fun anymore.”

“Why don’t we change gears?” Boh suggested. “Let’s just get weird.”

And thus ends Part 1: The Questioning. Stay tuned for Part 2, in which the messaging turns fun again by taking an absolutely ridiculous, absurd turn.

Earlier today, I got a text from a guy – what I thought was a picture of a white goose.


I looked up the area code, and it was Northern Virginia. I assumed an old flame from DC had found my number and contacted me, which was great/creepy as hell.

Anyway, as you can see, he had tried to send me a swan. An ugly duckling who turned into a swan, that is.

But here’s the thing, I was sure. Swans don’t look like that.


That picture was def not a swan. It was a goose.

This is a swan.


That? Not a swan.

Nice try, dude. As my dad would say, “Close, but no cigar” (anyone know where that phrase comes from? I have no idea).

Later, I found out who it was. Some guy who had given me 50 bucks and waited for a locksmith with me one time at an Exxon in Virginia five years ago, when I locked my keys in my car. So, that wasn’t weird at all, or anything.

Anyway, further research showed me it was a trumpeter swan, which looks different from the mute swan (the kind with the orange face). I was wrong, he was right.

But it was still creepy.

I recently changed my Tinder age range to be ages 28-49. I know. I’m 27. That’s absurd. But we all know I have a major thing for older men, so I thought I’d indulge it.

So when I got a message from a guy who was 46 (yes, that’s 19 years older than me, and 11 years younger than my parents, but who’s counting?), I responded.

My Tinder profile says, “I’ll never turn down an oyster.” Which is true. I love oysters. This guy messaged me saying, “Now you have me wanting oysters. When can we get some?”

If you want to buy me oysters, I am always on board. Plus he was pretty cute. Plus he had a beard. And it was gray. So I was in the bag.

We talked for a while. He seemed into the sassy Jewish American Princess type (aka, my brand). It was going well. But then I ran into an issue.

The number one problem with older men is that they often come along with kids. This guy was no exception.

“You don’t have kids, do you?” I asked.

“I do,” he responded. “One. He’s ten. He’s great. Is that a problem?”

It was a problem. But I didn’t say so. After all, it would be kind of fun to be the obscenely young step-mom that no one wants to mention at Thanksgiving. I could try to get the kid to call me “mom,” and then, one day, his father and I would have our own kids, and he’d feel alienated and like his dad had replaced him for a new, younger family. That sounds pretty fun. So maybe I do want to take on a ten-year-old.

Anyway, the Dad suggested we get oysters at Grand Central Oyster Bar (yes, please) and make use of his Yankees season tickets. That sounded like a major time commitment for a first date, but both of those activities were so tempting. I agreed.

And then I had second thoughts.

“How about we do something more casual first?” I suggested. The game wasn’t until Monday, and it was Friday. “I usually take the dog on a walk through the park on Saturdays. How about you join us?”

“Can I bring my camera?” he asked.

I forgot to mention that he was a photographer. Well, a lawyer who primarily identified as a photographer, which is one of my pet peeves – no, you’re not a photographer. You’re a lawyer. Own it. But he had sold photos, and did have a show coming up, which really made him as legitimate a photographer as I am a writer.

I told him he could bring his camera. We made plans to meet at 1 pm the next day.

“This sounds fun,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

We met up, and he was perfectly good-looking. He was tall, which was a nice surprise – the men of online dating are usually really short. But then he talked, and he had a really annoying voice. I immediately had doubts about our future together.

We walked, we talked. I brought up the full-sour pickles I had been experimenting with for weeks, he mentioned that he really liked pickling okra. It was fine. Whatever. We went into the park. It was a nice day in the shade, although really, really hot in the sun.

Here’s the thing about taking a walk with the dog as a first date. There is literally nothing to do other than talk. Like, not even the quick respite that comes with sipping on your drink, or taking a bite of food, or going to the bathroom. It’s just all talk, all the time.

And he was the worst when he talked.

“I hate when parents reprimand their children in public,” he said.

“Really?” I replied. “So, like, what do you do when your child is kicking an elderly woman on the subway?”

Great, I thought. Another one of those awful parents who doesn’t say no to their child. Or take them out of restaurants when they’re screaming. Lovely. Ten points for this guy.

He insisted on showing me his photographs. Like, over and over and over. And sure, they were fine. A sunrise over the Brooklyn Bridge. Some artsy silhouettes of people walking through a tunnel in Central Park.

Throughout our walk (which was a long, long walk, as I got lost in the park), he kept making really, really not-funny jokes. Soon, I wasn’t even trying to laugh, or smile. I just pretended I hadn’t heard him. Because I didn’t know how to respond to his erudite commentary on people who dipped their fries into ketchup instead of putting the ketchup all over them, or people who ate M&Ms one by one instead of by the handful. It was excruciating.

“I like that we can just be here, and be quiet, and not have to talk,” he said, at one point. We had been walking and I had been ignoring him for a while, by then.

“Yeah,” I said. “I like silence.”

I was starving, and getting cranky. Or, as he said several times, “hangry.” Which wasn’t cute or funny the first time he said it. Don’t worry, though. He repeated it at least twice.

So we dropped the dog off at home and went to get food.

Why, you might ask, didn’t I just ditch him and go home by myself?

Fair question. I guess I was hoping to get a free meal out of it. I mean, the date had been so bad, didn’t I deserve some recompense?

As we were walking to get food, it started raining. Not just raining. Monsooning. It was a serious July-in-New-York thunderstorm, and those don’t mess around. By the time we got to the taco place (the closest food I could think of), I was soaked and very, very cranky. I do not like being wet. I do not like being uncomfortable.

I mentioned that to him. He said, “What? I would never have guessed,” with a clever little smile, as if he knew me inside and out and understood all my little quirks. It was annoying. I ignored it.

The only seats were outside – so rain kept blowing under the awning onto me. It took forever for my food to come. And I was already with an incredibly annoying man. I was not happy. Not. Happy. I didn’t even want to drink, and that’s a major, major red flag, for me.

While we were waiting for our food, he told me several times how much he had enjoyed himself that day, how much he liked me, blah blah. He showed me a few more photographs. I tried to smile. It was difficult.

Finally, after we’d eaten, I extricated myself. I gave him a quick awkward hug good-bye. Then I ran to buy cigarettes and go home to my dog, who never, ever says annoying things.

I sent the guy a nice text message:

“Hey,” I said. “It was nice to meet you, but I think I’m gonna cancel on Monday. I wish you the best.”

A minute later, he responded.

“Yeah, it was cool meeting you and the dog, but I didn’t really feel anything.”

Cute defensive text, dude. Especially after you had just spent half an hour telling me how great of a time you’d just had and how much you liked me.

But whatever. If defensive gets him off, that’s fine with me. As long as I didn’t have to sit through oysters and nine (or ten, or twelve, or fourteen) innings of a baseball game with that annoying ass motherfucker. Be well, dude. Be well.

I’m still kind of sad I won’t get to be the shitty stepmom to ruin his ten-year-old’s life, though. But I’m sure another lucky woman will fill the role almost as well.


We all know, at this point, that I have a type. Like, majorly have a type. I always have – when I was younger, it was tall, skinny, with dark hair and a beard. Now I’ve shifted to liking a little bit of chunk – something to hold onto, something to cuddle up to. But, other than that, it’s still basically the same – I date tall, hairy, chunky men. It’s predictable.

This guy messaged me on OKCupid. His message was really smart, funny, creative. In one message, he covered camping (hates it) and reality TV (loves it). His profile mentioned that he has a favorite kind of pen. It was so good.

But there was a problem.

He was skinny and couldn’t grow a beard.

Even so, he seemed so perfect that I decided to give it a try. We had amazing text chemistry. He liked the Millionaire Matchmaker. He was on an Old Overholt kick. And he said he liked a woman who was “a challenge.” Everything was trending toward a great fit.

So, we met up for tacos and frozen margaritas. He showed up, and he was good-looking, sure. But I felt like I had a lot more personality than he did. Sure, he was smart. Obviously smart. But he was…boring.

And then it came out.

He went to Harvard.

I have a major, major anti-Ivy bias. Even as a 17-year-old, I knew that I hated the elitism and prestige of an Ivy League school. I hated the idea that people went for the name. I never wanted to feed into the idea that all smart people go to Ivies. I was an A student with exceptional SATs, and I had been captain of a boy’s wrestling team. I could’ve gone wherever I wanted. I could’ve gone to Harvard.

But I didn’t.

When touring schools, my dad and I had this system – we’d stop people at each school and asked what had made them choose it. Everywhere else, people had creative reasons and things they loved about the school. At Harvard, everyone just said, “Well, I got in, and you can’t say no to Harvard.”

Bullshit. I could.

Plus the major Ivy Leaguers – Harvard, Yale, Princeton – are always fucking boring. I know. I’m a major hater. I own it.

Anyway. To be fair to him, this guy wasn’t pretentious. But he clearly felt the same way as those Harvard students I’d spoken to years ago – he wanted the name.

Oh, and he wore a Harvard ring.

Puuuuuuuuke. Puke. Puke. Puke.

I know it’s probably unfair, but the Ivy League thing is something I hate so much that I kind of can’t get past it. Put a hairless, skinny, boring man on top of that? Let’s just say he’s not getting on top of me (Ohhhhhhhh!).

He was so nice. So earnest. And so boring.

Last night, I was bored, so I went on a date with a guy who asked me out on OKCupid. He sent me a really nice, personal message. We met up at my local bar. He bought me a drink.

Ok, so it was a little weird. He told me he didn’t “do small talk.” So when I told him I’d dropped out of school for personal reasons, he asked why.

“It’s pretty heavy,” I said.

“That’s fine.”

So I told him my long ugly sob story. He told me he’d dated a series of girls who had been sexually assaulted. I told him that, in my personal experience, that was the norm, not unusual at all.

He started babbling generic progressive liberal stuff, which ended with, “Basically, straight white men have it easier than everyone else.”

“I mean, doesn’t that go without saying?” I replied. “Isn’t that kind of like saying ‘The sky is blue?'”

“Ok, fair,” he said.

He was blond and short and so sweet and so submissive and so boring.

Then he started talking to me about how his dad has cancer. Blah blah. Heavy. Not so much first date conversation. And, frankly, not the kind of conversation I felt like having over drinks on a Saturday night. So I went outside to smoke a cigarette and texted my friend.

“He’s nice, but kinda boring and the progressive person kind of irritating. Like, I am WAY more interesting than him.”

She immediately took it for the disaster it was.

“Want a call?” she replied. “Boyfriend drunk and hit me?”

Oh man. There’s a reason this woman is my friend. What a sick, sick, beautiful idea.

I told her to call me in 20.

Twenty minutes later, my friend called. She pulled out a great acting job from her theater degree, sobbing on the phone. Her boyfriend had been drunk, she said. He came home and hit her. She’d left without her coat and was at our favorite bar.

“Listen, you stay right there,” I said. “Sit in the corner. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I hung up the phone and sighed.

“Oh man,” I said. “This friend – Jesus.”

I proceeded to tell him all about my friend’s imaginary abusive relationship.

“What can you do in that situation?” I said. “I mean, all you can do is let her know you think she should leave, and then support her and love her when she doesn’t.”

We had a long intimate chat about abusive relationships in general, and what you can do for a friend caught up in one. His opinion on that was generic and annoying, too.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I have to go deal with this.”

I went to the bathroom and then walked out, apologizing again, and then headed to a different bar to see some friends.

I’m an asshole. But that’s what you get for being nice and generic and boring, right?

About a year and a half ago, I met this super cute, sweet, lovely guy. He was the only date I ever went on off Tinder, and we dated for several weeks. He was from upstate New York and worked in construction – kind of a bro, on the surface, but ultimately one of the gentlest and sweetest dates I’d ever been on. We went out five times, or so – drinks, dinner, a baseball game – and then I ended things unceremoniously, over text.

At the time, I wasn’t at all ready to get into something real with someone. I was terrified of men because so many had treated me like shit, and I was just afraid to move into anything serious (although I thought I was ready going into it). I didn’t even know that I was being shitty when I ended things with him over text, although I obviously was, looking back.

About 6 months ago, we got back in touch. We made a plan to get drinks that he flaked on, which hurt. He was pretty mad at me, and hurt, and we talked about it a little bit. But I was in a relationship, anyway, so I kind of let it go.

On the day Z and I broke up, I texted The Sweetheart, and made a date with him for four days down the line. But the next night, I had a panic attack. I realized it was way too soon to go out with anyone, that I was still processing this whole break up thing, and I asked him if we could postpone our date.

I knew that this would probably hurt his feelings, and I tried to mitigate that as best as possible.

“I hope you know that this doesn’t mean I’m not interested, I just need a little bit of time to sort things out.”

“I understand,” he said. “I respect your space.”

We texted for a while. And then, after some time had passed, I asked if he wanted to get a drink. He didn’t respond to the request, so I asked another time, again with no response. I asked bluntly, “Are you purposely ignoring my drink requests?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t want to make plans and get cancelled on again.”

This made me feel terrible. I knew that I had hurt him a year and a half ago, and I had worried about cancelling again. I told him that I was sincerely sorry, and would genuinely like to see him again – I was interested, I am interested, really – but I was willing to give him whatever time he wanted to decide if/when he wanted to go out with me again.

So far, I haven’t heard back. It’s been several hours. I’m trying not to think about it, but I can’t help it, and I feel horrible.

I’m usually complaining about men being assholes to me. About them flaking, or never responding to texts, or telling me they’re “not really looking for a relationship” after we’ve been on a lovely date. But, this time, I’m the asshole. And it appears that I totally blew it with a really nice guy who I genuinely like.  I’m trying not to obsess over it, trying not to text him a thousand times like I am sometimes wont to do. But you, my dear readers, know how hard that is for me.

Ideally, I’ll get to go on another date with the cute, sweet guy I met a year and a half ago, with no hard feelings on his part, and we’ll have a fantastic time. Cross your fingers. Hope that he gets back to me. Hope that we get to try things again, and have a fun, sensitive, gentle time. And hope for zen for me, and the patience not to text him again, and an overall good outcome.

The other night, the Toddler’s friend accosted me at my favorite bar. Entirely unprovoked, she told me she didn’t like me, and then went on to list a litany of reasons why she didn’t like me. Among these was the assertion that “you don’t invite someone into your apartment for a glass of wine unless you’re going to sleep with them. I mean, who does that?” (Rape culture, anyone? And this woman calls herself a feminist.)

She also called me petty.

Now, up to this point, I haven’t been petty. But ask and ye shall receive, bitches. Petty is my number one skill.

The Toddler has a brilliant Twitter feed. He tweets at least ten times a day, because the entire internet is anxiously waiting to know the next time he takes a shit, or spars in Tae Kwon Do. Yes. He does Tae Kwon Do. Because he is sensitive and also in touch with the tranquil depths of Eastern culture.

(Side note: This man is actually Eeyore. My friend saw him at a party a week ago. Toddler was sitting in a corner, moping. Friend went up to him:

“Hi, Toddler,” he said.

“I think I’m going to go,” Toddler replied. “No one wants me here anyway.”)

His last tweet, at the time I am writing this, expressed dismay that someone had written a blog post about him. I’m very private, he said, except for on Twitter. Where the whole entire world can know your business? But, as he put it, “I guess that’s the price of extremely mild internet fame.” Oh yes. That’s right. The Toddler is such a celeb that bitches be writing blog posts about him all day, every day. In his words, “this is a crazy ol’ world we live in.”

Anyway, then he blocked me on Facebook. And then nixed me as a follower on Twitter (because that’s not petty).

I gotta say. The fact that this gentleman feels so antagonized by me kind of brings me great pleasure. Except, not kind of. Most definitely.

You want petty, I’ll give you motherfucking petty.

And now I will close with an inspirational quote:

I meant what I said, and I said what I meant. An elephant’s faithful, one hundred percent.

– Horton