Worst Case Scenarios On A First Date

Worst Case Scenarios On A First Date
From least likely to “story of my life” levels of likelihood.

I take a shower before I leave to meet up with him. I accidentally use the acid shampoo an anonymous culprit has switched with my Herbal Essence. All of my hair falls out and I have to go on my date while newly bald.

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I contract a rare form of Tourette Syndrome (otherwise known as Chronic Diarrhea of the Mouth, also known as Word Vomit, and sometimes referred to as Absolute Psychosis) during the date. I tell him my life story, including the convoluted tale of my aunt’s divorce. When he says he was fired from his last job, I push and push and ask him if it was because of sexual harassment. “It’s okay,” I coo. “You can sexually harass me any day of the week” and then I wink. I tell him I’ve been analyzing his facial features and our babies would be adorbs. He says he’s an artist and I offer to pose in the nude for him if that’s something he might be into. “Just like in the Titanic,” I say and then because he hasn’t seen the Titanic, I spend 15 minutes explaining the plot. I begin to cry when I describe Leo’s death. He leans across the table at one point to grab a coaster and I pull him to me to kiss his face off. He was almost definitely not going in for a kiss and soon thereafter, he excuses himself to go the bathroom and never returns.

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I’ve known him since high school, but we haven’t seen each other in four or five years, maybe since freshman year of college? We’ve barely spoken, but now we’re living in the same obscure city and we’re meeting for drinks. Unbeknownst to me, he has acquired several new hobbies. One of them is serial killing. He chops me up into a million little pieces before tossing my remains in the Mississippi River.

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I want to sleep with him. Okay? Sorry I’m not the slightest bit ashamed. I know he won’t buy the cow if he can get the milk for free, but I want to go back to his apartment and I would like us to do some P & V things. So we do go back to the apartment and we both are acutely aware of what’s going to happen once we’re there. I ask to use the bathroom and when I do, I make one of the most tragic discoveries a sexually active woman can find. I’ve started my period. When I leave the bathroom, I have to make an excuse. I mean, I get it: Girl power, I shouldn’t be ashamed of my period, just tell him, yada, yada, yada, but we only met like three hours ago and bleeding from my uterus seems a little much for a first date topic, so instead I tell him I’m feeling sick. He’s confused and emotionally whiplashed, wondering where the major SEXXXX vibes I was giving him earlier have gone. After I leave, he never calls me again.

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I completely had the wrong idea. He’s in a relationship already. This was a purely platonic, strictly friends date. When he picks up on the fact that I’m throwing myself at him, he subtly mentions his girlfriend. I try to act casual and not react, like I totally knew all along, but my face gives me away. He thinks I’m in love with him and spends the next thirty minutes letting me down gently. He tells me I’m a great person. He tells me how much he values our friendship. He tells me how glad he is that we had this chance to catch up. Then he goes home and he and his girlfriend laugh and laugh and laugh about the sad and pathetic girl who thought she was on a date date.

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I walk into the bar and there’s a fan by the entrance. It worked for Bella so I swing my head and flip my hair. I immediately fall flat on my face.

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We have nothing to say to each other. Each minute lasts a year and the awkwardness is palpable. I try to remember that it takes two to tango. It’s not just me being awkward. He’s really not making any attempt to carry the conversation. Does he even want to be here? The waitress asks us if we want another drink. He pauses for a split second before avoiding my eyes and replying, “Uh, no thanks.” We’ve only been at the bar for 45 minutes, but soon we both feign exhaustion and say our goodbyes. Despite my better judgment, I decide that I think he’s cute and probably because I have masochistic tendencies, I want to see him again. Preferably when I’m actually drunk so I can pretend like the conversation is flowing or, at the very least, I can jump his bones and tell myself it’s acceptable. But as we say goodbye, it’s clear he has no desire in having a repeat of this evening. There’s no “see you later?” or “well, what are you doing this weekend?”, just a big fat “bye” and “it was nice meeting you/seeing you” and he walks away. Tonight I’ll analyze every interaction. I’ll force my roommate to sit through several play-by-plays. And every time my phone shrills with a text, I’ll think that it’s him, but it’ll just be my mom, and next weekend I’ll meet a new boy. We’ll get together for drinks and repeat, repeat, repeat. TC Mark

image – Shutterstock

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