Date #15: Outside the Box

There I was, four hours into my date, sitting in a booth in the neon and poster-adorned sports bar at Red Robin at Mall 205, as Tony, number 15 of 20, told me why it was so important to tie someone up properly when participating in a bondage session with a significant other.

After the break-up with Seven I was very eager to get back on the bicycle, so I posted another ad on Craigslist and kept it even more vague than previous posts, something about casual dating and a bit about a blog I was writing. I immediately received several hits, and lined up four dates for the weekend. This was the first and it was on a Thursday. Tony had sent an email, and after I sent one back with my picture attached, he asked, “How fit are you?” To which I replied, “Extremely.” When I asked him the same question, he replied that he was a 6.785 on a scale of 1 to 10, not at all inconsistent with the attitudes I had perceived in other men who demanded their dates look perfect while they carried around a 15 to 20 pound spare tire. We also chatted a bit after the initial emails and he let me know he was interested in meeting intelligent people who could “think outside the box.” This is a phrase which in my opinion is used by people who are familiar with the phrase, but quite comfortable with the little area they have artfully arranged for themselves within the box. At the time I assumed that Tony was not an exception, but then again, I had no idea how fond he was of ropes and knots.

I should have suspected something when we were first setting up the date. It was of course his suggestion to go to Red Robin, not exactly an “out of the box” type of place, but by this point in my dating career, I had given up trying to educate people about the evils of multinational corporate non-food. During the chat, he had proven himself at least intelligent, someone who had done and seen many things and more importantly, could spell and construct a sentence correctly. He kept disappearing from the chat room though, each time saying that it was the IT guy fixing stuff on the computer. It was 10:30 at night, a time I thought strange for an IT guy to be working.

I arrived at the Robin a bit early, which gave me plenty of time to watch the TV behind the bar and keep up on the breaking news which outlined the death of Michael Jackson. I ordered a Cosmopolitan and watched as Al Sharpton spoke and held up a picture of him, Michael, Janet, and Quincy Jones. I had to wonder what was going on with North Korea. Hadn’t they just threatened to wipe this country off the face of the planet? Hadn’t we all come to the collective realization that Michael Jackson was a pedophile? It is so painful to watch someone put themselves through such extensive and public displays of self-loathing and abuse. I had loved Michael once, a long time ago, but I could not watch him slowly erase himself in this manner. He had lost me shortly after “Thriller”, and I also had to wonder, where was Farrah in all this?

Tony showed up a bit late, and as he walked toward me, he reminded me a bit of a guy in the mafia; very clean cut, dark hair slicked back behind a slightly receding hairline, pressed pleated slacks and a tightly tucked polo. He was texting as he walked in and barely looked at me as he sat down. His knuckles, in contrast to his very Anglo complexion, were dark brown. I fleetingly wondered if they had been stained by the blood of his victims over the years. The waitress came right over and he ordered, told me he had left his wallet in the car, got up and walked out. I sat there truly believing he was not coming back. I hoped that the Cobb salad that he ordered was good, but then again, it was Red Robin, how good could it possibly be?

To my surprise, Tony walked back in, minutes later, still texting, still looking like a mafia guy. He sat down and immediately it was intensely awkward. This of course is pretty standard, it is usually tough in the beginning, but I believe it was obvious to both of us that we were not each other’s type. There we sat, me in a brown cardigan over my orange bike jersey, hair quite messy from the ride, and across the table, a perfectly coiffed, uptight and distracted middle aged man, who every so often glanced at his cell phone. He half-way apologized for texting and checking his phone during the date, but it did not keep him from doing it continuously throughout.

Within a half-hour we both loosened up and started talking about random things, Tony was a mortgage broker who was starting his own company, relentlessly working and trying to find a LTR with someone who wouldn’t need him constantly. He of course wanted to know about what had happened with all of my previous dates, so I gave him the high points, ending with the series of events which led Seven to break up with me. “Wasn’t that the name of a Star Trek character?” I looked at him quizzically, “You mean Seven of Nine?” I asked, not quite believing that this was his first response to a story which included a cult leader, a Grampa and a hippie. “Yeah, Seven of Nine!” he responded enthusiastically. I was starting to see where his head was at, and not surprisingly, it seemed firmly rooted within the box. Tony was the kind of person who knew about a lot of different things; human biology, the three types of chocolate, Star Trek, but the whole thinking on a human level thing was kind of lost on him.

Then he went back to my date with Hugh and his girlfriend, who was a BDSM enthusiast. “Do you know why people like being tied up?” he asked, and without skipping a beat, replied to his own inquiry, “It’s a control thing, not a sex thing.” I started to suspect which box he was thinking outside of. He launched into a half-hour monologue about the importance of tying a person up correctly, how in some people’s brains the pleasure and pain centers are sometimes right next to each other if not overlapping, and that he knew I was someone who would like being bitten, having my hair pulled, and yes, even being tied up. I was not sure how to take this; was it a complement, a prediction, a simple observation? I also suddenly realized that my face probably displayed a look of confusion and shock on it, so I changed it immediately to one which reflected pleasant surprise.

At about this point the waitress came by and told us that they were closing. I knew by the way Tony kept his eyes on her ass all night that she was more his type. He had also gone out of his way to mention that he liked her lime green tipped acrylic nails. Evidently Red Robin was no longer allowing their staff to wear ostentatious acrylic nails. She was showing her disapproval by wearing these lime green things. Tony showed support by commiserating with her, and stating that “It’s not like Red Robin is a Stanford’s or Newport Bay!” Tony was smitten. I wanted to tell her that she might want to study up on Nautical knot tying, but I figured I should probably just let things play out naturally between them.

All in all, it was not a distasteful evening, so I was not surprised when I received texts, emails, and invitations to chat from Tony the next day. I figured he was just working up to asking me to have sex with him, so I chatted amicably until the question appeared. When I told him no, however, he followed it up by asking if he could tie me up in a “safe, non-sexual way.” It was nice to be able to laugh my ass off in the comfort of my own home while texting back, “I will have to think about it.” I wasn’t quite ready to think outside of this particular box.

20/20

I feel like I will have to learn the same lessons over and over again, painfully, until either death takes me or I have a coma inducing stroke, leaving me in a vegetative state for the rest of my pathetic life. After I emailed Seven, told him about Reginald, and he read my blog, he ended it. Of course, it hurt more than I would ever let on to him or anyone else, because I was too busy acting cavalier about the whole thing. After I sent him the email, he told me he was upset, but did not want to end our relationship. After he read the blog, he ended it, letting me know that it did “not make him feel special”. Pretty ironic, really, when what I had wanted from him was to feel more special, but of course, I had agreed, categorically, to settle for less. I agreed to only see him once a week, I agreed to not want more after it was clear I could not have it, I agreed to settle for less than what I wanted from him. This is why this is my fault entirely.

A few weeks ago, Seven made a comment to me that indicated he was hoping still to meet someone more suited to him. While this is the reality of what used to be our relationship, it hurt me. I could tell that he was upset that it hurt me, so I blew it off and pretended it didn’t matter to me, that I could settle for less and it would be fine.

Then, instead of telling Seven before I had sex with Reggie, I told him after, and let him find out, via blog, that I had in fact had sex with him the entire weekend before I went out on a date with him. The reality here is that while it did not make him feel special to be treated that way, I was acting very much like I was not special.

So, to recap, I hurt someone I cared for very much all because I would not own up to my own feelings of wanting to feel special to someone, and then ended up proving, to him and to myself, that I do not deserve it.

To add insult to injury, John then emailed and told me that he was upset that I had reconsidered my invitation to a second date, felt blindsided by the blog, and let me know that what I thought was a kiss was actually going to be a hug, and that I should not let my ego get the better of me.

Of course, after this, he invited me to read parts of my blog on a radio show he works on, “Livewire”, in July, making me feel even worse, as he was still being nice to me, and of course, I was still the asshole. This is much the same with Seven. He thanked me for the time we had spent together, said he had appreciated it, that he was going to keep my art hung where he and his daughter had placed it together. There is nothing that makes you feel shittier than when the people who you treated badly are big enough to turn around and still be completely decent and kind to you. I find it hysterical that I ended my last blog entry with “everything felt more in order and I, more in control.” Yeah, more in control, sure. At the rate I’m going, I would have to do at least 20 more dates in order to learn this awful lesson. With any luck, this will cause me so much pain that the next time I want someone to be nice to me, I will ask. But I wouldn’t bet on it.

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Date #s 13 & 14: Slightly Intertwined

I had dates 13, 14, and 15 all lined up for this last weekend, but then 13 dropped off the face of the earth, so 14 and 15 moved up. 13 (formerly 14), was with a guy who introduced himself as John; he was planning on putting himself through the same type of thing as I, though at a slower pace. His date goal was 50. At date number 13 myself, this seemed a bit excessive.

14 (formerly 15), sent a picture of himself after I assured him that I was not his ex, and between the time of first contact via email and first physical contact we exchanged roughly 120 emails between us. Midway through the process, we gave each other names; his was Reginald, mine, Beatrice. The more emails I received from him, the more I liked him. Twisted, funny, and smart, I started to contemplate not meeting him as I thought our email relationship was so perfect that no actual person could ever live up to the ideas I had built up in my head about him.

Here is a small excerpt of our witty dialogue which endeared him to me:

Hi _______! (From Reginald) 

Sorry, I suddenly couldn't bear the term, 'casual dating' figuring so prominently in my inbox.I hereby do solemnly swear to not brandish any hebrews at you, so you can put down the homosensualists and step away from them slowly... 

You going on the naked bikeride? 

I guess that was a little forward - how about this, do you like long walks on the beach, holding hands at sunset, and pausing for a moment to embrace and kiss and feel the knees weaken? And then, when you're not looking, someone in a sigmund the sea-monster costume comes up and throws enough seaweed on you to feed the imperial japanese navy for a week? And then you discover that there was a jellyfish in the seaweed and you've got that stingy sensation crawling all over you, so you start itching and running around like you're crazy, prompting your paramour to launch into insane heroics, trying to make you calm down and let them help, but they can't help and you fall on the sand, remembering something you once read about jellyfish stings so you start shrieking, "PEE ON ME!" at earsplitting decibel levels, but you don't mean it in a watersports kinda way, you just want to stop the stinging, however your lover gets the wrong idea and after a vigorous micturition (which cascades over you, bringing the pain back to an almost tolerable state) and you're catching your breath, you realize that he's furiously attempting to, "go a number three" as well?

That never happens to me either.

Life outside of my head is so bloody trite and contrived.

I hope your day is resplendent in loveliness! 

(Response From Me)I absolutely hate long walks on the beach, mostly because they remind me that I have come from slimy muck-ridden creatures which once ate their own fecal matter in order to survive. 

But I do like going to supermarkets with an apron on, opening random packages of food and asking shoppers if they would like to sample the merchandise the store has put on a special half-price sale due to the occurrence of several suspicious food poisoning related deaths in East Texas. 

I also like walking up to people on the street who are talking on their cell phones and pretending they are long lost friends, hugging them, telling them it is great to see them, and asking them if their sister has overcome the syphilis. 

Additionally, I am very fond of putting my hand down, face up under a stranger's ass as they sit down in the bus seat next to me. 

More over, it thrills me to no end when I can bring a dish to a vegetarian pot luck which is laced with all manner of pork products, but tell everyone it is Tofurkey. 

And finally, my heart bursts with pride when I am able to successfully convince any close friend that I am a very distant relative of Leonardo DaVinci, and that the horrible family secret is that he was a sham and all his work was actually created by his stable boy and life partner, Pedro, who lived in Leo's (that's what we call him), stable and intermittently serviced Leo while creating the great works attributed to him. 

That's what I like, but I realize, these things are not everyone's cup of tea. 


Have fun biking in the nude 

(Response From Reginald) 
I LOVE food poisoning related deaths in East Texas! 
I'm half tempted to never meet you and just trade an e-mail a day until one of us destroys humanity out of boredom. 

And I just re-read that first line - are you trying to say that we all descended from republicans?

Blue-green algae I could handle, republicans, not.

Granted, my dad was a republican, I suppose, technically I had to swim through his junk at some point...EEEEEEWWWWWWWW!

Do you see what you made me think???

Turrible, really. 

Perhaps to anyone else this interchange might sound arcane, insane, or merely, mundane, (sorry had to do it), but this, along with the 60 other emails I received from this brilliant psychopath served to draw me in and seduce me. There is really nothing like a twisted mind to get one’s body to jump into action. I guess “leap” would be a better description for what I did. While the date we had scheduled was for Sunday, by Thursday night, he and I were both so worked up via email, text, and phone conversation that he came over at 3 am and well……showed me how crazy he is in person. Then on Friday, because my date dropped out, I went over to his place and we got crazy again, and then on Saturday night, after my date with John, I went over to his place and then ended up spending the entire actual “date” day with him as well, the whole time getting completely and utterly insane with each other. We even started to write porn together, which I can honestly say I have never done on a date before. What a relief to find an outlet for my psychotic energy.

The date with John was less noteworthy. We met at a coffee shop down the block from Guardino Gallery on Alberta Street. We had both ridden our bikes and were parched, so we got green chai soy iced tea and sat to talk for a while. It was pretty awkward initially, a lot of our opening sentences starting with “So………” and then some routine question just to get the conversation going. Eventually, we both loosened up, and by the time we walked down the street to look at the art in Guardino, we were talking very easily. The gallery was a favorite of John’s and he had already seen the show there at Last Thursday. Of course, I have a strict policy about going to First/Last Thursdays; I don’t. I believe I have gone over that rule in this blog before, so I will not bore you with the details. John said that he too did not like going as it was difficult to see the art. The show was good, a pairing of a painter and sculptor, and while the paintings were satisfactory, the concept and execution of the sculpture was quite moving; particularly one depicting a man rowing, his oars digging into the wooden base, his body tensed with effort as it hovered to create a shadow over the wooden platform it was mounted on. The tension created by this simple composition was viscerally evocative in all the right places. Walking around the shop, I saw work by people I had gone to art school with. This was both gratifying and unnerving as I was happy to see my fellow artisans were still making work, and sad to remember the last time I had picked up a tool to make anything myself.

We left Guardino and headed west, looking for other galleries to stop into as we walked. There was not a whole lot else, though I did find a pair of charming porcelain doll arm earrings which I snapped up without hesitation. The whole time we walked, the sky threatened rain, and while it occasionally did fall lightly on our helmet-hair heads, it never really came to fruition.

John told me that he was a theatre production manager who worked for a company which did a lot of work with Nike. The more he spoke of it, the more he seemed to not be too into it. He was in the process of wondering whether or not to get an MBA. He did not know exactly what he would use it for, but that was a goal he was still working out. We talked a bit about my blog; what I would call him in it, (he wanted a numeric name), and why I decided to accept a date with him. There was not much of a screening process for John as he used to know a friend of mine, the same friend who owns the Ugly Mug (though he called it the muddy cup), Kim. He used to have a crush on her when she waited tables at The Moon and Sixpence, an English Pub in the Hollywood District. A lot of people I know used to have a crush on Kim, most of them very good people, so I figured, where’s the harm?

John kept referring to my blog throughout our date, talking about some of the more poignant moments, wondering about Seven, and it started to get under my skin a bit. He had in fact chosen an Ethiopian restaurant in which to dine, and I had to wonder if this wasn’t modeled after a date I had reported on in my blog. In fact, the last few dates have left me with the feeling that these gentlemen know far too much about me for a “date” type situation to be fair. Very recently I have had various questions like, “are you going to talk about my ear hair?” or, “Am I the best date so far?” Or, Allah forbid, someone has read some small reference to sex in my blog and decided to ask me why people have sex with all the viruses and diseases going around in the world. I don’t know, maybe I am just an asshole, but why all of a sudden am I the one being examined?  I mean, come on!!! Know your place people!!

For instance, John’s fingers were just a half inch too short. Not that they were stubby, they were thin, but in proportion to the rest of his body, which was quite long and elegant in a way, his fingers came up a bit…..short. This, in my opinion is noteworthy for the very reason I am meeting new people…it is random. Additionally, there is a reason every person has the name they have, though it is not ever the same. John for example is named after a friend of mine from High School I think I might have forced myself on in a Las Vegas hotel room. That gentleman’s nickname is the same as this gentleman’s real name, and vice versa. The friend from high school seems to have forgiven me, by the way.

We rode our bikes together to the restaurant, him in front, as he did not want to be left behind by my riding. The truth was he was motoring along pretty fast, and at several points I had to wonder if he was afraid of me gaining on him or passing him. Then he did something I could not ever forgive. He went through a red light. This might seem like a miniscule issue, but the reality is that the more that bike riders blow red lights, the more pissed car drivers become at bike riders and the more in danger we all are. I told him I was putting it in my blog just to spite him.

Later, while we were at the restaurant, picking out what to eat, John mentioned he didn’t eat red meat or pork, except for bacon. I take exception to this stance though many people, even my own father, have taken it. I don’t think you deserve to eat bacon if you are not going to eat the rest of the pork and red meat family. Bacon should be saved for those of us with the balls to eat it all and make no apologies. Eating only bacon is like licking the frosting off the cake, eating the egg filling out of a quiche, or opening up an éclair and sucking out the custard. It is simply low brow, and really should not be tolerated.

John and I ended up sharing the Vegan platter of all things, which was quite good, and I unfortunately asked for this orange iced tea concoction which tasted like sugar poured over ice with a dash of orange flavor thrown in for good measure. I couldn’t do it. Except for the drink portion, it was a very nice meal; we talked about our exes and our desire to be more intentional with our dating choices instead of just settling for what came along. Like me, John was at a cross roads in his life and he was in the process of trying to figure out what he was going to be and who he would be being it with.

After dinner, as we were unlocking our bikes and getting ready to go, I asked if he would be interested in going out again, and I don’t really know why. It was not that he wasn’t very nice, funny, handsome, and all that, we just didn’t seem to fit that well. Either that or the thought of dating someone going through the exact same thing as me has become less and less appealing as time has passed. As we steered our bikes down Fremont, mine towards Reginald’s place and his towards his home, I became uneasy about where I told him I was going to next. I had told him earlier that I was going to a friend’s, and “she” lived down Fremont. I just didn’t feel like telling him the truth would have been kind, although I am sure that he is reading it presently and is probably pretty pissed. I tried to yell ahead and tell him good-bye, attempting to avoid any awkward good-night kiss moment, but he stopped and pulled even with me, and though I cannot absolutely determine this as fact, I am pretty sure he wanted one.

I pulled away and rode down a side street, very excited to be going to Reggie’s. I was satisfied to know that while John wasn’t a bad guy, he wasn’t right for me, and the reason I knew this was because Seven and Reginald were. This was intentional, and with this date, it felt as though I had taken another step toward an answer. I have no idea what question it would apply to, or what the answer would be, but everything felt more in order, and I, more in control.

Date #12: Nothing Good Can Ever Come of it

After my much needed week-long hiatus, I decided to stack up three dates in one weekend to get back in the swing of things. The last time I had done this I met Seven, so I figured the process might bring me luck. Sadly, two of the three dates backed out; one due to a scheduling conflict and one simply disappeared off the face of the earth after I sent him the link to my blog. I can only assume he was intimidated by my brilliance.

The last man standing arranged that we begin our date on Sunday at 9:30 am at McCrae’s, a breakfast joint in Gresham which is known mostly for its large portions. As I live frighteningly close to Gresham, I figured it would take me a half hour at the very most to get there on my bike. I overestimated this figure; it only took me about 20 minutes, so I was able to get there and change into street clothes before my date, Peter, arrived.

Of course, as it was Gresham, when I walked in wearing my biking clothes everyone looked at me as though I was covered in glitter; some people laughed, some looked a little too long at certain parts of my body, others just rolled their eyes. In general, people from Gresham do not seem to like bike riders. It must be that we are always getting in the way of their tricked out monster trucks with the four and a half foot tires and fog lights artfully arranged all over the hood and grill of the car.

After I changed into my blue, black and orange African skirt and Tevas, I took a table for two. I sat there until I was quite sure it was after 9:30, and then I started fishing for my phone in my bike bag to see what time it was. I noticed I had a voicemail; it was from Peter telling me he was going to be late. Three minutes later he called to tell me where he was. It would take him another ten minutes to get there so I looked at the menu. It consisted of a laminated placemat-sized sheet of paper with business card-sized ads along the bottom and on the front of it. All of the items listed on the menu were your basic breakfast fare, except for one small thing: after some of the entries, (big!) appeared. I guess this could either be viewed as a warning or an enticement, depending upon the perspective of the reader.

Something I do when I go to out to eat at places I have never been to before is look at the people eating at the restaurant and judge the quality of the food by the size of the clientele. Most of the people there were quite large, so I figured I had better be cautious.

Peter arrived a few minutes later looking very neat; his hair was combed to the side in a very intentional manner, his shirt, very securely tucked into his very blue jeans, and his belt was tightly fastened around his waste. All in all a very well groomed and fit gentleman. He hugged me hello, (which I was actually okay with), and asked if I had had a chance to look at the menu. I replied that I had, so as he begged the waitress for coffee, he perused the menu. He ordered the bacon and eggs; I ordered the ham and eggs. After his coffee was delivered, we kind of looked at each other for an awkward moment, and then I asked what we should talk about.

We started talking about food, dating, exes, and really, it was a very pleasant conversation. Our food, which was served on dinner platters, arrived pretty quickly. My eggs and hash browns looked pretty normal, though a gigantic slab of ham was covering most of them from view. As I started to eat I realized that the hash browns were luke-warm at best and the ham was overly gristly. Oh well, at least there was a ton of it.

We both started eating as we talked. He was polite and articulate, and I was trying to avoid as much of the ham gristle as I could. We finished breakfast and Peter asked what we should do next. I really had to wonder; as it was going this date was not at all remarkable. I told him I didn’t know what was around the area, and he thought it would be great if he could show me around Gresham. If you are not aware, this last is a punch line.

I have a thing about Gresham; I don’t like it and I haven’t ever since I first heard the name. Some of my friends (and former friends) live in Gresham, and whenever they say something stupid, like their favorite restaurant is Red Lobster, my immediate reply is always, “well, you are from Gresham,” as if this fact forgives their lack of depth and character. I thought this might be a good opportunity to give ol’ Gresham a chance. Maybe I would have a change of heart and see the soul in what I assumed to be a vast wasteland of non-culture.

We started in a mall. Peter told me this was the “new” part of Gresham; a large-ish development of super stores which served as a center for the town. We walked around, went into Cost Plus World Market so he could show me his favorite pancake mix, (after which I told him I was gluten-intolerant), then we walked down the street and into Borders Books. As we walked through the store, we talked about the kinds of books we both like to read, and he started dancing a bit to a song only he could hear. Usually, when people I am with begin to engage in some type of behavior which causes me to be embarrassed for them, my response is to do something even more embarrassing, in order to shift the embarrassment back on to them. This was a perfect time, I thought, to start singing The Star Spangled Banner at the top of my lungs. Of course, I refrained. Part of me knew that I would be more embarrassed at this than he, and the other part forgot the words.

We left Borders and walked around the mall a bit more. There was nothing here to lead me to believe I was wrong about Gresham. After our tour, we got back into Peter’s parents’ car, a blue Buick, and drove to “Old Gresham”. We pulled up in front of a nice old brick building which housed a history museum, and I actually became hopeful. As you might suspect, my hopes were in vain. This very quaint part of town was home to a number of painfully trite gift shops one could easily find in any touristy coastal town, a slew of tacky hair salons, and a handful of slapped-together cafes and coffee shops. All in all, a waste of the quaint little buildings they were in. We walked around Old Gresham, and decided to walk further. As we walked along Powell Boulevard amidst the fast food places and car dealerships, Peter told me of his days going to PCC and mistakenly drinking too much Jolt one day before work. As he was telling me of the convulsions his body went through after the effects started to take hold, he also demonstrated by jerking around as we walked. It was amusing to watch the faces on the people driving cars past us, looking at him in horror and sometimes, amusement. It was at just about this point that he told me that he went out with me because of my answer to a question in his initial email. He had asked if I was expecting to have sex with the people I set up dates with. Usually when men ask this question and I say no, they tell me they aren’t interested; Peter was the exception to this rule. He was still waiting for his divorce to go through and for this reason, could not act on any romantic or sexual feelings he might have towards someone he was dating. This explained why I had the feeling I was on a date with my older brother.

We headed back to his car and he took me by a medical center with programmed Sims. I had no idea what this was, so he explained; Sims are simulated people, engineered to act and react to stimulus the way a human would. These Sims are used to train the Nurses at the college Peter works at as an IT professional. Evidently, one of the Sims just gave birth the week before. I don’t care who you are or where you come from; this is the kind of thing that I expect would blow anyone’s mind.

After this, Peter took me back to McCrae’s to get back on my bike and go home. He gave me a hug good-bye, jumped into his parent’s car, and drove off. I stood there for a while considering the non-date I had just been on; not at all unpleasant, but not at all remarkable. I was sure of one thing; I would have to start abiding by a new rule. No date could start or end in Gresham. Gresham was as I had suspected, a place where culture went to die and simulated life was born. No good could come from a place like Gresham.

The Break

Don't worry, I had to work all weekend and I couldn't date, and thus, couldn't post. Of course, I did have a date with Seven, but I feel at this point that you people like it much more when I find myself in awkward social situations, so I have lined some up for the next few weekends.


I have been fortunate enough to receive feedback on my blog, so thank you all for that. I am working on a post which will detail my dealings with men I have decided not to date. Or those who, for some insane reason, have decided not to date me.

Oh, and I was also recently told, much to my dismay, that I am someone who is nice to have around until something better comes along. I thought it was supposed to be me who said that.