I like to temper my political rantings with something a little more frivolous, so I thought I would take a look at my dating record with some of the weirdest, cheesiest (literally for one ungraceful fellow) and neurotic bastards to ever walk the streets. I can't say that I have dated a ton of guys, but the majority of them have been freakish at best. The worst (best) ones never having a second date, but left me with plenty of comedic material to choke a large farm animal (which a couple of them were.) The odd part is, I don't find very many people attractive, it's a curious problem to have. I tend to like a guy with some unique or pronounced physical feature. It could be anything really, like crazy hair or a very prominent eyebrow ridge, like a neanderthal (I really like this and have no idea why. It must be a holdover from my ancestral past.) Other than that, it all lies in the personality aspects. Attraction for me is 99% mental, which I think is hard for some to grasp. Any 2 people can hump like animals in the zoo instinctively, but it's that mental connection that sets humans apart. The elusive "mind fuck" is a lot harder to achieve, than a quick orgasm (probably faked on the woman's part) in the stall of a nightclub bathroom. One thing I can proudly proclaim is that I have never used men to validate my existence or some wavering self-esteem issue. Anyone I chose to spend my time with, intimately, merited it on some level.
But where to start this egregious gravy train of depravity? There were so many deliciously bad dates and crazy guys. Let's start with the line cook from one of the shitty restaurants I worked at. We'll call him "Sh-rian." We were work friends for a quite a while before we ever went out. He had a girlfriend (who hated me) I had a boyfriend and so on. They eventually broke up the same time my boyfriend and I took a break, so he finally asked me out. At work, he was seemingly normal, but Rule Number 1 of the restaurant biz, nobody that works there is normal. This proved undeniably true as time went on. It wasn't bad at first, he was funny, nice, and could hold a conversation, but he couldn't kiss for anything, something I was willing, but shouldn't have overlooked. It's too good an indicator of compatibility. He was going to college full-time, so he wasn't going to stay a lowly line cook forever. But that all changed the night we decided to play a seemingly innocent game of Trivial Pursuit in his parents basement. Being my usual charming self, I engaged in a little pre-game trash talk about how I was going to kick his ass at this game, which he quickly refuted with a resounding and zealous "Yeah right," with an apparent air of smugness that would later come back to disgrace him. (Now at this point, I feel I must interject something, as I said he was going to college whilst working as a line cook, with all of the other line cooks having that as their main profession. So I think he thought a little highly of himself, thinking he was better than every else at the restaurant. He also was one of those guys that because he got straight B's in high school thought he was smarter than every one else too. He had big fish in a little pond syndrome. Complete pseudo-intellectual.) Anyway, I proceeded to kick his ass as promised and he was clearly emasculated and just plain pissed. I have never been one to let someone win, it's just not in my nature. I do have an animalistic competitive streak that's hard to quell. Anyway, he pretty much begged for a rematch, to which I could not refuse, it was too pitiful or something. So we played again, and again I started winning. At this point I made a conscious, albeit, ridiculous decision to throw the game. I was going to start answering the questions incorrectly, but somehow what I thought were incorrect guesses turned out to be the right answers and I widened the gap even more. The board game stars were just aligned against him from the jump. It became very tense and uncomfortable. I just wanted to stop, but he wouldn't relent. So I just won as fast as I could, so we could do something else. After it seemed like he was just as relieved as I, but ahh, no. For the next 3 nights in a row he made me play Trivial Pursuit with him. And I kid you not, I beat him every single time, even when I was trying to throw the game. Finally, mercifully, he wanted to play something else. He challenged me to a game of pool, which I knew I sucked at. I really am bad, there's no denying that, and I was playing badly. He was winning the entire time and his whole demeanor changed. Smiling, laughing, practically giddy and wholly cavalier. But then, when he only had 2 balls left, the 5 ball and that self-righteous little asshole the 8 ball. He missed the 5 shot and accidentally sunk the 8 ball instead, making me the incredulous winner by default. Well, that was pretty much it for me and "Sh-rian." He broke it off soon after. I knew it was coming, that couldn't be good for such an insecure guy's ego. At least I get to say that someone once broke up with me over losing (repeatedly) at Trivial Pursuit (an apropos title for our relationship.) But it is the, I'm sure, lovely ladies that followed that I feel bad for because Trivial Pursuit wasn't the only thing he was bad at.
Moving right along, let's take a look at someone I am only going to call "The Virgin." Yes, that's right. He was 28 and honestly, very good looking. He looked like an asexual Jim Morrison. But God, was this kid messed up. He lived in his mom's basement for starter's, smoked a lot of weed, which at one point when I said I couldn't be his girlfriend, he said he would give it up for me. (That is romantic. Fuck.) He had the emotional capacity of a rutabaga, and maybe that's even giving him too much credit. He was addicted to video games and had a weekly standing appointment to play D & D. But I mean really when you live in your mom's basement and have a part-time job folding girl's jeans on the night shift at Holister Co. because your vacuous stares would scare customers away, what else could you possibly be into? I should have known better, when I met him at Macomb "Mall," where he pretended to work at American Eagle just to talk to me. He once left me this crazy voicemail, where he used a computerized voice changer to pretend he was the St. Clair Shores Public Library message service telling me I was going to be in big trouble if I didn't return my severely overdue library book. What the fuck? (For the record, I have never been to the SCP Library.) Whenever we would even get slightly amorous, even when he initiated it, he would end up recoiling in terror. Yeah, needless to say, that didn't last too long. Oh, and he wore a lot of scarves.
Then there was the absolute worst/funniest date, maybe in the history of dates. This guy; let's call him "Sh-ominic" was a bouncer at restaurant who liked to suck on moist, limp stogies. He was completely bald with a shitty black goatee that really rounded out his dented melon-like head. I am pretty sure he had man-boobs and slightly smelled. Now, you may be asking yourself, why would a fine, upstanding gal, like myself, go out with such an obvious, cretinous douche bag? Long story short, my boyfriend had just broken up with me which left me really depressed and I would pretty much do anything to repress that literal aching in my chest for any extended period of time. So I reluctantly agreed to go on a date with this ape-man (which I feel kind of bad saying because I really like apes.) He told me to dress up because we were going to some fancy restaurant, that I can't quite recall now. Anyway, right before I was going to leave to meet him there, he tells me that he couldn't pick up his check for some odd reason and if it was all right if we went to some place more low-key (low-key=cheap.) Honestly, I didn't even care in the first place where we went, or even if he showed up at that point, so I said sure, wherever is fine, but I didn't have time to change so off to Applebee's I went, terribly overdressed. But he didn't have to worry because his idea of dressing up was baggy carpenter jeans and an ill-fitting sheer baby blue polo (that I would hear all about later) stretched over his beer gut. The evening was off to an auspicious start. At first it wasn't so incredibly horrendous, I can hold a conversation with just about anyone, but as the night wore on, and more and more light beer got drained down his gullet, he kept interrupting the conversation to check some arbitrary sports score on the bar T.V. or to let out some sort of primal grunt when a player missed a basket. In between grunts and "Hold on a second's" he did manage to reveal that he likes to smoke opium laced joints and coach peewee football. Simultaneously? Perhaps. Then at one point when he was eating his hot ham and liquid cheese sandwich or heart attack between bread, he squished his sandwich just so, that the stream of molten cheese shot out onto his very classy polo shirt. He flew off the handle, cursing himself repeatedly for being so clumsy and such a slob. He was desperately trying to get the stain out for what seemed like hours, continually getting more irate. "I got this shirt at Structure, this was a really expensive shirt. [$29.95?] I can't believe I did this. This is so embarrassing. God, I'm an idiot. I really like this shirt..." and so on. I wanted to leave so badly. Finally, after I scarfed my Honey-Glazed Chicken as fast as I could possibly swallow, we left. We got out to the parking lot, where he then asked me if I have ever ridden in a Jeep Wrangler before. And I was so impressed. A Jeep Wrangler, oh fuck, a car with plastic windows, that is exciting. You are one fine hunk of man, with your cheese stain, Jeep Wrangler and troglodyte mentality. But the ride in the Jeep would prove to be the most rewarding part of the evening. We started to talk inevitably about past relationships where I said "I guess I am confused about relationships at this point. I don't know what I want anymore," or something to that affect. Then came the part that made the entire disaster of night worthwhile. He, in all earnest, asked me the following question; "So do you think you might be a lesbian?" Under normal circumstances I would have tried not laugh, but it was too hilarious and I lost all control, I just laughed viscerally right in his face. Yet he seemed completely unfazed by this. In my head I was thinking, "After tonight, I just may be heading in that direction." After that, I asked him to take me back to my car and I ran out of the Jeep Wrangler so fast without so much as a handshake. But on the bright side, at least the sandwich got off. Needless to say, I never took his calls again, but a few months later, my friend and I were out and saw him working the door at the restaurant he bounced at. I intentionally crossed the street to avoid him, but alas, he spotted me. Later that night I received a string of phone calls from him, which went on throughout the weekend. Finally on Sunday night, I answered the phone, after like the 15th call. All he says is "Bitch" in this hardly audible voice and then hangs up. I laughed for like an hour. I didn't think this guy could get any funnier, and yet he showed me up again.
There have been a few others, not quite as insanely ridiculous as "Sh-ominic," but still noteworthy. There was "Sh-max" who was an all right guy, forgiving the fully acoustic serenade of Led Zeppelin's "Over the Hills and Far Away" he intently sang to me, but when we started making out in his room, he said he had to tell me something. Oh no, no good can come of this. He then drops this little gem, "I just wanted to let you know that my 'size' might not be as big as you are used to." What the fuck?!? Who says that? How would he know anyway? I pretended to be nauseous, (maybe I wasn't pretending) just so I could get the fuck out of there. Then there was "Mark McGrath." I don't remember his real name, but he looked just like the lead singer of the shitty band Sugar Ray. When I found out his favorite movie was "How High" after quite possibly the longest belch I have ever witnessed, I knew it could never be. I distinctly recall driving somewhere when a creepy, scraggly guy in the molester van next to me held up a home-made sign, that he obviously uses often, that said "I like your tits." At least he was succinct. Or the valet parking attendant that just stepped out of an 80's cop drama with his full blond beard and gold-hoop earring who asked me where he knew me from. I had never seen him before, but he kept persisting until he finally exclaimed: "I know where I know you from. Don't you work at Stiletto's?" With so many fucking weirdos out there, it still amazes me that I ever found any normal ones. This handful of head cases were just the tip of the psycho iceberg, but they were definitely the most horribly memorable. At least I can still have a few laughs at their expense. So here's to you neurotic ex-boyfriends.
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