When Your Date Sucks, Drink More.

For those of you who haven’t had the privilege of dating me, I’m exceptionally horrible at it. I tend to smile into space a lot and ask questions to which I couldn’t care less about the answer. While the person is explaining the intricacies of their job, worldview, or sob story re: their ex, I’m tallying whether or not I’d like to sleep with them:

So yeah, I dunno, I find my job very fulfilling and–” Yep. his eyes look like that dude’s from Dawson’s Creek. What was that guy’s name? Pacey. OMG he looks like Pacey!

“Really? I’m glad that’s so rewarding for you. Where did you say you went to school?”

“I took a two year…” Oh, he really does look like him. Maybe more like Jake Gyllenhaal and Pacey if they had a lovechild. Wow, Hotness explosion…. I DON’T WANNA WAIT FOR OUR LIVES TO BE OVER.


As if you wouldn’t tap that.

I’ve tried to squelch this lust and focus for the sake everyone’s dignity, and because by the third drink, I sometimes get a raised eyebrow that says “We just talked about this last week/yesterday/10 minutes ago.” To which I usually giggle and say something about my brain damage. In truth, my working memory is not effected by my Cerebellum damage, it would be more accurate to say other parts of my body get in the way of my otherwise unhindered listening skills.

But the other day, by (pretty much) no fault of my own, I had my worst date yet, and apparently this actually interests people. So, here’s a break down of what transpired:

  • Dude shows up, 45 minutes late (heyy, two drinks in) wearing a furry coat that looks like it’s fresh off a sheep. Hair gelled back, Guido style, reeking of ganja. My Judgement: When a guy makes me wait almost an hour to chill with their PITA-offending ass, I’m already slightly put off. When the mostly likely reason for that is that you’re too white to handle your weed, I’m annoyed.

Also, a tip to guys on winter coats: Those big, gawdy fur coats that spread to unashamed widths and touch your ankles…they make you look, well, like a smaller version of yourself. It’s like when you put a puppy in a swimmingly large sweater and then laugh because somehow, you’re dog just got even cuter. It’s not rocket science, your puppy is cuter because he looks smaller in your fat-day clothes. The same basic rule applies to fashion. I’m not saying you should have to worry about looking big or small–you shouldnt!–, but I’m pretty sure that in wearing such a oversized coat, you’re trying to increase your presence, when in reality, is having the opposite affect.  That aside, if you’re all about playing up your puppy-dog eyes, maybe this style is for you. As for the guy I met, his coat made him look like Jayz’s bastard son. 😦


Kanye is a special kind of douche no one should aspire to emulate.

  • Dude looks nothing like the Internet told me. Judgement: Stop being so judgey, nothing can prepare anyone for the real-life volume of YOUR HAIR.
  • Dude tells me I look great, sits down, asks what I’m drinking, asks if he can have a sip, and then tells me he doesn’t drink. Judgement: WE ARE AT A PUB. I equate this with not telling people I’m in a wheelchair, and then just showing up like, “Hey, like me anyways.” It’s dishonest and doesn’t really seem to benefit anyone, in that dishonesty is an immediate turn-off, and thus a bad way to start a date. Also, you smell like Bob Marley on a bad day, and you just sipped my drink. My mind flashes a montage of this guy slumped over, explaining in slurred sadness that he’s fallen off the wagon. Oh, no.
  • So, do you mind telling me why you don’t drink?”I ask reluctantly. He launches into a very scattered, long-winded explanation that, his “life is a rollercoaster, and his brain can’t handle the effects of booze.” I express that if I’d have known, we could’ve met elsewhere, or go elsewhere. He declines, saying he’ll chill while I drink.Judgement: If not drinking is nothing more than a personal choice to be your best possible self, respect. If you’ve overcome an alcohol dependency, major respect. In any other context, I would completely support the decision to avoid the Devil’s juice, except that I’m two and a half drinks in and you’re not catching up. You plan to watch. And my drunk goggles aren’t changing anything. I feel the weight of online dating crushing me mercilessly.
  • I (pretend to) let it slide, give a weak smile and start texting Dirty Drew to call me with news that his beloved aunt died again. Poor Aunty  is the butt of all my disappointing dates.
  • “Oh, I have to leave at 8:00,”Dude says, as if finally realizing what I’m feeling. Judgement: Phew.
  • I say okay and inform him that that’s soon, at which point he asks to use my phone. He says he’s a taxi driver and needs to call a customer to let them know he’ll be late. I ask if that’s really a good idea, and encourage him to leave ASAP. He asks again to use my phone. I well up all my might and give him a solid, “No, I don’t know you.” For 5 seconds I feel like the Medusa right before she turned to stone. My judgement: Everything about this is sketch.
  • “Oh, you seemed so sweet.”He says. Judgement: By sweet, you mean vulnerable/retarded.
  • “Alright, I really have to go. Let’s meet sometime when I have more time.” I smile and let him give me the world’s most awful hug (dem dudes and thinking I’m porcelain). I watch him leave and order another drink. Judgement:Drinking alone in public takes strength.
  • I ended up meeting up with someone else. Conclusion: YOLO.

On many levels, I am over-judging this bad date. Maybe I just haven’t had my share of them, or my *heaven forbid* expectations are too high. Perhaps I’m at fault for never really listening to guys I do feel attracted to, and as some weird form of Karma, it’s led me here. But regardless, if you’re going to bug and push and shove to meet up, you best give me more of your time than it took me to get there, and be prepared for my favourite pastime, drinking for no apparent reason.


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