Pertinent stats: He has a pulse and a penis and he asked me. I don’t know, 31, 5’11”, works in IT.
Beardliness: Not great, friends. Not great. We shall say zero beards (mostly because I don’t think he had one and also because I’m writing this up a few weeks after the fact and I can’t really remember).
Date itinerary: We are going to meet at Starbucks in Culver City, which, what-the-fuck ever. Men down here love Starbucks. They LOVE it! “You know what bitches* love? Starbucks coffee. PANTY DROPPER**.” -Every man I’m currently going on a date with.
*KBM does not endorse the casual use of “bitches” as a pejorative term for women unless it’s funny. #FeminismBeyonceWouldBeProud. (Don’t worry; I hate myself the most for using that hashtag.)
**This might actually be true if it were pumpkin spice latte time.
First impression: I keep forgetting this category! My first impression of him is that he looks like a muscly penis. I don’t even know what I mean by that, I just know that I mean it.
Recap and highlights
Were there highlights? Why am I dating again? (A different question, for a different time, I suppose.) He meets me outside of the Starbucks and we do not go inside. He does not offer to go inside. No beverage for me. Can’t tell if he’s planning an early getaway plan? I mean, I could suggest going inside too, ladies doin’ it for themselves, but I just kind of follow his lead and sit down.
It’s a crazy warm day but he drapes his coat over his body like he’s either cold or shielding himself from an imminent onslaught from my hungry vagina, looking to munch/main/destroy the closest thing in its path.
Conversation–not great. He starts peppering me with questions and has the occasionally unnerving response of giggling like a high-pitched girl at my responses. It’s not really catching any sort of flow or traction, which is something I’ve kind of come to expect on a first date, but this is particularly bad. I get the sense that maybe he’s never dated before. (I get the sense that maybe he’s never had an interaction with a human woman before.) At one point he asks me if I’m into anime and I say why no, my good sir, I’m neither a twelve year old boy nor a young Japanese woman, and his response is to list every single anime he’s ever watched. He’s not telling me anything about them. He’s just listing them. I can’t even pretend to be interested in writing about this, you guys.
He suggests we get up and walk around Culver City. I say sure, then ask if there’s somewhere in particular he wants to go. He guides me to a fountain a few blocks away and we just stare at it. Both of us lost in the particular moments of our lives that have led to this terrible togetherness. Both of us staring deep, deep into the dark abyss that is modern romance and wondering if, perhaps, all those cynics were really right and there is nothing left except to go home and listen to Fleetwood Mac on repeat, crying about how Stevie knew, Stevie got it, Stevie sings the truth. Both of us wondering if, perhaps, the most intimate connection either one of us could hope to attain right now is to just, just, end it here, drown ourselves in the fountain together, be lost together in the great beyond where perhaps we will always be alone but at least we could be alone together, at least it could all be over now…….
As we’re parting, because neither one of us can seem to even pretend to be interested in talking to the other, he turns to me and says, “You’re really funny, I don’t normally laugh.” Never? Oh man, we are compatible! At least that explains your creepy-ass laughter, you’ve never done it before, you don’t know how it goes. This expression is a gift from God which I will never not find hilarious.
Yeah, neither one of us will be speaking to the other again.
Price tag: No goods or services were exchanged in the making of this date.
Bottom line: Most good dates end in thoughts of suicide, right?