“…We are in a national, and perhaps global, Guy Disaster Mode that needs to be noticed and solutions advanced to fix a totally novel phenomenon, which will only increase in intensity and breadth without the concerted efforts of educators, gamemakers, parents, guys and gals. It’s time to press play and get started reversing these trends.”
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. ❤
It’s exactly how it sounds. Rihanna has FINALLY come to her senses and unfollowed Chris Brown. Holy shit, breaking news. (so sad that our entertainment industry is so spotty that celebrity drama is like it’s own, real life show told through gossip bloggers in LA and magazines)
After Chris Brown released a version of Kanye’s “Theraflu” in which he freestyles “Don’t f*ck with my old bitches / like a bad fur / every industry n*gga done had her.” WTF. Rihanna suspects it’s about her, because why wouldn’t it be she’s fuckingRihanna. Chris Brown is like the lowest life form imaginable. He beats the shit out of her, she forgives him and they remix songs together (and maybe some sex) and then she probably got bored and left him for good, spawning a tasteless verse in a remix of a Kanye song.
Is that gonna be a recurring plot? Like once a year someone gets salty at an ex in a remixed version of anything Kanye. Katy Perry would be first in line I bet.
Rihanna is becoming quite the leading lady in the tabloids. Unfollowing Chris Brown on Twitter is like the reality show star announcing a pregnancy. Those raggy mags are soaking up ALL the social media drama! What modern times!
WTF!!!! I don’t care about attachment parenting. There’s something in that kid’s eyes that says “When I’m 38, I won’t be able to fuck you without thinking about my mom.” WEIRD SHIT DUDE. Weird start to a Thursday.
HOLY SHIZ. Jon Hamm, what a sweetheart. He says what everyone needs to hear, regardless of age or relationship status: we’re all human,we fart, we all get crushes, and have your own style. Fuck yeah Jon Hamm!
Fuck dating is a recurring column written by many anonymous and fabulous 20 somethings. Send in your very own Fuck Dating story to firstname.lastname@example.org
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.
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.
Not only do we have to worry about running into exes in real life (thankfully all of mine are on different continents!), but now we have the down right *pleasure* of running into their virtual presence just around every mutual friend’s status update comment section. How lovely.
Being that there is nothing to do about a virtual run in, short of changing your Facebook name and fake-moving to Guatemala to work with blind cats, it still doesn’t make seeing their fake-happy face pop up in your newsfeed (usually filled with such jolly posts as Look at this cat or Please read this article about Ron Paul) any easier. I mean, the last thing anyone wants is to see their ex, looking happy, gorgeous or worse -moving on- every.single.day.
Keeping ties with your recent ex on Facebook has got to be just about the most excruciating social networking experiences ever. I’ve never done it, as it’s always best for me to rip that bandaid off rather than agonize over who he just friended, because I’ve seen this before way too many times via movies, real life friends and a little thing I like to call dating in college. At one point or another in our dating and relationship lives, we’ve all had conversations that go a little like this:
You: Oh my God, he friended someone. Who is she? What’s her name? Is she ugly? Is she fat?
Your best friend: She’s fat. And you are SO much prettier than her. Seriously. She’s fucking hideous. And fat. Did I mention she’s fat? (Friend cringes because doesn’t know if the ‘fat’ and ‘ugly’ new girl post-breakup quota has been met)
You: Thank God. She’s a fucking bitch. I hate her. No, wait. I hate HIM. He’s the REAL problem. He’s such a piece of shit. Do you think he misses me? DAAAAA!!!!!!!!!! I’ll be alone forever!!!!
Your friend: (Sigh of relief. Fat and ugly quota met) Fuck him. Let’s just get wasted. Forget that piece of shit. Margaritas?
Breakups used to be hard enough. A deadly note passed to you at your locker in 6th grade with the ominous “I don’t like you anymore” or the more mature but still lame phone breakup that was all the rage in 7th. Then there’s the through-a-friend breakup that had someone else knowing the fate of your breakup before you, email breakups, texting breakups (those people should be lobotomized), skype breakups and the much more respectable but still pretty shitty in-person breakup. And NOW, you’re telling me that we have complete access to our exes’ daily lives?! GROSS.
I propose an app. If you’re the kind of person, like me, who just wants it out-of-sight-out-of-mind, then this newfangled app would block access to that person’s page for like 3 months, until you’ve completely forgotten about the sucker and moved on to cuter, wealthier pastures (more like semi-cute and alive. But hey, a girl can dream). The late night photo-viewing sessions and friend request-stalking is hilarious and frightening in an I’m having your first born and then eating it because you talked to another girl sort of way.
It’s really best for the sake of everyone if we all just take a nice, big virtual breather after a breakup, because eating your first born to exact revenge on a shitty ex-boyfriend sounds like a real drag. Unless you’re into that.
Having frequented many a night club over my of-drinking-age age, I’ve at least come to one conclusion: There is no need to be such a sour Sally to complete stranger-men asking you to dance.
Yes, boys and men in dance clubs can sometimes be horrifying. They are normally wearing suits that are a size too big for them (bless their hearts!), some kind of Affliction shirt and more often than not a pound of hair gel holding their murky brown hair into a never-moving state of “that guy looks creepy.”
So many times I’ve seen women be straight up rude as fuck when an unwanted guy asks her to dance. This weekend, I decided to take a nice approach to this type of guy asking me to be his partner in busting a move. A simple “Thanks but I’m here with my friend” plus a kind smile was enough to politely decline and not add (I’m bitchely yet realistically assuming) another rejection to a guy who’s trying to dance with and meet women.
When I think about these nameless and faceless men in bars and clubs, I think about my guy friends in bars or clubs who want to ask a cute girl to dance but don’t because they’re afraid of rejection. Have women and society totally just fucked with men’s minds when it comes to interacting with women in a public space, or does somebody need to get a thicker skin when it comes to dating and relationships? Probably a little of both.
However as a woman, have you ever tried approaching a guy you thought was cute? It’s kind of really horrifying. Times that by a million and that’s what our guy friends and other people’s guy friends are doing every single weekend. Puke. Scary.
OF COURSE, there are circumstances when guys don’t give up and it’s just too much. This can be Ryan Gosling hot or Ted Bundy bad bad bad. If a guy or anyone for that matter after a couple polite pleas is being a dick, then the attitude is definitely warranted to surface, because rudeness after a polite “no thanks” is simply unacceptable on their behalf.
We, men and women, are not so different. We have beating hearts and bodies and minds that want to meet other beating hearts, bodies and minds. So, the next time you’re in a club and a guy you are not into asks you to dance, simply decline the offer politely because it’s the proper thing to do. Treating others kindly in moments of vulnerability can maybe make this dating thing a little easier on all of us.
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.
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.
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.
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!