When I read a headline that says “Orlando man stole woman’s car on first date,” I know that the dating scene has plunged straight into the toilet. Not only did this guy take her to Wing House, he also skipped out on her without paying the $22 bill, then left with her car.
The fact that situations like this happen all the time is enough to send me to the Humane Society, adopt 19 cats, and die alone. I worry about the dating scene in this decade, and frequently ask myself why we all put up with awkward, terrible dating situations in hopes of finding “the one.”
The closest encounters I’ve had with love was watching The Notebook and A Walk To Remember, living vicariously through the lives of Rachel McAdams and Mandy Moore as their co-starring men were unrealistically romantic and passionately in love with them. And I am pretty sure Ryan Gosling and Shane West did not steal their cars.
I am aware that what is portrayed in romance movies is suspiciously too perfect to be an accurate representation of love, and therefore tend to keep my standards low when it comes to dating and relationships. Because of this, I got some… interesting stories out of it.
Counter Strike Out
“GET BACK IN THE KITCHEN WHERE YOU BELONG, YOU SLAG,” yelled a British accent at me. His voice was clearly between the many stages of puberty—every time he said ‘you,’ his voice went up an octave as if he was trying to hit all the high notes in the Bee Gees’ Stayin’ Alive.
I shot him in the head for the fourth time in a row. You think he would stop sitting in the same spot every time.
“PISS OFF, YOU FAT FUCK,” he demanded into his microphone. His comment concerning my weight hurt my feelings, but then I pondered what he meant by ‘piss off’ as I began to choke on the four chicken nuggets I’d tried stuffing in my mouth at the same time.
It had been three hours since I first got on the computer. I probably should’ve stopped playing after one hour, but I got an ego boost by being the only girl on Counter Strike. The guys adored my femininely seductive 11-year-old voice. When I asked my parents for a first-person shooting game for Christmas, they seemed worried. But slightly less worried in comparison to my older brother, who asked for all four Bratz dolls. The gender roles between my brother and I got significantly reversed somewhere between the ages of 8 and 12.
“YOU’RE FUCKING HACKING,” British Badass psychotically screeched as I stabbed him with my knife.
I suppose I had an interesting way of showing affection to boys online. Being 11, I didn’t know how to flirt or even what it was. Until this point, I avoided boys. Little Suzie told me that she knew a girl who died because she played an innocent game of Tag with Cootie-infested Little Johnny. And as we are all aware, Cooties was an infectious disease in the ‘90s where viral bacteria develops inside boys and is released into the air via sweat glands when in the presence of girls. Numerous forms of protection include, but are not limited to: avoidance, crying, and name calling.
“YOU OCEAN OF CUM!!” I heard him scream.
I was sure British Badass liked me back. We truly bonded over the three hours of playing together. His incessant name-calling and swearing over the microphone had me weak in the knees and I knew he was doing it on purpose to show how much he liked me. Plus, he had been playing with me this whole time; he could have disconnected at any point in time. Just like Mom told me—boys make fun of the girls they have crushes on. Feeling satisfied with myself, I kindly shoveled another chicken nugget in my mouth as I killed him again. More insults were muffled through his smooth James-Bond-esque accent.
I pictured what he looked like. He had black—no, dirty blonde—hair and hazel eyes that could sweep any girl off her feet. I imagined what our wedding would be like, and how his last name sounded with my first name. I dubbed him with the last name Smith, and it sounded so inevitably delicious with my name. Our marriage would be filled with passionate love, and I visualized how we would tell our future children (three; named Britney—after Britney Spears—Brad, and Chloe) where and when we met. Brad would have an accent and eyes just like his father and would possess the same charming qualities as British Badass.
British Badass confessed his love to me over the mic: “I HOPE YOU COMMIT SUICIDE, PIG!”
I guess he was intimidated by my gaming abilities, because after that he disconnected from the game. I froze—my eyes watered. I didn’t even get his first name. I’ll never know what could’ve happened with British Badass. I cried for about an hour after that. At least my kill-death ratio was 21-20. That’s better than I normally did.
Lauren Cullen
I kept staring at my phone. It glared at me in silence. I responded to his text message with an open-ended sentence at 12:13 p.m.—I waited an extra six minutes to respond so I didn’t come across as too eager or desperate. But now it was 12:24 p.m. Why was he not texting back? 11 minutes is plenty of time to reply to my text message. Did I do something wrong? Is he seeing another girl? Is she prettier than me?
Our date at Wendy’s was five days ago. I recalled how he ordered me chicken nuggets and how he paid the whole $6.37 for our meals, which was a lot considering we were freshmen in high school and lived off allowance at that point. He loved the fact that I only ate three chicken nuggets with honey mustard and the other two with barbeque sauce.
Our texting had been casual enough up until today. His one-worded and “K” replies made me want to violently kill a cockroach. His eight-minute response times increased to more-than-ten minute response times. Something had to be wrong. I dove into the pool of memories on my bed, analyzing everything I’d done and what I mistakes I could have made.
I immediately called my BFF Jill. Her mom drove her to my house soon after the call and we investigated the situation at hand. I told her everything, and she shrugged and said he had to like me, but he was “playing hard-to-get.” I didn’t believe her until she flipped the situation around from his point of view and convinced me that he was madly in love with me. I felt a new sense of empowerment.
It had been a week since he last texted me. I hadn’t seen him in the hallways like I usually did. I was beginning to think that he was too nervous to see me face-to-face. I got worried.
I talked to Jill about everything again. And the more we thought about it and analyzed what was going on, we began to get the impression that he was Edward from Twilight, I was the real-life Bella, and that it was too sunny for him to go outside since he’d sparkle and his vampirical secret would be out. A logical conclusion to come to, especially when you are two 14-year-olds obsessed with the Twilight series.
It was a rainy day at school when I finally saw him in the hallway. My Edward Cullen in shining armor. He wanted to kill me, and was avoiding me because he couldn’t control himself around me. He actually looked pretty tan for a vampire. His hair was not blown out and perfect; it was black and looked like he slept on it. And he was actually not as tall as Edward was described in the book. But these were all traits I could deal with.
I approached him with a brace-faced smile and he looked at me. His eyes seemed a little darker. What was dark brown was now dark, dark brown. He must be thirsty. For my blood. I simply gazed into his eyes and whispered, “I know what you are, and I don’t care. You don’t scare me.”
He pretended like he didn’t know what was going on, but I knew. I nodded softly, winked, and walked to my class.
He transferred schools a few months later. Everyone said his mom found out he was selling and smoking weed and made him move to a different state. But I know what it really was. He was a vampire.
Shit Happens
Lactose Intolerable and I knew each other in high school. We’ve been friends on Facebook since sophomore year. But he was one of those friends I never talked to, but added him because I didn’t want to be a complete dick and decline his friendship request, only to deal with the awkward conversations to come, as we saw each other in chorus class every day.
He messaged me on Facebook and long story short, asked me out. We went to the movies in his car around lunchtime. (Just know that he did not take me to eat beforehand, which is already setting him up for failure as I turn into the Incredible fucking Hulk when I’m hungry.) He offered to pay for my ticket since it was a $5 special and was “no big deal.” Big spender.
After throwing down the Lincolns for the tickets, we headed to the concessions to get food and drinks.
“We can get anything but I’m lactose intolerant. And I left my medicine at home,” he noted, and I began to visualize a giant ALERT sign across his forehead. I replied, “It’s fine, we can just get our own food.” Lactose Intolerable insisted we shared, but eventually gave in to separate foods. I was totally craving cheese, so I got mozzarella sticks. He got plain chicken nuggets and a drink. Chicken nuggets sounded delicious… I should’ve got those instead. But I mostly just wanted him to stay away from my food since we skipped the whole ‘lunch’ thing that’s supposed to happen before this movie shit, and I didn’t want to share.
We sat down in the theater, Straw Dogs starting in fifteen minutes. Who picked this movie? Was this a mutual decision? What is this movie even about? Why is he so short? I began nibbling aggressively on my mozzarella sticks, oozing with grease and melted cheese inside. He asked for some.
“But aren’t you lactose intolerant?”
“I’ll be all right.”
I reluctantly let him have a few sticks. “Those are pretty good.” And so it began.
It took him about six minutes to excuse himself to the restroom.
When he passed me, I got a really rank stench in my nose. I realized he just farted in my face. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to embarrass him. He came back a couple of minutes later and I had a few mozzarella sticks left. He asked for some more, which turned into him eating the rest. The cycle repeated: lactose intolerant, don’t worry, excused, farted; lactose intolerant, don’t worry, excused, farted again. I moved to the other side of his seat while he was gone.
He puzzled upon his return and sat on the side of me, opposite of the exit, ignoring my seat change. The rest of the movie he got up every couple of minutes to go to the restroom, of course farting in my face. (My guess is that he wasn’t actually farting, but rather consistently smelled like shit which I was catching a pleasing whiff of whenever he shuffled past me.)
Once the movie ended, he asked me to be his girlfriend and meet his parents. I said I would think about it after I had my next bowel movement, which didn’t come as frequently as his did. I began to hear crickets chirping. Guess he didn’t get my sense of humor.
He drove me home in silence, and I have not talked to him since.
– – – – –
Dating sucks. Just commit yourself to the 19 cats and die happy and alone. It’ll be less awful.
Featured photo (c) bravefury.com
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