Archives for category: Not a date

I am endlessly fascinated by religion and religious people. Religious orthodoxy of any kind is something I obsess over and research online and watch documentaries about all the time. Heaven’s Gate. Scientology. People who really, really love Jesus.

So, when someone on OKCupid messaged me whose profile said he had spent 6 years living in Israel as an Orthodox Jew before he recently became an atheist, I was fascinated. I obviously had to meet him.

We messaged back and forth for a while. I asked him a thousand questions, all about his life and religion. He was raised secular, and converted to Chasidism in his early 20s. WHAT. AMAZING. When he was in Israel, he had done some sort of Orthodox Jewish matchmaking, in which you basically go on three dates with someone and then decide whether you want to marry them or not. MORE. I asked him why he stopped believing in God. I asked him all sorts of stuff about the nuances of Jewish law that I always wondered about. Everything was going well.

And then I realized that, while I knew all sorts of interesting things about his past, he had never taken a moment of lull in the conversation to ask me a single thing about myself. He didn’t ask me what I did for a living, didn’t ask me what books I liked to read – nothing.

I mentioned that to him.

“You haven’t asked me a single question about myself,” I said.

He didn’t understand why that was relevant. Like, apparently caring one tiny bit about another person wasn’t important, even in a dating setting.

Anyway, it was soon obvious that I wasn’t interested in dating him, but I was still so intrigued by his past that when he asked me out, I told him I’d be happy to hang out as friends. He accepted, and for the next several days we texted intermittently.

One night, we hung out. We talked for a while – more religion, mostly. I asked whether he thought that men raised in Orthodox Judaism were conditioned with such a toxic view of male-female relationships that they could never have healthy relationships with women. Our conversation was pretty insightful and interesting. He seemed thoughtful. Again, he asked me nothing about myself, but I expected it, by that point. He went home, and everything seemed fine.

The next day, he called me at 3 am, obviously drunk. He told me I was fucked up, and no one would ever love me, and all sorts of other nasty shit that I don’t remember. I was horrified and hung up on him. He called back three times and left me a message, which I listened to a few seconds of and then promptly deleted.

Over the course of the next few days, he called me several more times in the middle of the night and left abusive messages. I didn’t listen to them. He sent me dozens of mean messages on OKCupid.

“Did you go on that date? When he finds out who you really are, he’ll run away screaming.”

“You’re too fucked up for anyone to ever love.”

And a few more great gems like that.

Finally, I blocked him.

Not sure what the moral is, here. Don’t trust extremists of any stripe? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just that some men are abusive assholes, no matter how interesting they may seem.


This lovely gentleman, who matched with me at 22% on OKCupid, sent me a message saying, “I think we have something in common. Do you know what it is?”

I was pretty sure we had nothing at all in common, so I asked him to elaborate. This was our conversation. Enjoy!


On Tuesday night, I went to see Nick Kroll and John Mulaney in Oh Hello on Broadway. I had bought tickets intending to go with my dad, but he was busy. Then I invited my best friend Boh, but Boh had to go to LA for work. I tried inviting several more people, but none of them could come.

So I found myself on the 2 train headed toward Times Square, all by myself. At Atlantic Avenue, a bearded man sat down next to me. I didn’t pay much attention beyond just noticing his presence. I was exhausted, so I dozed for most of the trip. Around 14th street, the bearded man turned to me.

“Would you like a mint?” he asked, offering me a box of Altoids.

“No, thanks,” I said. For the record, I don’t really like mints.

“Ok,” he said, with a smile. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

I wasn’t interested in him romantically, but I did want company to that play. Why not invite a friendly stranger from the train? What a fun, quirky adventure, right? To spend the night with a potentially unbearable stranger?

“Hey,” I said. “Where are you headed?”

“To dinner,” he said. “At 73rd street. My friend just moved here from Boston, and he’s cooking for me.”

“Bummer,” I said. “I have an extra ticket to this show.”

I told him about Oh Hello. He had heard of Nick Kroll and John Mulaney, and we talked about them a little bit.

“I’ve been trying to get out more,” I told him. “I tend to get stuck sitting at home.”

“I know, me too,” he said, smiling. “Man. What time is the show? Maybe I can eat dinner really quickly and then come meet you?”

“8 PM,” I said. “I don’t think that will work. Too bad.”

Then the train stopped at 42nd Street.

“It was nice to meet you,” I said.

“I’m Jake,” he said.


“Listen,” he said. “I work at [redacted] in Clinton Hill. You should come by sometime.”

“Great,” I said, and then I got off the train.

I had no intention of visiting this guy. I didn’t even pay attention to what the bar was called. But as soon as the train door closed, the woman who had been sitting across from us called out to me.

“You know you have to go to that bar he works at,” she said. “That was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Really?” I said.


I hadn’t even been interested. But she was so interested, on my behalf. And when I thought about it, from her perspective – of course he was flirting, right? And he wasn’t bad looking. Maybe I really had to find this guy. Maybe this was the meet-cute that would lead to my most fulfilling, joyful future.

The woman remembered some rough estimation of the bar’s name. Later that night, I looked it up on my phone, and stalked the right bar (after a lot of work). After the show, I called the bar.

“Do you have a bartender named Jake who works there?” I asked.

“Yeah,” the guy said. He told me he worked weekends.

“Thanks,” I said. And I decided to show up.

The day I had decided to go, I got three hours of sleep. I woke up at 4:44 am, and, by noon, decided it was time to have a martini. I was really, really nervous about what felt like stalking this guy and showing up at his workplace. But the woman had convinced me! I had to go.

By 7 pm, I had a few more martinis. Yes, I was pretty drunk. I hopped in a cab and went to the bar in Clinton Hill.

The guy was behind the bar. I smiled and sat down.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s your name again?”

He didn’t remember my name. After all that build up, and all the encouragement from the stranger on the train. Clearly, he was not interested. And I was mad.

I ordered a Manhattan, to feel out the situation and see if maybe I was wrong. We chatted a little bit. I drank some. It was too sweet.

The conversation was so, so awkward. I didn’t even want to finish any drink, let alone a too-sweet Manhattan. So I asked for my check.

“You’re not even halfway done with your drink!” he said.

Now, for this next part – let’s remember that I was drunk, and had just been rejected by someone I wasn’t even interested in in the first place. And let’s anticipate, as avid readers of this blog, how drunk me would handle this situation.

Now that we’ve made that clear.

“Yeah, this is fucking awkward.” I said, over my drink. “You didn’t even remember my name. You were the one who told me to come by.”

He looked at me and smiled an awkward, self-conscious, horrified smile.

“And this Manhattan is too sweet.” I said. I dropped $15 on the bar (the bad Manhattan had cost $13) and got up and left.

And then the night turned magical.

By which I mean, I was miserable. I called my friend in LA and complained about my disaster of an evening. I wandered around in the rain, trying to find a bar where someone would flirt with me and make me feel better, but there is nothing going on in Clinton Hill. So I hopped in a cab, went home, made myself a martini, and passed out by 10 pm, feeling insecure and rejected.

All over a guy I hadn’t even been interested in, in the first place.

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.

So, I’ve been on Tinder and loving it. This was a nice convo I had with a man who was, obviously, pure class. To start with:


“Oh, my friend sent that to everyone.” Right. That’s like, when I had a crush on a guy in 7th grade, I’d chat with him on AIM. I’d say “I love you” or “I have a crush on you” and then say, “JK, LOL, Sorry, my brother sent that.”

Then he asked me what I was up to. Followed by:



I KNOW I shouldn’t entertain these people. But I just get such a kick out of it.

Also, does “DTF?” actually work for people? I’m all for casual sex, but at least approach me like a human being. Like, maybe say hi first?

There are a few things you don’t discuss in a bar after midnight. Politics is one of them.

I didn’t think I even needed to say that, until the other night.

I started talking to a very good-looking Eastern European man. His name was something like Yitzchak, but that wasn’t it. I don’t remember what it actually was.

We chatted about nice things, appropriate for a bar on a Saturday night, and then things turned to the 2016 election.

It’s hard to avoid talking politics in an election year. I’m from DC. I’m used to that conversation. And in this absurd election, it’s even harder to stay away from discussing Hillary v. Trump (and maybe Bernie) than usual. But it’s really not appropriate casual convo, drunk, with strangers.

“I wish I could just vote for nobody,” the attractive man said. “Have nobody run the country.”

Hold up.


The man who sells me cigarettes at the bodega on my corner is from Yemen. Recently, his kids and his wife came to New York.

“That must have been a huge culture shock,” I said to him, when he told me they were in New York. “How are the kids taking it?”

“They’re so happy,” he said. “They don’t have to worry about being killed.”

And that was a major “check your privilege” moment for me.

I hate that phrase. I think it’s usually used by thoughtless progressives to dismiss dissenting thoughts and opinions without even trying to educate the dissenter about why they’re wrong or ignorant. But in this case – I had been thinking about how these kids were from some third world environment and suddenly transplanted into New York City. I was thinking about the fact that they were thrown into New York public school without knowing a word of English.

I wasn’t thinking about how they were, for the first time in their young lives, actually safe from violence and bombs. How they actually had the chance to sleep through the night or go to school without worrying about these things. When my bodega friend mentioned that his kids were just happy to be fundamentally, physically safe, I couldn’t believe how much I took for granted.

And that was what I thought about when this man told me that he wished that nobody ran America.

“Really?” I said. “I mean, I think we often forget just how safe and stable we are in this country. No one running the country would be a disaster.”

“America has already been at war since World War II,” he said.

“Whoa,” I said. “I don’t agree with that. But let’s just agree to disagree.”

And then his tone shifted from friendly to aggressive.

“There’s nothing to disagree about,” the man said. “This is a fact. Google it.”

“Like I said,” I repeated, “I’d really rather not discuss this.”

“Just Google it,” the man said again.

I’d like to take the space to mention, here, that men not respecting boundaries always makes me feel a little bit unsafe. Even if I’m just saying, “Listen, let’s not talk about that,” being bullied into talking about things I don’t want to talk about isn’t that far away from pressuring me into taking my clothes off when I don’t want to get naked. Maybe that’s just my baggage; my vulnerabilities based on my past. But I think too many men dismiss boundaries that women set by refusing to take no for an answer, and that always feels dangerous to me.

“I’m not going to discuss this any further,” I said, one more time.

“Get out of your coddled little bubble,” the man said, practically spitting his words at me. “Experience the real world.”

“Whoa, dude,” I said. “Don’t start with me. You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

And it was true. Without getting into details, I’m fairly confident that beautiful blond man had not been through nearly as much as I have experienced. I’ve seen a lot. My readers know that. My friends know that even better.

And maybe this is unfair. But he’s a white man. I’m gonna assume he hasn’t. Maybe I’m doing the same thing he was – assuming that another person has never experienced the world as I have. But, at the very least, he shouldn’t have assumed as much about me.

Anyway, that was enough for me. I stood up, told him to go fuck himself, and walked out of the bar.

“Have a good night, sweetheart,” he said, as I walked out.

And he laughed. Because, of course, I had no idea what I was talking about. Obviously. I’m just an ignorant little girl who has spent too much time in my own little bubble.

So, friends, if you’re wondering whether the US has been at war since 1939? Just Google it. It’s a fact.

On every dating site or app, there’s a cornucopia of really, really boring profiles.

On OKCupid, there’s a question that asks “What are the six things you could never do without?” Obviously, it’s meant to be a cute, pithy way to talk about things you like or care about. To demonstrate that you love to knit, for example, or are really passionate about craft beer.

My list, for the record:

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I figure that represents me pretty well:

I like nice things, like cashmere sweaters. I’m a heavy drinker who prefers whiskey to gin. I’m a writer, and I always keep a small notebook and a nice pen in my purse. I’m feminine, and embrace it with my love for dresses and floral patterns. And I love to read. But, most of all, I love my dog.

There you go. Me in a list.

But way, way too many people’s lists just read: “Family, friends, air, water, food, iphone.” Variations include “the internet” and “my passport.” I’d think it was obvious to any dater that this kind of list says literally nothing about you as a person. That it makes you look fucking boring. And that you care about nothing and have zero interesting shit to talk about. But apparently it works for some people.

Which leads me to the most boring thing.

“I love to travel.”

Well, no shit. Who doesn’t love to travel (full disclosure: I actually don’t, really)?

Traveling is vacation. You’re walking around somewhere unfamiliar with a refreshingly different culture, and have no responsibilities beyond exploring new places and buying handmade pottery.

Saying “I love to travel” is like saying “I enjoy naps” or “I like weekends.” It means nothing, other than that the person writing the profile has nothing more interesting to talk about than the fact that they like having time off and going somewhere new.

So, when men list “my passport” as something they can’t live without, or post pictures of them posing with sedated tigers in Bali, I take that as them saying “I am boring as fuck.” Thanks, but no. Swipe left.




I’d been texting with this guy from OKCupid for a few days. At the beginning of our text conversation, we had discussed what we were both looking for. We agreed that we liked monogamy. We agreed that we weren’t looking for casual hook-ups. Seemed to be on the same page.

So, then, we texted for a while. It was nice and clever and flirty. We were getting along well.

And then.

He started off a thing that sounded a lot like the usual “Well, I’m not really looking for anything serious, but….”

Turned out he had never been in a relationship longer than 5 months. He was 34.

And he was like, “Well, I don’t know why you’d write off something short term with me.”

Um, because I’m not looking for something short term? And I explicitly told you that?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no problem with something casual. I’ve done it. I just don’t want that right now. If I’m gonna be with someone, I’d like to be with someone. And, frankly, I’ve found that so many men are horrible to women they’re sleeping with, whereas they’re not that way with women they’re “actually dating.” That’s its own shitty issue. But I’ve learned my lesson, and decided to be effective, even if it’s not what I think the world should be like.

I messaged a friend to ask if I was feeling hurt for no reason. And he told me that he thought the guy was being a dick.

But what’s so absurd is just how often that happens. How often men are comfortable telling you, basically, “I want to sleep with you for a few weeks, but I don’t want to make any commitment or feel any responsibility toward you or your well-being.”

And how is that okay? Why is that a reasonable thing?

Recently there was an article in New York magazine about how consensual sex can still be disrespectful and bad. I don’t love the whole thing, but I thought the major point was right on. That men frankly disrespect women’s needs, and women in the third wave of feminism have allowed “sex-positive” to mean that they accept too much bad sex. And that men get to this point of, “Well, she’s having sex with other people – so she should be having sex with me.”

I’ve had a lot of bad sex with men who don’t necessarily care about my pleasure, or dates with men who expect me to sleep with them because we went out. There are men who are totally cool with expressing that they literally do not give one shit about me except for something “short term” or “casual” – which is acceptable, but I frankly think it shouldn’t be so acceptable.

I’m all for women owning their sexuality. In fact, I think it’s essential. But I also have encountered so many men who are put off by women who express sexuality or sexual desires. So, they want to fuck us – but they also don’t want to hear much or think much about what we actually want. And I think this phenomenon is way too common.

There is very, very much a phenomenon of men who don’t respect women who are actually willing to sleep with them. It is so absurd – but the Madonna/Whore dichotomy is way more alive and thriving than I would ever have expected for 2015. Men want to sleep with women on the first date, but they don’t actually want anything serious with those women. Because, I mean, who can respect a woman who fucks you on the first date? Even if you explicitly asked for it? And she was into the idea, because she likes sex, too?

Obviously, there are kind, gentle, considerate guys out there. But, if my experience counts for anything (and it’s pretty damn extensive), there are also a ton of guys who may not be explicitly horrible, may not be rapists, but are not respectful of women as human beings, either.

One of my favorite things on OKCupid is trying to find out how long someone will still keep talking to me after I’ve tried to convince them that they won’t like me.

Someone will message me who I’m not interested in. Maybe they like camping, or something. Maybe they’re vegan.

“Trust me,” I’ll respond. “You won’t like me. I’m high maintenance. And kind of a pain in the ass.”

Usually, they continue to protest until I get bored with the conversation and stop replying. There are a lot of guys who respond positively to women being kind of mean to them, even rejecting them in a nasty way, which I don’t totally understand. Maybe it’s the challenge.

“I’ve dated Israeli girls,” someone will say. Another person: “I like high maintenance.”

And then, sometimes, someone who I may be interested in messages me. We chat for a bit. And then they say, “You seem smart/interesting/cool, but I think you’re too much for me.”

I am not at all insulted by that. Because they’re probably right.

am a lot. And if you are overwhelmed by me already? You are definitely right. I am most certainly too much for you. And you made the right decision. Some people don’t realize it until they meet me in person, even date me for a little bit – that, even though I express it pretty clearly on my profile, I’m not kidding when I say I’m intense and kinda difficult and pretty high-maintenance.

And I’ve found that there are men who are into that. Usually they’re Jewish (or Italian) and grew up surrounded by strong, intense women. We don’t scare them. They know how to handle us and to let a lot of our intensity roll off their backs. Sometimes they’re goys who are absolutely enthralled by Bitches With Attitude, although they don’t necessarily know what they’re getting into.

So, men, if your instinct is that I’m “too much”? You’re probably right. No hard feelings. Go on your way, find someone nicer than I am, and be well.