Monday, January 10, 2011

Don't talk to me when I'm trying to make out with you. It ruins everything.

I've decided that in this perilous age of depressingly flexible morality, dating has become one of the most dangerous sports ever. Like, worse than rugby. Worse than gladiators battling lions and Russell Crowe (I hear he throws things when he's mad!) and worse than my own version of golf, which EM and I made up when we were kids because we thought that regular golf was boring, so all of our sand traps had cobras and our water hazards had sharks, and you had to hit the golf ball at the same time as your opponent and then race to the next hole, and golf carts were actually chariots that you could use but they were super dangerous like in Ben Hur (because remember how that one guy actually *died* when they were filming?!) and the whole thing was played over an ancient Native American burial ground that was full of zombies on all prime numbered holes. Extreme Death Golf!

Anyway, dating is worse than all of those put together. At least if zombies attack me when I'm golfing, I have the luxury of decapitating them with my golf club (which would have a razor sharp edge sort of like a machete) but I am not allowed to discipline men in that way because frankly, that sort of thing would get your ass thrown in prison and I've never really done well in small, confined spaces.

To better explain my recent frustration, let me tell you a bit about my New Year's Eve.

I didn't want to go out. I really wasn't going to, but EM and EM's boyfriend convinced me at the last minute to properly usher in 2011, so the decision was made. EM's boyfriend's friend joined us, he brought a couple of his friends, and everyone seemed perfectly nice, so after a few Jack and Cokes I was feeling better about this whole stupid holiday. I suppose at this point we can fast forward to the bar, and later through our hours and copious amounts of alcohol at said bar, and way until the end of the evening, when it's safe to say that my sobriety was nowhere to be found and it had taken my short term memory with it.

One of these gentlemen who had accompanied us to this bar was particularly cute in my opinion and I'm assuming entertaining, because by the end of the night I hadn't lost interest. I'm aware that there was flirting, but really don't remember what we talked about, or anything that would've been remotely important at the time. I was drunk, he was cute, I love flirting, and the group of us was on our way to Taco Bell. Life was good.

Somehow, as I'm sure you may have guessed already, this fellow and I ended up making out. How? When? Why? I wish I could tell you. I wish I actually remembered that part. Whatever, life was still good. Until he started talking. Ugh.

(Let me just stop right here and say I am seriously not a fan of romantic confessions. I don't know why it always happens in the most inconvenient times possible for me, but I am sick to death of getting all flirty and kissy over some gent just to have him stop me and say something like, "I'm actually married," or "My girlfriend just moved away, but we're going to try to make it work," or even "This doesn't mean I want to date you." Yeah. All of those have *really* happened. Just save us both the trouble and don't say anything, and then I won't have to ruin the mood by envisioning your demise, okay? Haha, okay.)

"I'm a bad person," I vaguely remember him saying.

"What? No, no, you're a good kisser. All is well."

"No, I shouldn't be here," he said.

Uh oh. Here it comes...

"Crap. So... are you married?" I like to start with the worst, to lessen the blow of some not-as-bad revelation.


"Ugh. How many girlfriends do you have?"

"Just the one," he said, still trying to be up in my grill.


"I thought about it throughout the night, I had these opportunities... but I'm really attracted to you and you're so charming and quite a conversationalist... I was just doomed," he said, trying to convey his helplessness.

"Dude. It's not my fault I'm awesome and you have no self-control. I'm suddenly very tired and going to bed. You can pass out on the floor in the living room with the other guys. Dick."

"Don't be mad, it's not your fault," he repeated to me.

Obviously, I was mad. Infuriated. Not that I had anticipated having anything meaningful or long-lasting with this guy, but had I known that he was taken I wouldn't have talked to him, let alone flirted with him. Nothing would have happened. I'm aware of my behavior when I drink and I'm not the type to put myself within the path of temptation. Still, I hope he's honest with his girlfriend and I hope she dumps his ass. I'd like to think that there's justice somewhere in this hideous turn of events.

To prevent this sort of thing from happening in the future, I've decided to compose a quick dating questionnaire for men to fill out before I can formulate any sort of interest. The top three questions will be: 1. Are you gay? 2. Are you currently married? 3. Are you currently dating, in a relationship, or otherwise romantically spoken for? IF YOU ANSWERED 'YES' TO ANY OF THESE QUESTIONS, PLEASE TURN YOUR QUESTIONNAIRE IN AND BE ON YOUR WAY. FAILURE TO ANSWER THESE QUESTIONS TRUTHFULLY WILL RESULT IN POTENTIAL HARM TO YOU, EITHER PSYCHOLOGICALLY OR PHYSICALLY. THANKS FOR PLAYING.

1 comment:

  1. What about :

    4.) Hung up on your mom? (Yes, been there)
    5.) Eyeing the preisthood? (Been there, too).