I had my second last Match.com date last night. Today at 11:00 pm-ish I will officially be done! My membership expired (halleluiah) over a week ago, but I've had some residual clinger-on-ers that have lasted until now.
In addition to recapping my date with Sam I think I’ll spew some redankulos predictions about tonight’s date with Mr. Prozac. Why? Because I can! But first, the story of my date with Sam…
Sam and I went on a date. The End.
Our date was as interesting as the story I just told. Blah! Bad dates are awesome. Awesome dates are awesome. Boring dates are just a big fucking waste of time, gas, and perfume.
Boring people make me want to become a murder… with them as my first victims. FUCKING DO SOMETHING INTERESTING. Give me a better answer than, “I like watching sports” when I ask you what your interests are. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d rather date a serial killer than a mundane man. If you really have nothing interesting to offer than lie and pretend you do. Honestly, I’d rather be on a date with an interesting liar than an honest bore.
Here is the only interesting component of the date: he wasn’t actually Australian. I projected his Australian-ness onto him because he used words like “mate” and “reckon” in his text messages. About 5 hours before the date he said something that made me pretty confident that he was going to turn out to be a fake-Auzie. I discussed this with my brother:
Me: So you know that maybe-Australian guy I’m seeing tonight?
Bro: Yeah?
Me: He just said, “Dang!”
Bro: Oh, you’re fucked.
My brother was right. My instinct was wrong. Sam did not turn out to be a hot Auzie nor did he turn out to be a total red-neck. Unfortunately, he was too Vanilla to be second date material.
1 beer, 1 hour, 1 bruised heart (Sorry Sam).
Tonight’s date should be interesting, if only because I will be bajoinkadly wired! (Yah that's a word.) Prior to the date I’ll be undergoing three hours of sweaty, obscene, and outlandish Improv. Following improv I am always adrenalized to the point of being considered unfit to drive motorized vehicles. I'll be higher than a kite... not that I've ever been able to successfully fly a kite, but you get the idea. Unfortunately, for Mr. Prozac, he will be on the receiving end of the high and the crash.
My prediction is that we will start the date with me jumping off the walls and not letting him get a word in edge wise. The date will end when I assume the fetal position in the middle of the bar while singing myself to sleep in the midst of the story about his Great Aunt Irma’s Emu Farm. Despite all of this, he’ll fall instantly in love with me because he will think of me as artsy and unconventional. If I like him enough to go on a second date (fat chance) he will spend all week anticipating my charisma and spontaneity. On the second date he will sit across from me and wonder what happened to the aloof version of Elle. He will yawn in the direction of the new sophisticated woman interested in talking about social issues and politics. He will grow distant due to my change and will inadvertently slip into the asshole persona. I will grow increasingly attracted to his asshole ways. I will find him irresistible. In an attempt to put my best and classiest face forward, I will bore him. He will long for the insane version of Elle who challenged him to a body piercing competition in the first 15 minutes of meeting him. He will be gutted by the new Elle who, 15 minutes into the second date, circumvents disclosing any flaws by sticking to safe – vanilla – topics of conversation.
Wish me luck!
P.S. For all concerned parties on team Ken Doll II: he is still in the picture. He is definitely the front runner, but I'm still seeing him in more of a CFB than a boyfriend way.
