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Online Dating: Welcome to the FREAKS show

Updated on October 27, 2017

I’m baaaaaaaaaaack! It’s been forever since I have actually taken the time to write my blog, and to all my kind and thoughtful readers, please forgive my leave of absence, life has been crazy, and busy, and crazy. Lately I have ventured to go back to online dating. We all know how plainly mad dating is, but online dating…Online dating is a completely different level of madness. You know all those insane stories you hear about your friends’ friends (who are really your friends pretending the story came from somebody else)? They’re true. Online dating is what the freaks’ show is to the circus: an unforgettable show of creepiness in the context of what’s already supposed to be out of the ordinary. Oh man, do I have stories! Well, in these past two months of trial I have collected some of the most “are you fucking kidding me?” stories you have perhaps heard.

Candidate #1: Panic Room. Panic room was handsome and fun. The first thing I immediately noticed about him was his handsomeness for sure: tall, blonde, blue eyes, he was one fine shot of whiskey! He and I were just great together; in the small timeframe that we dated, I recall having nothing but good times; we went to movies, great restaurants, different parts of town, and let me just tell you, the sex was on fiyah (as my good friends Kings of Leon would say. Just kidding, they’re not my friends). Despite the great times, however, I can’t fail to mention some -perhaps at first impression- small warning signs that soon became obvious huge red flags. Panic Room didn’t have a bed. What I mean by that is that he literally slept on a mattress on the floor. At first I thought, Hey, who am I to judge? Why let go of some perfectly fun thing because the guy doesn’t have a bed? So I proceeded to ignore his bedless situation, even though I confronted him about it. He just let me know that he had recently (recently as in one and a half years ago) moved from his hometown to the city and wasn’t sure about getting settled for a long time because of some family issues. So I put my understanding little Red Cross nurse suit on and did my best to be of emotional help. I successfully proceeded to disregard all “little” signs of emotional instability (like showing up at his apartment to go out and finding him in a state of overwhelming confusion and distress for no apparent reason) until shit hit the fan.

Panic Room came over to my apartment on a random Monday night to have some wine and just relax. We watched a movie, which I have no recollection of, sadly, and then it came time to go to bed. I went to my bedroom and put on my night clothes…Alone. Not sure what went on in that full 15 minutes of aloneness, but my date was in my living room, in the dark, in absolute silence, and awake. I scratched my head, and kept on going over the past 15 minutes trying to figure out what exactly went wrong. Finally, he reached me in my bedroom. What happened in the following 10 minutes or so was just…inexplicable. The guy literally had a panic attack on my bed. He started freaking out about…I don’t know, I still don’t know about what. He mumbled, got up, then back down, then mumbled some more. When asked about what was going on, he said, “I don’t know”. He tossed and turned in the bed for what felt like forever, while I was laying there as those three magic words kept on filling my head: WHAT-THE-FUCK?? The night eventually went by, thanks the Lord. I soon came to terms with the fact that Panic Room just wasn’t happy. What I usually ask my potential boyfriends on the very first date is, Are you happy with your life? I have stopped doing that by now, because no matter what kind of cotton candy bullshit words people put together on the first date, nobody has the guts to say that they fucking hate their life so much they wish they were never born. A month or so later, I think that’s what was going on in Panic Room’s life: he hated his job, he couldn’t commit to leaving it. He hated his place; he couldn’t commit to buy a fucking bed after 1 and a half years living somewhere (ONE YEAR AND A HALF, PEOPLESSS). He told me he was very uncomfortable with himself too. The guy can’t commit to him-fucking-self, why would I expect him to commit to me? Two weeks in, I was out. I still sincerely care for him though, and I hope that someday he will grow up and buy a bed.


Candidate #2: Me, Myself and…Psycho.Oooh good Lord, where do I start with this one? MMP was just One Angry Dude. As all the others, as I was getting to know him better, he appeared to be…fine. Our first date was actually fun. We went to one of the best sushi bars in town, had a great time, and then went for a walk. As we were walking, he confided some personal business (which I am not going to make public, for respect of someone I hopefully will NEVER see again) which I should have immediately picked up on as one of those small warning signs that I mentioned in the previous story, that have the potential to become huge “Get-Me-The-Fuck-Out-of-Here” issues in a matter of 48 hours. Those issues started arising immediately after the first date. He invited me to his house for dinner after work. Mind the fact that he lived in an area that was completely unknown to me. He gave me his address and directions, which might as well sounded like Greek to me as I had no fucking clue of what he was talking about (Hey, there’s a hill, and a Trader Joe’s, and a Blockbuster…Dude, do you know how many hills and Trader Joe’s there are in San Diego? Be real). In my effort to find his house, I inevitably got lost, which I believe is no big deal, as I eventually made it, but, boy, was he pissed off about it…And I don’t mean pissed off as in, “Hey, I did get frustrated you didn’t make it in time, but it’s ok”, I mean pissed off as in swearing the name of Jesus on the phone as I was trying to explain how I got lost on my way there. After that episode there shouldn’t have been any more episodes, but, in the name of love, I proceeded to hold on and try again.

Date number 2. Lunch date in La Jolla, one of the most beautiful places in San Diego. We went to a nice Japanese restaurant and sat outside because of the beautiful warm weather. Wrong choice, in light of what happened in the following 10 minutes. An elderly lady was trying to parallel park her car on the side of the road, right in front of where we were sitting. MMP was spiteful and cruel. He started publicly making fun and humiliating the lady as she wasn’t able to get the parallel parking right. He was laughing, and talking shit, loudly and obnoxiously, staring at her and mocking her to the point the lady gave up and left. Needless to say I was largely unimpressed. But that wasn’t the end. As I was driving us back to his place, something horrifying happened. I was on the highway, just cruising around, as the car on the right lane next to me had been struggling to get in my lane with a blinker on to avoid having to exit the highway shortly. Nobody would let him in because of the high density of traffic, so I slightly slowed down and finally let him in my lane. Nice gesture of common sense, most people would claim, but not my date. He went nuts on me. He literally lost his grip. The guy started shouting at me about how I am the root cause of San Diego traffic because I SLAMMED ON MY BREAKS (which, truthfully, I didn’t) just to let some dumb ass in front of me, hence blocking the traffic behind me. Mind the fact that none of this happened except in MMP’s head, but the guy wouldn’t shut the fuck up. So I did it. I randomly slammed on my breaks to show him what slamming on one’s breaks means. Wrong move. The guy got infuriated. He kept on asking me if I had done that just to piss him off and make him angrier. I shit you not, I had never seen anything like that before. Needless to say, that was the moment my mind decided that, despite my background in human behavior sciences, I couldn’t handle issues of that entity, plus I am not equipped or certified to prescribe medication. The day after I made it clear, or so I thought, I was not interested in continuing the kookoo for kokoa puffs parade. But the guy didn’t give up and randomly texted me to send him a picture. WTF? I once more clarified to him that he needed help to deal with whatever anger management issue was obviously bothering him. When I stopped answering his texts, he sent me ONE MORE text asking me if I wasn’t answering because I was on a date…For fucking god’s sake, seriously? I didn’t hear from him for a few days after that, and finally decided to go back on the dating website. I promptly received a message from him the very next day after rejoining the website saying, “You didn’t delete your profile, you liar!” OMFG. It was a Saturday night and I was downtown, drunk (which is the beginning of the next story!). When I got that message I said to myself, if I don’t spell it out, this fucker is never leaving me alone. So I shortly answered something like, “If me being a liar makes you feel better then believe what you will. You are clearly crazy, and someone should let you know”. That was the end of it. Hopefully.

Candidate #3: The Departed.The story of the Departed is one of those stories that just makes you want to give up faith in humanity. Not men or women, but the entire fucking species of human beings. I met him downtown in one of the best, most upscale and fun restaurants in the city. In the first few minutes of conversation, he presented himself as a country boy grown in a farm in some rural area of Illinois. I immediately liked that. I am, myself, a very simple woman grown in rural Sicily, so I am naturally attracted to simple men who were raised among cattle and horse shit (not to be confused with the synonym for “lies”). Anyways, everything was going great, as far as I knew; however 30 minutes into the date, The Departed proceeded to let me know he had to share something with me. I curiously asked him to explain. He told me that he had a rule according to which on a first date he had to do something that would allow him to leave after the first 10 minutes if he felt he wasn’t comfortable. He reassured me I had made it through the 10 minutes rule (not even fucking kidding you, like he was the answer to all my prayers to the god of dating, Pfff!). He also let me know he had parked his car in a timed parking lot and that we had about 45 minutes before he had to leave. I remember thinking to myself, “And you deem yourself a country boy? You rude, insensitive asshole, leave now and go fuck yourself”, but I didn’t. I proceeded to turn that shit into a joke and just continued acting like a lady would. During conversation, I let The Departed know that I write a blog about my dating experiences. That seemed to have caught the guy’s attention at the time. He asked me if he would be one of my subjects, and honestly, till that point, he hadn’t done anything odd enough to make it to the top 3 freaks of my online dating life. I clearly spoke too soon. By the forced end of the date (clock is ticking right above my head by now) I had had two glasses of wine, and I am known for not being a heavy drinker. I wasn’t plastered, but definitely on my way. I felt dizzy, disoriented, most of all the symptoms that we all clearly attribute to drinking alcohol. I was most definitely not ready to drive. So I let my date know. He didn’t give shit about it. He took me to my car as quickly as he could, rushed to say goodbye, didn’t even turn around and quickly got the fuck out of there. I looked at my car, I looked at myself in the mirror and then said, “Did THAT just happen?”. I am pretty sure I didn’t say or do anything to freak the fuck out of the guy. I mean I could have mentioned my secret liking of Paris Hilton’s song “Stars are Blind” in conversation, but I’m confident I did leave it to myself. I found myself alone, drunk, downtown, on a Saturday night at 9.10PM. WHO the fuck does that?
Dear The Departed, yes, you did make it to the top 3 of my freaks list. Congratulations!! I hope you’re proud of yourself. And if you truly believe you are a nice country man who carries good values in his life, you are delusional and in need of Lithium. And how dare you text me the fucking day after asking me if I made it home alright? As far as you’d be concerned, a couple of Mexican guys could have abducted me, drugged me, ducktaped my limbs and drove me to TJ to work in a brothel against my will. What a fucking gentleman you are. Your mom must be proud.

So, here is my story. I am a raging, relentless, stubborn believer in love. Love is the reason why I wake up in the morning, go to work, and get back home at night, every night of every day. You psychotic motherfuckers are weird, and that’s the reason why you are alone, believe it or not. Yes, I am sure you could say the same about me, and perhaps be right too. WHO in the name of god goes through dating people like you and still obstinately keeps on believing that there is someone, some man out there who will someday spare me the emotional and practical effort of having to kiss so many fucking crazy frogs and still manage to keep an open heart towards people? I must be crazy. But for as crazy as I might be, you, my friends, take the cake home. Cheers! And don’t forget to take your Zoloft before you go to bed tonight, if you have a bed.

© 2012 Roberta S

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    • profile image

      Mari 

      6 years ago

      Ahh... Freaks make life interesting. I should know. I *am* one.

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