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20 Jun

So…I broke up with the “Don’t Know What to Do” guy. Instead of calling him The Last Guy, I think I’m going to have to rename him Failure To Launch. That’s a whole other story for another day.

Another guy has asked me out recently and his name is “John.”

I have had all the bad luck I can possibly have with “John’s,” so I’m wondering if I should even attempt to go.

(Look for The Crapper and The Chemist stories soon!) Those idiot douchebags are “John’s,” too.


I’ll probably say “yes,” to this guy and only due to the fact that his baby blues are mesmerizing. He did say that I wouldn’t regret our date. Damnit!

I’ll let you know about it, soon.


Best. Break-up Letter. Ever.

6 Jun

Creative Break-up LetterI recently saw an article in Yahoo! Shine and had to repost it and ask the question:

“What is the worst break-up letter you’ve ever received and/or sent?”

This particular letter is from a woman who writes to her boyfriend and tells him how to find his personal belongings after finding a message from another girl, on his Facebook page.


Personally, I’ve sent letters to my exes that would make mothers wonder if they were raising their sons right, but never anything like this. When my ex (in 2008), stole my heart and beat the living crap out of it…I did sell his stuff on Craigslist. And, I did drop off a letter to his mother. She was the best way I could reach him, I promise.

Tell me, what’s the worst break-up letter you’ve received OR, the best break-up letter you’ve sent?

The Storm Trooper

5 Jun

The name speaks for itself. 61808

Yes, my date showed up in costume. Yeah. The. Big. White. Hard-cased. Suit. With helmet in hand (thank God).

Alan and I met online (I’ve really got to stop torturing myself and just find a man at the gas station or something), and immediately clicked. I was 30, he was 29 and in school at The University of Houston, getting his PhD in Political Science. A smartie!

[At this point in time, upon reading his profile, I didn’t get a vibe that he liked to dress in costume for first dates.]

Anyways, we had a lot in common and would talk on the phone for hours. We both liked the Houston Museum District/Hermann Park area, so we set up a date for an early dinner at a nearby Taco Shop and planned to head to Miller Outdoor Theatre for a concert afterwards.

Let me give you the stats for Alan. He is a 6’5″ male with broad shoulders…complete with a brillo pad of curly, brown hair and a large nose.

So, yeah. He showed up in costume and I didn’t run out the door. And no, I’m not on drugs. I hardly ever leave dates, no matter how bad they are. It’s the nice person in me. Unfortunately.

Anyways…after I got over my shock of him being dressed up and me being slightly embarrassed, we ordered dinner. I ordered a couple of tacos and a drink, and he ordered a burrito.

I think he knew that I wasn’t the woman for him and I definitely knew that he wasn’t the man for me, so we just made small talk. There weren’t any crazy awkward pauses which was good, and, I learned a new thing or two.

One Thing: Towel Day. Read about it here. There are no other words for it. But, he celebrates it and even dresses up for it. Yes, he wears a towel.

Two Thing: His perfect dream girl carries a sword and wears a short skirt and screams out “I’m (something that starts with the letter) Z!”

I guess the date wouldn’t have been so bad (completely), if he hadn’t started rolling up balls of foil (from his burrito) and throwing aiming for my cleavage V-neck shirt opening.

Yeah. That happened.

So, yeah…that’s the Storm Trooper. He was the first date I had in Houston when I moved down here.

Fun times. Fun times, indeed.

The Human Trafficker

4 Jun

The Human Trafficker and I never dated…but his emails were atrocious and funny.

Let’s call him…John.

I’ve never met a nice, good John. They’ve all been assholes. My ex, this guy, The Crapper (another word for John)…The Chemist…

I, of course, came across his profile while browsing through online profiles…his screen name was Hedgeman23. It totally gives this blog the backdrop it needs to set the storyline.

John’s first opening paragraph was this: 002 [Magazine] has voted me the elite of Houston. I get out of bed in the morning just to greet my playmates. I hold nothing back and am always ready to go all in for the right person – however have not encountered this person in the US. I crash half a million dollar sail boats because I like the splash. I crave a high IQ and if you are ready to trade wits – I will meet you half way. 

I find that a lot of guys write like this on their profiles to seem upwardly witty, but not John. I assume this is what John is like 24/7. When I saw his profile in 2011 (it’s been that long), he had pictures of himself (of course), pictures of himself in front of the bathroom mirror, pictures of himself and friends, in prestigious bars with bottles in hand, and pictures of himself with (obviously) lucky bleach-blonde ladies with fake boobs. And don’t forget…the picture of himself standing next to a lamborghini, pointing at it with a mischievous grin.

I liked his car. I’m a car person. So I wrote to him in my usual way when I’m not interested in the guy, but want to say something.

Me: “I don’t think we’d match up well romantically, but I wanted to comment on your car. It’s pretty sweet! Interesting color choice.  I like the 20″ rims. What’s the horsepower on it? Is it yours?”

Not a great email to send to an egotistical guy who thinks his shit doesn’t stink.

Him: “Ok. a) I don’t know you. b) It’s my lamborghini – when you spend $180k on a car – you can pick the color and all that Asian bull-crap to put on it. c) I picked that color for a reason. Thanks for talking mess. -John”

2013 Update: I have since learned to control my mouth and temper, but in 2011, I did not. I wasn’t trying to pick a fight with him. I paid him a compliment. Yes, a pea- and gold-colored car is an interesting color choice…I didn’t say it was fucking ugly, I said it was interesting. But, I of course had to write him back.

But, before I could write him back, he sent me d) “Let me know when you can afford 12 grand for tires! So sad…”

WTF! Dude, I feel sorry for YOU. YOU have to spend $12 grand on tires!!!!

So I of course wrote him and told him he was an asshole and took my statement out of context. I explained that I didn’t mean to piss him off and that I was a car person and just wanted to know about his car.

Here’s what he wrote back:

“I’m an asshole… Well that’s the first thing you’ve gotten correct today so congrats! You wanna talk shit to me but can’t take it when I get serious… Let me guess your a liberal? What do you drive princess? Your just barking up the wrong tree – your a socialist piece if garbage and socially retarted. You couldn’t stand on your feet for five seconds in my profession and you know it. But then again, since you may know it and are liberal at the same time – people like me have to pay your way in life. Your a nothing to me – and your humor reveals your insecurities. Still think your smart – well I did read your profile and your so over confident and bitter that you should be on a lesbian seeking out softball players. Cause all guys know that your bitter and have an attitude. Yeah – you can’t do shit and your a nobody. Get a life!”

Well that went extremely well, didn’t it?

I’m retarded, but I can spell “you’re” and “retarded” correctly. Hmm.

He then wrote me another email just within a few minutes of the previous one, with: “p.s. you must be a fucking idiot.”

So, then I fueled the fire even more and told him he was awesome. No, seriously. I told him he was awesome. It looked exactly like this:

Dear John, You are awesome.

He then sent me the following message, which is why I called him, and this blog The Human Trafficker. Kind of makes you wonder what exactly he does for a living. Then again, maybe that’s why he can afford those $12 grand tires.

Him: “So that’s what’s awesome huh? Want to know what’s awesome – I buy and sell people like you all the time. Let’s see if you really have any wits???? Feel free to call me so we can sort this out in person. 832.XXX.XXX. I’m waiting with bated breathe – let me tell you….”

And that my friends…is what I deal with in the dating world. Fun times. Fun times.


The Racist

3 Jun

The Racist…

Brandon and I met at a party and he was this tall, good lookin’, blonde-haired, blue-eyed charmer. He was former Navy and a liberal.

Now there’s a combination you don’t see often: military and liberal.

Brandon was sweet. We had our first date at a pub in downtown Denton and bonded over fish and chips, mussels, oysters and sweet kisses, when no one was looking.

We had politics, religion, food, life views and everything else under the sun in common. We’d talk for hours on the phone and on our dates, and when we’d part ways, he’d text me that he couldn’t wait to talk to me until next time.

Another interesting combination: a man that likes to talk and listen.

His unfortunate racist tendencies reared its ugly head on our fifth date. We were hanging out on his living room floor, with my head in his lap and watching old black and white movies, when he asked me the question that made me sit upright, argue, tear up and walk out of his house.
I noticed a hint of weirdness on our fourth date, but didn’t think anything of it and continued on with our day. He had come over to my house in McKinney as we had planned to explore the city and countryside. I was giving him the grande tour of my house, when he stopped to look at a picture on the wall of my second floor.

Him: “Who is that guy?”
Me: “What guy?”
Him: “The black guy you’ve got your arm around.”
Me: “Oh, that’s my friend D. He’s married to one of my close friends.”
Him: “Did y’all date?”
Me: “No! He’s like my brother. We’re just really good friends.”
Him: “Oh! Cool. Well, let’s go make our lunch.”

To be honest, I thought his questioning felt weird. But, his actions didn’t seem any different. He was still as attentive, PDAish and sweet, as he had always been.

We hung out the entire day, shared sweet kisses and hugs and made plans to see each other again in two days. Our fifth date.

As he brushed his fingers through my hair that day, also bending over to kiss the tip of my nose, my cheek, and my ears–our next dating encounter sent me chills. In the back of my mind, I was thinking, “I could get used to this.”

And then he asked me the last question that he’d ever ask me again.

“Have you ever been with a black guy?”

I immediately sat up and turned around to face him. I could feel my anger level rising just by looking at his face. He had this mean look of disgust, this look of “get off me,” if I dared say yes.

And, I did.

“Yes. I’ve been with a black guy,” I said.

I’m what my good friend Beverly, likes to call an ‘equal opportunity dater.’

He looked at me like I had the plague and pushed himself back from me. “I don’t think I can date you,” he said.

I’ll never forget that moment. A big tear welled up in my right eye and plunged down my cheek. My lips pouted and I felt completely blind-sided and sad. “Why not? What does me being with a black guy in my past, have anything to do with you and me, right now,” I asked him.

“Everything,” he said. “Black men don’t treat white women with the respect they deserve and it makes me sick that you’ve stooped that low and dated someone of color.”

Of color.

Who uses that terminology anymore? Seriously?

Where did he learn that? Who taught him to be like that?”

I picked up my things and told him I felt sorry for him and left.

Unfortunately, this is not the first racist encounter I’ve had in my lifetime. Unfortunately, there’s still stupid people out there…

Have you ever had a racist encounter when dating? Tell me about it.

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