Anime chicks mean business. Image via fullmetalalchemistwolfboundcrossover.typepad.com
Somebody actually tried “I have a really small penis” as a pick up line, after sharing that his friend has only one ball. His friend got pissed too, so the idea of trolls wearing Aeropostale shirts with slicked up bangs was immediately dismissed. Then they kept profusely apologizing (my favorite!) for “being hammered” and then asked us what our jobs were. Boring questions come from boring people. And anyone who probably reads pick-up artist shit literature.
Note to self and anyone with a small pp: Don’t blurt out your shortcomings when you meet someone. Why would you do that! Cut it out! Those are the things you bring up after you’ve already fallen in love. That’s when people don’t care about your shortcomings as much. I skull-fuck plastic dolls and I have $100,000 in debt from my second life house in virtual Boca Raton. What’s your name? should never happen.
And if you know anyone who wears Aeropostale, they have the worst possible taste in clothes, ever. You can buy cheaper, cooler and better quality clothes ANYWHERE ELSE. Like thrift stores, H&M, Forever 21, Target, etc. At least at those places, you don’t literally have “I am cheap and have terrible style!” written across your chest. Just in your heart. ❤
Fuck dating is a recurring column written by many anonymous and fabulous 20 somethings. Send in your very own Fuck Dating story to 20poorandfabulous@gmail.com
Image via therumpus.net
I wasn’t exactly excited for my first date with A and it went so poorly that I assumed we would never see each again. I had shown up hungover and then apologized, explaining that I had drank an entire bottle of wine at lunch (of course!) I yawned all throughout dinner and then ducked out early because of an upset stomach.
“Diarrhea?” he asked.
Tonight would not be ending in a goodnight kiss and I didn’t really care.
Weeks had passed before he contacted me again. Surprisingly, he wanted to hang out.
The series of events that somehow led me to start dating A disturb me in retrospect. Take note: If someone still wants to date you after you showed up to the first date shamelessly hungover, there’s probably something wrong with them (and quite possibly with you.)
The next time we saw each other, we met at A’s house for sushi. He lived in a questionable part of Santiago that I had been warned to never visit alone at night. At this point, however, I clearly had an issue with processing warnings.
Instead of sushi, I was greeted by one of A’s cousins who happened to be high as fuck and refused to leave. The three of us sat uncomfortably on A’s bed, on top of tattered sheets that I don’t believe A ever washed in our almost 3 months together.
We smoked a joint and I went home hungry.
At least there was an herbal refreshment on an otherwise disappointing date. Image via stuffstonerslike.com
Our entire short-lived relationship went about the same way; I would meet him across town, put up with menial conversation, lay on grimey sheets and leave for home disappointed. It’s the kind of relationship that only the incredibly bored or incredibly lonely would put up with. I was both.
At night, he would cuddle me in and with that half-deranged twinkle in his eye, howl at me like a monkey for no particular reason. Other times, he would speak to me in German, a language I don’t speak. Mostly though, I can’t really remember what we would do together. We spent hours doing absolutely nothing. We would waste away at his house – an activity that he enjoyed much more than I did – and drink.
The last time I saw A was at his going away party for a trip to Europe. We had been broken up for several months and I thought I would cut him a break with a platonic goodbye. For some reason, I felt guilty for how harsh I had been when we were together. I had always found easy to pinpoint flaws in him that he never saw in me. He somehow seemed to dislike everything except for our time together.
At the party, we didn’t really speak until the end of the night when I decided to go home and he offered to walk me to the door.
He pressed his body against mine and went in for a sloppy, drunken kiss.
“When I saw you, I fell for you all over again,” he said.
“I didn’t come here to sleep with you.” I wasn’t particularly amused.
The conversation went back and forth like this until he finally said, “It’s ok. I’m here with my fiance anyway.”
A had always been a bit of a liar. I doubt he really did have the nerve to kiss another woman in the same room as someone he planned to marry but then again, he was prone to stranger things.
I remembered the night we broke up. After hours of arguing, he had tried to force out a tear as I walked him to the door. Genuine emotion for each other had never been our strong suit.
A gut feeling can go a long way. When your stomach gives you diarrhea on a first date, and your head gives you the throbbing pain of a hangover, your body is probably telling you take your sorry ass home before it’s too late.
Fuck dating is a recurring column written by many anonymous and fabulous 20 somethings
Isn’t it fun when you’re about to go on a date with someone and they get a girlfriend in between you texting and figuring out when would be a good time to meet up?!
In all honesty, it’s nice that this person found someone. I’m always game for true love in other people’s lives. Maybe. Because who “finds a girlfriend” or even a person you want to watch Netflix with (it’s a serious deal) in less than a week’s time? Hopefully not many people in their 20s are still trying to mate this way.
*Sends over a note written on a gas station receipt for 5 Hour Energy and a single roll of toilet paper*
“Will u be my gf? Y or N or DTF.”
A little different than our elementary dating days relaying messages through an intricate network of school friends in the cafeteria, but with the same essence and beauty behind each letter.
Image via topnews.in
I mean come on. You can’t even make a real friend in a week. That shit takes time. You gotta meet, meet again, meet another time, then meet alone, get drunk, share a humiliating story, eat a whole bag of Cheetos and then hate yourselves together, cry in public and embarrass everyone you’re with, turn the water on for your friend in that bathroom when they get pee shy, steal from them, etc. After all of that, I think you can call someone your friend. Doesn’t that list double or triple before you can call someone your girlfriend or boyfriend?
Different strokes for different folks. All I know is relationships are hard, weird, fun and exciting. But not taking any time to expertly choose your new love adventure is what kids do in between smelling each others dirty fingers at recess and guessing what the smell is. Are you gonna be that kid on the playground that will smell anyone’s dirty fingers, or will you hold out for a smell you never dreamed could exist? Only time will tell my friends. Only time will tell.
Probably the next person to ask me on a date. Image via lifeisajoke.com
Fuck dating is a recurring column written by an anonymous and fabulous 20 something
When I was thrust into the dating world (again) at the mere age of 20, I accepted a date with a rather leather-clad, metal bassist, long-haired dude I met somewhere and through someone I no longer remember.
Our first date is irrelevant. Drinks, chat, looking at his band equipment. Forgettable at best. Our second date however, went a little something like this:
It was a cold, wintry night. Warm, cheap booze was flowing indoors with roommates and friends. The long-haired boy, complete with a leather jacket and jean vest accent, arrived fashionably late-ish with a handle of some other equally shitty booze that was more embarrassing for him because he was not 20 and had a job.
Drinks were drank, conversations were had and kissing had commenced. We stumbled our way back to my bedroom to continue drunk kissing. Since it was the second date, I KNEW we weren’t going to be getting naked. Partly because I just didn’t want to and partly because I didn’t know him very well. That didn’t stop him from stripping down to his underwear and climbing into my bed.
Drunk, yet coherent and confused, I changed into head-to-toe pajamas. I’m talking neck high, down to my wrist and all the way down to my ankles. And then socks. Covered.
We kissed a little more, but he started getting really hyper and annoying so I asked him if we could just hang out. He turned around in bed and starting pouting like a child because I didn’t want to kiss anymore. As he turned around, he exposed a big tattoo of a star on his back. Not knowing what else to say, I asked him when he got his tattoo. He grumpily snapped that he didn’t want to talk about it, then tried to start drunk kissing me again.
Imagine this guy hissing at you. I'm never dating again. Image via fabulousbutevil.com
At this point I had had about enough of this jerk kissing me terribly and I got out of bed and started to walk out the door to go talk shit about him to my roommates. He then pounced forward, out of bed. Standing there in his dingy underwear, he tried kissing me one more time when I finally smacked him back so he’d get the picture. He recoiled, then looked at me with a fierce sparkle in his eye. His lip curled up, his hands formed into cat claws and then he hissed and clawed at me.
I stood there amazed at what had just happened. Did this guy really just hiss at me? I shook my head in disappointment that another human being would actually do this in public, not to mention on a date, and walked out of the room to tell my roommates through laughing tears that a dude had just hissed and clawed at me in his underwear.
A couple days/weeks later as I was retelling the story to a mutual friend (you can’t just hiss at someone in your underwear and not expect it to be retold,) the part about the tattoo caught his attention. I finally learned that my lovely date had gotten his star tattoo in jail after stealing a bunch of band equipment from a church. If the hissing wasn’t bad enough, this guy actually tried to get equipment for his shitty metal band from stolen church equipment.
An amazing, yet frightening tale.
Lesson learned: This is why you wait a couple of dates to sleep with someone. You never know if that tattoo they got was from jail after stealing sound equipment from a church. Also, you never know if that cute guy from Tuesday night is going to hiss at you in their underwear after one too many mojitos. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. Freak!
Not a bad parting gift to a couple of awkward dates. But still pretty fucking awkward. "Beggar Woman 1909" by Amedeo Modigliani. Image via oceansbridge.com
Fuck Dating is a recurring column written by an anonymous and fabulous 20 something
When it comes to dating prospects, not all places are created equal. Some cities of the world, in fact, attract hoards of completely undateable people. This can come in the form of brodawg overpopulation or, in the case of Chile’s Atacama desert, a disproportionate number of miners and prostitutes.
About a month into my work placement there, I began to notice that most of the eligible men from the area were either away at college far off in another city or merely rumored to actually exist (I once heard from a co-worker that she had spotted an attractive man walking around somewhere.)
The details of my only short-lived romance there are a bit vague in my mind because the experience was so dull that I would often forget I was even dating someone. Out of desperation, I jumped on the first pretty face I had seen in weeks.
He, apparently, did not experience the same lapses of memory, however, as evidenced by the oil painting he would later try to present to me.
We went on a few painfully long dates in which we would discuss absolutely nothing over a cup of instant coffee and then afterward he would sheepishly ask permission to kiss me EVERY SINGLE TIME.
This drug on for about two weeks (I know. Time just feels so much longer when you’re bored out of your mind) until I received a text message throwback from middle school that went something like this: “Hello beautiful princess schnookums muahmuahmuah!!” (This part of the text may have been exaggerated.) “Would you like to be my gringa girlfriend? xD” (This part is not exaggerated. That emoticon literally was there and he really did specify that I was a gringa.)
I don't know if anyone looks like this when they're dating. The woman crying is pretty spot on though. Image via dollymix.tv
There are a lot of good reasons you should never try to have the “Where is this going?” conversation over text message. Most of us learn this around 7th grade after awkwardly passing that special someone a note asking, “Do you like me or like like me? Circle yes or no.” The “Can we be a couple now?” text message is the modern day equivalent of the “Do you like like me?” classroom note.
It’s difficult to express in the confines of a text that you’re just not looking for a commitment right now or that you’re just not looking for the same things out of life. This is why adults take the time to feel the situation out and then talk about the important topics in person.
To make things even more awkward, I had already exhausted the balance on my phone, a common problem for any phone user in Chile. So instead of carefully crafting some sort of explanation (“No thnx xD”) I just had to leave it. Days passed and by the end of the week, I had already forgotten about it.
Unfortunately, we knew each other through a mutual friend, so it was only a matter of time before we crossed paths and he was glaring at me from the other side of the room. While I was absentmindedly youtubing my nights away, he had apparently been stewing over what a heartless wench I was (and painting. More on that later.)
I may have a cold streak when it comes to dating but I do hate to hurt someone’s feelings. When we saw each other next, I made my best attempt to explain what had happened and gradually, he seemed to forgive me. I blissfully returned to Youtube and boxed wine, biding my time until I could move elsewhere. And he went back to crafting inappropriate surprises for me.
Yup. Every time. Fucking prick. Image via talknerdytomelover.com
Several weeks later, we saw each other again and he made an offer even more uncomfortable than becoming a virtual text message couple: he had made an oil painting for me (of me?) that he wanted me to have. Nothing makes you feel like more of an asshole than realizing that you’ve been blowing off someone who apparently likes you enough to craft artwork in your name. Few things create as strong of an urge to flee either.
I told him thanks, I’d like to see it but that I couldn’t accept it. What else can you say in such a situation? How could you accept such a gift from someone you barely know?
He insisted several times, in between spurts of scorning me (not that I really noticed, given how incredibly quiet he was anyway.) In my standard style, I avoided seeing the painting until time ran out and my opportunity had come to move somewhere else. Around the same time, he loaded several uncomfortably nude sketches of women to Facebook. I can only imagine what he had in mind when he painted something for me.
Lesson learned: When life lands you in one of Earth’s most desolate corners, maybe now is a good time to give dating a break and fully commit your extra energy to Youtube and boxed wine.
2PF 