How to Correctly Respond to a Craigslist Personal Ad: UPDATE

Back in 2013, when I was making all of the exciting mistakes as a single, I responded to many a viral Craigslist personal ad that two brothers posted in search of wedding dates. I shared my response on this blog (found here), and Good Morning America happened upon it and subsequently interviewed me for a Saturday morning segment. Unfortunately, they lost the battle of booking the Stangle brothers to Matt Lauer at Today (can't say I blame them - it was Matt Lauer).

Following the buzz the Stangles created, ABC refused to be outdone and put together a meet-and-greet cocktail party for women interested in being chosen as their dates. At this point, I was Facebook friendly with Mike and Dave and they told me to come to the event to continue the humorous banter we had been engaging in. My friend and I attended the event at the Upper West Side's Empire Hotel - we threw on skinny jeans, reasonably fashionable blouses, and heels - we had no idea what we were in for.

The scene resembled a low-budget version of The Bachelor, though instead of Chris Harrison, we got Juju Chang (not to be confused with Julie Chen, you racist). The other girls in attendance seemingly came directly from blowout appointments and the Bloomingdales formalwear section (I'm pretty sure I saw a few "they'll never notice if I tuck in the tag - I can return it tomorrow" dresses). These girls were serious...about their potential TV fame, not so much about acting as a date to a random wedding. I was there for the free drinks, which, of course, turned out not to be free - need I reiterate the "low-budget" description of the scene.

With camera crews in tow, my girl, Ju, asked each set of girls (it was a requirement to come in twos) upstairs to film various clips. They filmed us "walking into the party," and performed on-camera interviews. My friend and I, having not received the semi-formal attire prerequisite, filmed our entrance sequences in various states of disarray including, but not limited to, piggyback rides, cartwheels, kick-lines, and amateur break dancing. Did I mention we showed up to the event intoxicated? After forcing us to stop they got the right entrance clip for us, they ushered us over to the corner where Juju was being powdered. I assumed we'd be getting our makeup done as well, so I walked up to the gathered group, closed my eyes and stuck out my predominant chin. Juju considered quitting the field of journalism altogether feigned laughter upon seeing me, and I shrugged off my mistake using my iPhone as mirror to apply my free-from-my-dentist bootleg Chapstick. I was ready for my closeup.

Juju asked my friend and me a series of questions, all of which escape me with the exception of one. She inquired, "What did you do to prepare to meet Mike and Dave and potentially become their wedding dates?" She was clearly mocking our lack of formalwear, but her sly affront didn't phase us for a moment. I told her that I baby-powdered my hair and popped in a mint (though I didn't specify where I popped the mint). My friend's response, however, took the cake. She nonchalantly told Juju, in front of a recording camera, on footage that ABC will forever have access to, "Well, I was at this guy's house last night and only heard about this today - I didn't have time to go home, so I just turned my underwear inside-out. Luckily, I had already waxed earlier this week." Yes, these are the friends I keep - amazing like-minded individuals.

Long story a bit longer, if a bell didn't go off when I mentioned the Stangle brothers' first names in the last paragraph - their viral Craigslist post scored them a movie deal. Yes, the film Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates is based on the Craigslist boys. Let's just say, had either one resembled Zac Efron, I wouldn't be marrying Steven in a few short months.

ABC's meet-and-greet never aired - I assume God had answered my mother's (and Juju's) prayers on that one, and Steven and I started dating shortly after. Now I have a forever wedding date and I am encouraged to stay away from Craigslist personal ads.

Girls, Avoid These Guys (Continued)

(Supplement to Girls, Avoid These Guys)

What your name says about you, gentlemen (more so - Who to avoid, ladies):

Jason: [Origin: Greek - Healer] Carefully disassembling every toy in your youth resulted in a successful career in medicine.  You are the greatest in your professional field but a recluse in your personal life due to an absence of socializing in your formidable years.  You concentrate so intensely on convincing a date to accompany you back to your apartment that you completely forget to hide your collection of surgically removed foreign objects.  The date (only having agreed to go out with you to appease a mother's constant disapproval) enters your home, surveys the countless number of murky liquid-filled jars, and makes a run for it.  Not to worry - you quickly capture the fleeing victim and inject an immobilizing serum.  You got one.     

  

Justin: [Origin: Latin - Just or True] You always tell the truth no matter the consequence.  Sadly, you cannot expect the same from others.  Many will lie to you, and most of those liars will be women.  Keep in mind they are doing it to spare your feelings.  At least you can revel in your rare and coveted ability to be punintential with your name as often as you find amusing. "This Just-in: My dick!" "I pulled out Just-in the nick of time!" "Just-in case you finish first, I don't mind fellatio!" It's unfortunate that you will never follow through on the latter, however, because your sexual prowess is, in the kindest terms, lacking. Just-in case you finally figure out how to bring a woman to orgasm, give me a call - no lying necessary.

Matthew: [Origin: Hebrew - Gift of God] Even though your parents didn't plan for you and your mother's desperate wish for her monthly gift failed to come, they still refer to you as their little gift.  Even after their hate-fueled divorce.  Just because your father went on to start a completely new family and no longer takes your calls, doesn't mean you're less of a gift.  You're the gift that keeps on giving. Just like your herpes.  Of course, it upset you at first, but things are looking much better - Valtrex approached you to headline their awareness tour, "Matthew: Gifted for life. Can't keep me down." Are the flare-ups less frequent now that you're a hundred-thousandnaire?  Does poppa take your calls now?  I'm sure you'll be happily married sans prenup in no time.

Michael: [Origin: Hebrew - Who is like God]  Your parents, having superior genetics themselves, were not concerned with building a family as much as they were with breeding god-like beings. As such, you were created. Because your svelte physique and modelesque features make you so desirable, it's like Easter every day with girls dropping eggs following each glance in your direction. Unfortunately, many of the girls with comparative genetics are either related to you or have stopped following you on Instagram due to your excessive post workout gym selfies.  Duckface selfies should be limited to two a week - max.  How will you continue your family's legacy if you are slowly evolving into a cold-blooded-fly-south-for-the-winter douchebag?  Figure it out, demigod.

Ryan: [Origin: Irish - Little King] It is much too unfortunate that "little" is the operative word here.  However, you've never let that stop you.  You wore your prom king crown to every party in college, attributing to a few more vertical inches.  Too bad it couldn't approve another set of combined inches.  OK, so you have come to the realization that the fraternity letters tattoo was a mistake, but at least all those girls you roofied slept with while fratting around college will never be forgotten.  Now you're the "King of the Force" having become an officer of the law to make up for all of your shortcomings.  A career of making better men cower to your authority becomes you.  Stop hitting your wife.  

Sean: [Origin: Irish - God is gracious] Your abs are gracious, as are your grandparents for letting you live in their garage. All of the money you save on rent goes into your body. There isn’t enough protein on the planet to meet your needs, and it shows. You spend too much time in the gym to get a regular job, so you have opted for gym guru by day, club promoter by night. You love staying up late at the club, not because of the booze – you don’t pollute your body with such filth – because it allows you to maintain your eating-every-three-hours schedule. You die a young death because you forgo a spotter early one morning. Should’ve lived a little.

Girls, Avoid These Guys

When we were kids, we were constantly reminded not to pick on others.  Now that we're adults, we live to judge everyone that passes by.  We simply found a better term for it: People Watching.  It's similar to revamping a resume to read better.  Instead of "teach asshole high school students who will likely become dropouts," you opt for, "create curriculum and implement lesson plans for the leaders of tomorrow."  There is always a way to manufacture a preferred representation.  Unfortunately, too few of us take advantage of changing a few details here and there to actualize a better outcome. Take your name, for example.  When was the last time you changed it?  If the answer is "never," you have some work to do.

What your name says about you, gentlemen (more so - Who to avoid, ladies):

Alexander: [Origin: Greek - Protector of Men] As the eldest of four, you grew up looking after your siblings - acting as their protector.  It's too bad you weren't a better protector of your swimmers.  You never wanted a big family, but because your high school sweetheart didn't believe in birth control as much as she did in alcohol or sexual promiscuity, you have six kids (two of which you're not sure are yours). True to your name, however, you watch over your six mistakes heroically whenever you stumble home from the bar, which you frequent after your 11-hour shift at the car wash.  They all respect you as much as your wife respects her fidelity.  On the bright side, they serve as an excellent tax write-off, which funds your nightly escape into a bottle of whiskey.

Anthony: [Origin: English - Highly Praiseworthy] The CEO of a tech startup, you are the envy of all of your peers.  Sure, you were bullied as a kid, but look at how far you've come!  Now that you have enough money, anyone will like you for the right price.  So your wife spends more time with her trainer stretching her legs overhead than she does with you, the important thing is that she loves your wallet and always will as long as it stays as thick as her trainer's -er - biceps.  From the outside looking in, you've got it all and you have convinced yourself of the same. No one guesses for a second that you are trying to prove a thing when you reach across two pews to drop a hundred dollar bill into the collection plate at mass each Sunday.  Everyone yearns for your level of happiness.

Brian: [Origin: Celtic - Strong One] A star athlete from a young age, you have always been bigger, faster, and stronger than everyone around you.  You have never had to try with women and guys are always trying to be one of your bros.  Peaking in high school, though, was an unfortunate circumstance.  Having to leave college after tearing your ACL and losing your scholarship has landed you back in your hometown where you now coach the high school football team, stroking your beer belly from the sidelines.  The tattoo that meant so much to you at the age of 18 - "desire to play" written in Kanji - has acquired an entirely different meaning in your mid-twenties - "desire to play...with yourself." Try to keep your hands off the underage cheerleaders and you'll be just fine leading your mediocre life.

Christopher: [Origin: Greek - Christ-bearer] Just an "opher" away from Christ.  That alone paves a meticulous path to a beautiful life.  Similar to Christ in every way but his young death (and that whole God thing), you experience every happiness just as you provide it for so many.  A self-starter, you built your fortune through your exquisite carpentry and have never let it get to your head - never once have you showed off by walking on water.  All you need to remember is to avoid prostitutes so you avoid poverty and always bring your own booze to a wedding in case you become too intoxicated to pull off the water-to-wine trick (read: miracle). Save that one for the ladies.

Daniel: [Origin: Hebrew - God is my judge] Too bad you'll come to meet the faces of many a judge when you live a life I'll refer to as Felony-Misdemeanor.  Similar to pot acting as a gateway drug, your failure to return crayons to your classmates in first grade will lead to your seven year stint in the Big House for neglecting to return that car you found parked in an unmanned lot.  Fortunately, your continued focus on carefully handling the soap leads you to the development a brilliant invention now found in every shower across the nation. You've become institutionalized, however, and cannot help yourself from embezzling money just for the hell of it.  At least your commissary account will always remain full.

David: [Origin: Hebrew - Friend] You've met and charmed the parents of every one of your girl friends...as the best friend. A combination of the excessive acne you battled in high school and your overall diminished self-esteem have created a personality that always lands you in the friend zone. Even your own penis friend zones you at times because of your refusal to take down the yellowing posters you've had taped to your wall since the 90s.  If Ferrah Fawcett's family could bury her, you can retire her red swimsuited smile you've been jerking it to since the moment you figured out what your sweaty appendage was for.  It's time to move on - from your platonic friendships and your monotonous past.  Try online dating.

Good Morning America Liked Me

Some geniuses over at ABC's Good Morning America reached out to me regarding my response to the Craigslist ad last night. This happened this morning:

Thanks, GMA!

How to Correctly Respond to a Craigslist Personal Ad

Not that there is much of an explanation necessary, but when I notice an exceptionally witty "male seeking female" advertisement on Craigslist, I respond with the sincerest of hearts.  Perhaps each of you can reach out to these two bros and put in a good word for me?  I'm currently awaiting a response with bated breath.

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The aforementioned ad:

My brother and I are looking for wedding dates for our cousin's wedding in majestic Saratoga, New York on March 23rd, 2013.

We've been told by the bride that bringing dates is "mandatory" so we "won't harass all of my friends all night" and "stay under control". Rather than ask some fringe women in our lives to go and face the inevitable 'does this mean he wants to take it to the next level!?' questions, we'd rather bring complete strangers and just figure it out. Still reading? In anticipation of your questions we've developed an FAQ section below.

Dave, Mike... What's in it for me?

•An excuse to get dressed up

•Open bar & food all night

•Eccentric/downright dangerous bro-2-bro dance moves (may need to sign a waiver)

•Adventure

•Mystery

•Suspense

•True Love

•Royalties once our night's story is developed into a romantic comedy*

*if this happens (we estimate the chances at 85%) we refuse the right to let Ashton Kutcher play either of our characters, however, we will consider him for a supporting role.

SO - What are you fellas like, anyway?

Oh us? We're both in our 20s, single, dashingly tall, Anglo-Saxon, respectfully athletic, love to party, completely house trained, relaxed, passionate, smell great, have cool hair, clean up nice, boast great tie collections, will promise to shave, love our mother, have seen Love Actually several times, controversial, provocative, short-sighted (with a big picture mentality), raw, emotional, sensitive but still bad boys.

What should us ladies be like?

You should respond in pairs as you'll want to know at least 1 person at this wedding. Sisters (twins?!) are preferable, but we'll take friends, or even enemies. You should be attractive or our aunts will judge you, but not TOO attractive or one of our uncles might grope you. You should be relaxed and easy going as we'll probably make up flattering lies about you on the spot. You should own a dress, or be able to acquire one because we don't have any. If (when) you respond you should send some pictures of yourself so we know you've met the above requirements. Feel free to include a resume; this is a classy wedding and we're looking for well-rounded women. Interesting/unique pairings are encouraged; don't be afraid to make yourself stand out!

This feels kinda creepy, are you guys Craigslist killers?

No. Well, if you want to be techni.. nevermind. No, we aren't. We just genuinely want to do something different and we don't see any other way to approach it. What would verify our normalness? Facebook? Instagram? We can have a pre-date screening (interview) prior to the wedding and play 20 questions over a coupla cocktails if you'd like?

We're IN! What now?

First off -- smart thinking. Email us, send along some pictures, information, high school athletic stats, questions, etc. We'll take it from there.

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My response to Dave and Mike:

Dearest Dave and Mike,

I hope this email finds you both dateless.

I came across your Craigslist ad today - was I perusing the Craigslist personals? No, it's not Saturday night for God's sake. I simply procrastinate by browsing BuzzFeed from time to time (OK, most of the day), and your ad was featured. So, off the bat, I'd like to congratulate the two of you on your internet fame - quite impressive. Even if it should be short-lived, it will undoubtedly be a story you tell over and over to each of your mistakes children and grandchildren in the years to come. However, I digress.

Like prostitutes that call themselves escorts, I'd like to apply my friend and myself to be your dates for your cousin's upcoming wedding for the following reasons:

1. We're great at wedding-ing. Yes, I have used wedding as a verb in this instance. In prime attend-a-friend's-wedding-6-times-a-year age, we both maintain a brilliant and decorated history with nuptials. Decorated in the sense that we are both bridal bouquet subjugators; brilliant in the sense that, well, we're rather smart. The latter portion of that statement might scare you, but fear not...

2. We're pretty great looking, and clean up even better. Obviously, I'm not asking that you take us at our word. As such, I have included some pictures of the two of us killing it at life.

3. Bad decisions make great stories. Sure, Craigslist's ads don't boast the most comforting of histories. People have died, many, if not most, of them women. People have been injured. People have been subjected to situations beyond their comfort zone. But fear not, my friend and I are hopeful. Hopeful that should we die, we do so partying. Should we be injured, we do so catching a bouquet. Should we be out of our comfort zone...wait, you said free booze, right? Yeah, we won't be out of our comfort zone.

4. We love brothers. We each have two. We dig them. We'll likely dig you.

5. We cut a mean rug. 'nough said (no waiver necessary).

6. Parents (family) love us. This is not specific to our parents, of course.

7. We love storytelling. As in, we'd love to go along with whatever story you gentlemen oh-so-brilliantly fabricate, and might even offer details of our own - don't worry, they'll be great.

8. We bleed class... at least we can play it off that way. We love dressing up and crossing our legs at the ankle as to not disturb the napkin delicately placed upon our laps while drinking beers champagne, pinkies up. We won't embarrass you, trust.

9. We're single and we're free on March 23rd. Yeah, we figured these had potential to be deal-breakers.

10. See numbers one through nine.

So, what do you say? Let's stalk each other's Facebooks, Twitters, and Instagrams, and get to know each other the old fashion way.

In hopes that you are no longer dateless,

Lily and Cane

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How'd I do?

Update here

HOs for the Holidays

I've never been one for group sex because my mom occasionally reads my blog. I suppose I understand its allure should everyone involved be forced to wear paper bags over their heads, but I'm a middle child and a bit of an attention whore (not that it's obvious) - I'd be terrible with all of that sharing. The same can be said for group text.

We've all, at one time or another, sent or received mass texts. Often, these texts are conveying plans or delivering necessary stories to a group specific to the situation.  Too often, these texts are holiday well wishes from lackadaisical "friends" who fail at any attempt to hide their indifference toward you (I reserve that for family). They send out the generic "Merry Christmas!" or "Happy New Year!" text, and don't mind that any response to their message will generate unwanted reply-alls. While annoying, these people aren't the worst of them. 

Fortunately, I make these "worst of them" friends easily (and all-too-frequently). This collection of people are the group messengers who send seemingly specific messages and forget (or are too incompetent to realize) that anyone with an iPhone can see each person included on the message. I provide evidence of such people:

The first dunce in question (screenshot at right) sent a "hey stranger" text to me and two other (assumingly) girls (best Christmas present ever). While I can understand you might have more than one "stranger" in your life, it may be viewed as poor taste to let them all know collectively that your wish is to see them before the new year. Ladies and gentlemen, how not to get back into a girl's pants.

Does the smiley face bring light to the situation? No, because this particular smiley is even more apathetic than the questionable group inclusion - could he not have troubled himself to include a sweet yellow-circle-face? Perhaps the one with heart-eyes? I think I could've gotten past some of his negligence had he put forth a bit more effort in the smiley game. 

Girl One was quick to call out this no-excuse-because-you-have-an-iPhone-and-should-realize-the-grave-mistake-you-made idiot with a  response of "Group message?" Good work Girl One, but your swift reply ruined my chance to respond, "Hey stranger and other strangers, when is everyone free to get together before the new year?" Instead, I had to go with "↑ (thumbs up emoticon)," reflecting my appreciation of Girl One's comeback. Ugh, so inferior. Girl Two was an hour late to the party with, "Who is this? lol" - she had an hour to come up with something more creative. In retrospect, I'm glad Girl One beat me to the punch. Had I elected to send my initial response, I could have been stuck hanging out with some witless dullard (I find enough of those at the bar as it is). 

Likely, the best part of this entire situation is the fact that he had the balls to call me (who calls people?) the next day. I assumed my "Hey stranger" greeting upon picking up would've directed the conversation appropriately (i.e. him owning up to his oversight), instead, he acted as if nothing happened. Maybe he thought I failed to recognize that it was a group chat since my only reply was an up-arrow followed by a superthumbs up? So, did I call him out? Nope. Why shoot down a sure before-the-new-year thing? 

The second best Christmas gift I received came from Delsean (name unchanged because...well...because I can).  Delsean (pictured at left) and I had the pleasure of meeting this past November. I was elbowing my way to the bar (what else is new), and he was the only thing that stood between me and my life source an adult beverage.  He started talking to me and I let it happen because I was thirsty (and the whole attention whore thing). While waiting for my libation, he asked to see my phone, and like a child in need of a toy to distract them from bothering you, I handed it over. 

Between growing impatient waiting for the bartender to return and worrying about whether or not Delsean would take off with my phone, I exchanged forced conversation pleasantries with him.  He mentioned something about calling himself from my phone (great), I smiled my preprogrammed smile, my drink came, and I was off to another section of the bar.

Later that night, Delsean reminded me that he stole had my phone number with a "hey lovely" text - his signature apparently. He has texted me nearly every day since, with zero response from me. His text assault will be glorified in a post to come, but his Christmas text was much too exceptional not to share. His Christmas group text, that is. 

Delsean chose his favorite ten girls (Yay, I was included!), and sent out his sweetly sincere holiday text.  I get it. I completely understand - he wanted to streamline his holiday wishes and not forget any of his HO, HO, HOs. 

Not only did he demand that I enjoy my holiday, he helped me do just that by including a suave seflie. Thanks for reminding me why I never respond to your texts, Delsean, and thanks for the awesome Christmas present.

Ah, the single life. Jealous?

What to Expect When You're Ex-Sexting

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The Men That God Forgot

When set-ups, blind dates, and down-the-block crack heads don't work out, why not go for the gold...or the stop watch. That's right — I'm talking speed dating (was there really something you thought I wouldn't try?).

I tend to do things for the story, and this was no exception. After some rather painstaking convincing, one of my girlfriends agreed to join me for a night of five-minute-mystery — as long as I was paying. Before I even got the go-ahead from her, I booked our date night. I was ready for a buffet of douchebags dudes. So as to avoid important bar nights (e.g. ladies nights, potential real date nights, and the-hot-bartender-is-working nights), I signed us up for a Monday event (pre-football season, of course).

We started getting ready, and at one point, caught each other's gaze, exchanging the "what are we getting ourselves into" look. We were committed, though. Well, I was committed; she was in it for the free booze entertainment. We remained mildly optimistic in regard to how the night would end up as we cabbed it to the west side.

When we walked in, I made a beeline for the bar, and the event coordinators approached us with an apology — they were overbooked on men. I'm sorry, since when is an uneven guy-girl ratio in women's favor something to apologize for? Apparently, I wasn't really listening to their full confession because as my friend and I ordered our first round at we-really-went-through-with-this cocktail hour she told me she would be leaving after this round. They weren't just overbooked on guys - they upped the age limit for them. We arrived thinking we would be surrounded by gentlemen within a reasonable age bracket, but instead, found that the prospects now included significantly graying heads.

I convinced her to stay through offerings of vast quantities of liquor (we are friends for a reason). I explained that I had often considered a life of laziness leisure, and maybe one of these men could become my J. Howard Marshall. A girl can dream. She assumed I was joking about moving to Florida with my future terminally ill husband, as the evening started.

It was every bit as awkward as you could imagine. I had hoped Will Smith would show up at some point and liven things up, but he clearly had better things to do. Of course, I ended up entertaining myself for most of the evening — making up new stories for each potential suitor, each story more aggressive than the next. They did keep the booze flowing, after all.

At the end of the evening, everyone was asked to rate the people you enjoyed out of everyone you met, and if you both rated each other at all, the guy would be given your email address. I wanted to keep things simple and opted to only rate the oldest and feeblest looking guy I met. I received an email from him two days later.

Hello Lily,

We had the pleasure of meeting Monday evening at speed dating.  I enjoyed spending time with you and was pleased that you were interested in continuing our dialogue.  If I remember correctly, you have friends visiting from out-of-the country for a few more days.  Therefore, I wanted to invite you to join me for a drink after work tomorrow or Friday evening.  Do either of those days work for you? 

By the way, I would prefer to actually talk to you and hear the sound of your voice rather than communicating via e-mail.  My phone # is (917) ***-****.  If you are comfortable sending your number, I will give you a call so we can chat. 

Have a great day.

After no response, he emailed again four days later. You know, just in case the first was never received.

Hello Lily,

We had the pleasure of meeting at the speed dating event last week.  I'm not sure if you received the previous message I sent from my work e-mail account, so I wanted to try again using my yahoo account. 

I enjoyed our conversation and thought you had a great sense of humor.  I look forward to seeing you again and wanted to invite you to join me for a drink after work.  Please advise regarding your availability.  

"Continuing our dialog." "Prefer to actually talk." "Please advise." This dude obviously didn't understand how to appropriately flirt via email nor how to elicit a response of any kind. Did he remember meeting me at all (I mean, obviously he did since he complimented my sense of humor)?Surely I hadn't implied I was a lady period who enjoyed talking on the phone or emails laced with business talk. I could've sworn I mentioned my affinity for buzzing one out at some point. My dreams of changing my husband's colostomy bag were over.

I realized that, sure, I wouldn't mind a life a leisure, but if it came with saggy balls and zero personality, I'd pass. I mean, his emails weren't terrible, but they were a bit too bland for my liking. All he had to do was insult me once or twice, and I would've been putty in his veiny, sun-spotted hands. Guess the only logical next step is Bingo night - do they serve booze in nursing homes?

Blindfolds, Whips, and Chains

My mother recently visited me in the city, and since this post could become its own paperback, I'll share just one story from the experience.

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The woman talks. A lot. She loves engaging in conversation with just about anyone (I'm still surprised the Hot Nuts cart guy didn't follow us home). One discussion from her travels that stands out above the rest is one that lasted five hours.  Fortunately, it was a conversation had neither with me nor in the presence of me. As she recounted the lengthy exchange she had with the passenger seated next to her on the flight from Vegas (poor bastard), I realized this wasn't just a "for-shits-and-giggles" tale. There was a motive in her tone, and I'm disappointed it took me as long as it did to figure it out.

She was trying to set me up.

I don't understand what it is about me that suggests "can't find a guy on her own," but apparently I'm swimming in it. It's one thing when your peers try their hand at matchmaking; it's completely another when your mother does. It's worse when your mother concludes that a man she met on a cross-country flight from Vegas, a man I'm sure got fewer than five sentences in on the conversation, is the man I should be with.

During much of her visit, she kept boasting about Jonathan. "He's such a kind soul." "He's so good looking." He's successful." It was more than apparent that she already liked this Jonathan guy more than she liked me. What could she have possibly learned about him in the five hours they sat next to each other that would lead her to think we were a match made in heaven?  It almost sounded as if she was interested in him.

She retold her story to my friend over dinner, in attempt to further encourage me to reach out - if she had one more person bending my ear her hopes might turn into reality. Apparently, my mother had forgotten I write a blog - if reaching out to the guy turned out well, no harm, no foul. If it was a complete joke - viola! - blog post! And here we are.

After I put  my mother on a flight back to Vegas, I emailed Jonathan the following:

Hi Jonathan,

I would start off by saying, "You don't know me, but..," however, because you were subjected to sitting next to my mother in a confined space for multiple hours, you surely know more than you'd like to about her family members.

I decided I would reach out to apologize on behalf of my siblings and me. We know, better than anyone, how much our mom can talk. When she and I were walking around the city during her visit, she started so many random conversations I feared she wasn't even here to visit me at all. God love her.

If you're ever in the city, let me know. I think I owe you a drink (or seven). I'll expense them back to her - no worries.

Hoping your future travels include noise-canceling headphones,

Lily

That's really as good as my game gets. More often than not, my game consists of getting myself drunk enough to look appealing to guys at a bar: "Hey, she won't put up a fight - let's go with her" (Maybe the case for illegitimate rape can be made in this instance? Is it rape if the "victim" is on top?).  I felt good about the email, though.  I mean, what else is there to say really?

He wrote back and was much too kind when referring to the amount my mother talks - already a turn off.  We made plans to meet for happy hour at a place of my choosing the following week.

I'm never on time for anything, in fact, it was the earliest I had ever been late when I showed up to the date, and he wasn't even there! Strike two, buddy. When he finally arrived, I realized I hadn't drank enough at the bar across the street beforehand.  Really, mom? I decided the only thing I could do was entertain myself. He was barely keeping up with my banter, which made my sarcasm that much more aggressive. He wasn't a terrible guy, he just wasn't a guy I would choose on my own. We both drank away the awkwardness. The last thing I remember was returning an empty shot glass to the bar counter, looking around and being unable to locate Jonathan anywhere. I waited it out for a while then headed home.

The asshole pulled an Irish-exit on me.

Obviously, I'm my own worst enemy (or liquor is his). However, instead of blind dates, I'd much prefer actual blindfolds and possibly whips and chains. Yes, I'd rather be beaten than go on another blind date. Where's Chris Brown when you need him?

And mom, just because a guy is hungover polite enough to put up with you on a long flight, does not mean he's the guy for me. So, unless you're sitting next to Joe Manganiello, set them up with your other single daughter - the one you like.

I'm Not That Into You

The battle between being polite and getting your point across can be harder fought than a Lannister-Stark war; often times, it can include just as much blood and rape (fortunately, not as much incest). Tell a person fervently into bedding you that you're flat out not interested and you're an asshole. Courteously respond with vague negative-based maybes and noes and you're a tease. Navigating disinterest is easily one of the more difficult situations in the dating world (right behind STDs and unwanted pregnancy). How do you let someone know you're just not that into them without making their weekly therapy sessions revolve around you and your cold black heart (why's it got to be black?)?

Not too long ago, I was inflicted with the inconvenience of having to let a guy know it wasn't going to happen. I suppose I shouldn't have reciprocated in post-2am-conversation by reporting on my exact location, but that's not important. What is, is that he actually showed up - who'd have thought? So there I was, enjoying an after-hours beer at my home-away-from-home the bar, and Dave drops by. The bar had already closed (it may or may not have been after 4am), but apparently stumbling up to the door and mentioning my name after closing grants one access (and I thought I would never be an important name in this city). I immediately looked to Emma, my partner in crime for the evening (and many other evenings for that matter), and mumbled as clearly as possible, "I'm not sleeping with him; remind me." She did far better than that.

The three of us walked back to my apartment, commenting on the beautiful Sunday morning sunrise. I thought about attending an early mass, but figured it was best I stick to my usual, lazy 7:30pm Jesus Party so as not to get too excited for the consecrated wine during communion. Catholic guilt loves dropping in like a surprise period on a beach vacation (or worse, a hot date - like the kind with food and the guy footing the bill - one can dream).  I digress.

We arrive at my apartment, Dave hops on my bed (confident much?), and Emma and I take to the couch to watch whatever movie we had been pre-gaming to hours before.  I might take a moment to remind everyone that I live in a studio apartment, meaning the bedroom is the living room is the kitchen is the great room is the den is the game room is the theater is the gym...you get the idea.  Dave really thought he was going to get lucky with Emma an arm's length away.  He tried motioning for me to join him as I ducked his advances by adamantly explaining that seeing the end of the movie was of the utmost importance.  Dave wasn't taking the hint (much like a certain gentleman that texts me almost once a month to no reply →).  I determined that I had already used up my fake sleep card and had to instead opt for a fake sick one.  No way would he believe I was too far gone; I managed not even one stumble on the journey home.  I glanced to Emma who was sitting to my direct left and sent her a text.

Me: He needs to leave.

Emma: Whatever you want lol how can I help?

Me: Throw up? Pretend? I'll hold your hair back?

Emma: Now or at the end of movie?

Talk about a wingman - without question she agreed.  She not only agreed, she consulted me on timing.  Never existed a better reminder of how much you love someone. 

Immediately, she popped up and ran to the bathroom.  I gave my best shocked/concerned look to Dave and followed after her.  The gagging and rough coughing sounds Emma mustered up were brilliant.  I'm pretty sure had Dave grown curious and walked into the bathroom, she would've actually thrown up - she was that dedicated to the role.  I raced into the kitchen to get her a much-needed glass of water while exchanging ugh-she's-ruining-everything glances with Dave.  She gargled the water and then used it to imitate vomit hitting the toilet water.  A true talent. We were trying our best to hold back our laughter, and she cleverly disguised her giggles into gags. We decided she would curl up on the bathroom tile and I would get him to leave.  

Instead of leaving after I had explained the situation, Dave told me we should let her nap it out in the bathroom and he promised to pick her up and put her in my bed postcoital.  Seriously? Well, I had to keep up the charade and explained that I should at least cover her.  I tiptoed back into the bathroom and related his relentlessness to Emma.  The bathroom was no good - she needed to pass out in plain sight.

She shuffled out of the bathroom and crawled into bed next to Dave as his expression shifted from anticipation to horror.  His eyes darted to me pleading that I do something about where she had decided to crash.  On her way into my bed, she mumbled, "My side of the bed..." It was perfect - it had just the right amount of slur with inebriated undertones.  He was sure to head home after that.

Nope.

Alternatively, he suggested he pick her up and move her to the couch (yes, the same couch that is an arm's distance to the bed).  His persistence was more frustrating than realizing you have to drop a deuce as soon as you step out of the shower. I curled up beside her and whispered not to move no matter what; more audibly, I asked her if we could move her to the couch.  I had to keep up my "I'm a victim, too" pretense.  Emma retorted with a resounding, "If you move me I'll throw up, just five more minutes...five more minutes."  The perfect drunken five-more-minutes-fade-out.  Wow, she was a better friend than I could have ever imagined.

Dave gave up on the much-coveted bed and threw me onto the couch.  I rolled off the couch and got him to leave as fast as Kim Kardashian rolled off Ray J's dick and became famous.  He finally walked out, shoes in hand, like a true Sunday morning walk-of-shame - the shame being he failed to get laid.  "A" for effort, though buddy.  "A" for effort.

Sexual Conquests 65-81

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

So it's true what they say - all good things must come to an end, and thus, here we are. I would pour out some booze for conquests One through Eighty-One, but 1) I don't waste booze 2) I don't waste booze and c) I'm hungover and might puke if I smell liquor other than that seeping out of my pores ("You smell like alcohol." - direct quote from my colleague this morning, and it means only one thing: a successful evening. More on that later). I do realize it wasn't just 81 victims conquests - some numbers included multiple ladies. He's just that entertaining.

This last bunch ties in wonderfully with the entire list - they're great. The body-piercing bunch, apparently. Poor Sixty-Five, she probably never saw that slap coming (good thing she's not a pop star - they get those affections to the face). She should at least be grateful her nickname didn't become "purple cock print." Knowing this guy, that was a definite possibility.

More importantly, let's look to Sixty-Nine. "Grenade." Yes, this was written in '06 - Mike "The Situation" from Jersey Shore wasn't the first to coin this term. Casanova should collect royalties.

Seventy-Eight is another favorite of mine. She is lovingly compared to Paula Abdul (much better than 32's Ricky Lake), but now I'm curious - does the real Paula Abdul have a similar "thatch" of pubic hair. Seriously, HOW does he remember these details?

I hope you've enjoyed this list as much as I have. No matter what horrible things I've done in my life, I know I'm a better person than this guy. It helps me sleep at night (so does the vodka). So, I really just want to say, thank you, Casanova. I hope your dick hasn't fallen off, I hope you have managed to dodge procreation, and I hope you holler at me with an updated list. 

Additionally, I find it necessary to reiterate - I am not on this list, nor any updated version that might exist. Something that I'm proud of and sad about at the same time.  I mean, he did say he was "immortalizing" these chicks.  Too bad he spelled demoralizing wrong.

Sexual Conquests 49-64

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

I love attention, but come on Fifty-Sixes. I wonder, although, if that's a typical Tuesday for them? It doesn't strike me as a rookie threesome maneuver, and this was before the days of YouPorn. Speaking of technological advances, I've just realized that all of these girls were pre-smartphone, damn. The List could have come with photo/video attachments, because you know Casanova would have convinced most of these sloozies to pose for his mobile device. Never have I wanted his updated List more, meh.

Also disappointing - his lack of detail with Fifty-Eight. What happened on that bus? He's so flippant with the information he provides. Bus bitch gets nothing, while Sixty gets condom detail. I really hope this means he threw one on with One through Fifty-Nine as well and this trend didn't just start because he felt inspired by AC/DC (great song choice by the way, Sixty clearly aspires to be a stripper - I dig it). 

While the condom mention threw me off, I was more surprised that he's able to recall the color of these girls' eyes. Few people ever remember that detail about even one person, let alone dozens. I couldn't tell you the color of all my exes' eyes. Does that make me a bad person? Maybe. Does that make me a comparable asshole to Casanova (he even admits he is - Sixty-Two)? Not even close.

This guy runs through high school friends, strippers, and divorcées (some categories overlap). You (yes, you) have probably slept with him without knowing. Well, if not this Casanova, surely another. Just make sure you wrap it up.  Unless, of course, you're Catholic - that's a sin. Instead, spread disease and irresponsibly procreate (one and of the same, really).

Concrete Jungle. Concrete Crotch.

You know it's taken a turn for the worse when your friends announce they'll be commandeering your dating life. They're pretty much saying, "You're embarrassing us, and if you don't kill yourself soon, we will." Actually, I think that's exactly what my friends said when it happened to me. I can't say I really blame them. 

The dating coup was decided over a fancy Restaurant Week dinner, the only kind of fine dining I could afford having spent all of my money at bars on putting-myself-out-there drinks. They realized it was time to step in once it was my turn for the "any special guy in your life" update. They had all just finished boasting about their seemingly wonderful relationships, and were horrified when I showed them a picture of a bar hook up that passed out on my couch before the hook up part of the deal ever happened. Apparently, this was the last men-in-Lily's-life overdose they could handle before staging an intervention.

Sure, it had been a while since I had been out on a real date. The dating world was apparently boycotting me as much as my vibrator, which had decided to go on strike right in the middle of my slump. Just because it had been a while (or forever) since I had a great guy in my life, didn't mean I was incapable of choosing the right men on my own. Or did it? Regardless, I gave in to their demands, and found myself six emails into an "Introduction - Lily/The Ted" conversation later that week. 

The banter was fueled by sports talk after my matchmaking friend, Cane, made it well-known that we were football rivals.  Historically, Cane had always refused to set people up so as to not disappoint on either end (she never disappoints as a drinking/judging/bitching buddy). For me and "The Ted," she decided to make an exception. Spoiler alert: she shouldn't have.

The thing is, I should've realized it wasn't going to end well when the scheduled steak dinner turned into happy hour drinks. There must be something about my email correspondence that screams "no self-respect" because he knew I wouldn't object to an excess of drinks replacing food. Fast forward a few hours and we were back at my apartment (high fives to my doorman on the way in - he always appreciates a fresh new face).

I didn't necessarily want to make out with him, but the Jameson convinced me it was better than the solo manual labor I would try for and undoubtedly fail at later. We found our way to my bed, which isn't difficult in a studio apartment. The floor would have worked just as well, but why make an already uncomfortable situation more so?

The kissing wasn't terrible, but it was only moistening one set of lips. As is typical with most bankers, his seductive talent lived only on the trading floor. My mind began wandering (and wondering) to the better days of hook ups. Would things ever live up to past excitements?  Gone were the college days where the beds weren't the only things that were extra-long. Gone were the juvenile, yet stimulating, high school days of sneaking out to head down the block giving the neighbors a show in the back of your hand-me-down car. Now all I had to show for myself (and the neighbors) was this average guy, his average kissing, his average penis (assuming the latter - and I'm probably being generous), and unfortunately some Concrete Crotch.

If you're wearing fairly tight jeans while reading this, you're at an advantage because you can follow along and experience this as you continue (I suggest against this if you are currently around children - pedophilia is frowned upon). When spreading your legs in tight jeans, you create a firm barrier that can form anywhere between two to four inches from your actual baby making parts. It is rock solid. Not even a karate chop could affect your situation (chopping being my favorite method of testing the concreteness).

Now, many guys fail to consider this when attempting to pleasure a woman. Either they don' t care or they don't care realize they're making a mistake.  While attempting dominance, they hover over you and spread your legs with theirs. You're wearing tight jeans and this spreading quickly creates a concrete barrier versus a preferred warm welcome (why didn't you just wear the sweatpants?) They put forth their best effort in clitoral stimulation, and it's all for naught as they remain two to four inches away from any vaginal (you're welcome) contact.

The Ted hit the Concrete Crotch as aggressively as Chad Johnson hit his wife (I wanted to go with a Chris Brown reference here, but I decided to attack it with current events). I was amused by his ignorance.  He really thought he was doing me a favor. "Please her and she'll please me." It's a standard misconception, and it should be renamed "Try and please her, she'll fake it for my sake, and she'll please me if I spend money on her."

I suppose I could have let him know the common mistake he was making, but his ignorance was the only thing that amused me at the time. If he couldn't find his way around a Concrete Crotch, he undoubtedly wouldn't be able to perform as I needed him to. It was finally time to cut him loose. I muttered, "I'm sorry, you have to go, I'm a lady," and escorted him out as he begrudgingly walked toward my door with a bewildered look on his face. I couldn't decipher whether his confusion was from me declaring myself a lady or me laughing and texting a backup mid-step.

The backup wasn't available, and sadly, I wasn't even in the mood to buzz one out (or my broken vibrator wasn't). A failed night in my eyes. It did teach me a lesson though: buy a dependable vibrator wear leggings more often on dates.

Sexual Conquests 33-48

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

Casanova is no longer Casanova; he is now Prince Charming. Well, at least according to Forty-One he is. He conquered the much coveted threesome (well, foursome - but by the looks of it, the fatty just watched). Finally. Took him long enough. Speaking of long, he was sure to mention his "huge dick" again (Thirty-Five). We get it, asshole, you're God's gift to women (isn't he, though?).

If only the luck in his pants extended to Forty-Three. Perhaps we shouldn't feel sorry for the "girlfriend," though. He did say he "loves" her, right? That's really all a girl can ask for. Well, that, and for him to wrap it up with all the other whores ladies he runs through. I sure hope he's careful - you know what they say: those who pull out during sex as a method of birth control - there's a name for those people - parents. And let's be realistic, I'm sure he has some kiddos running the streets somewhere in the world. At the rate he's going, I'm sure he has  enough for a CYO basketball team (just assuming he's Catholic - he sounds it, no?). I'll be sure to send him a Father's Day card next year, and might include a link to this blog.

This group is rather diverse -  a Canadian, a Russian, a German, a "half-black, half-mexican [sic]." He surely maintains the anti-discrimination all-list-long.  He makes me want to start mixing things up.  Historically, I've always wanted blonde mistakes babies, but perhaps I'll take Prince Charming's route and expand my search. I will, however, steer clear of koala's (Thirty-Nine). I've never much trusted bears - there's a reason they're affiliated with pedophilia.  

I'm glad I was able to work pedophilia in there. Sorry, I'm not sorry, and neither is Casanova Prince Charming.

Sexual Conquests 17-32

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

After posting One through Sixteen, quite a few of my readers began questioning the authenticity of the occurrences. I'd like to vouch for Casanova's List - he didn't compile it to boast to hundreds of people (I'm doing that for him). He had too much time on his hands and too many blunts in them. He simply wrote an email to a buddy - no bragging necessary. I even heard many of the stories from the whore's horse's mouth containing more detail, which is seemingly unimaginable. My boyfriend at the time (the email recipient) verified and, at times, contributed to the firsthand recollections. 

At one time or another, I'm certain each of you have written out (or perhaps compiled one in your head) a list of conquests. Maybe your list was one only consisting of names. You can't really be mad that Casanova is simply more detail-oriented than you are. He's not lying to potential employers when his resume boasts "strong attention to detail." Who are we kidding, Casanova doesn't have to interview for jobs; jobs are bestowed upon him (as made evident in his list). I digress.

What can we ascertain from conquests Seventeen through Thirty-Two?

Well, he's got a "huge dick." Thanks, Seventeen.

Apart from discovering Casanova is well endowed, I am more so excited to spotlight Eighteen. As creepy as this will might sound, I wish I could have witnessed this (OK, I'm sure if I really wanted to, I could find it online somewhere, but observing non-actors doing this - much more intriguing). How does someone even propose that idea?

"Hey, you're short; I'm tall. You stand there; I'll stand here. Open up."

Can it be that simple? Seriously, how does that come up? Also, he didn't really specify - is she a little person or just short? If it's the former, that adds a whole new brilliance. So many questions that I will never have the answers to, meh.

As much as I love Eighteen, bitch doesn't hold a candle to the three "nights" in Cancun (Twenty-Five through Twenty-Seven). Talk about a diverse conglomerate. I almost felt like I was on It's a Small World at Disneyland - the NC-17 version.

I really liked this group. Starting out with freckles, throwing in some nicknames and a pot-purchasing cougar, finishing up with a Ricky Lake lesbian - entertainment at its best.

Sexual Conquests 1-16

(See The List for introduction and explanation) (Click to zoom)

Taking virginity on Christmas. Naked at Easter. He has some fascinating ways of celebrating Jesus. At least he doesn't discriminate for religion, age, or weight - a true patriot.

I find it rather intriguing that he calls Three a "slut." Sure, he disregards women as mere conquests, but we needn't worry because, well, the aforementioned are sluts unworthy of anyone's respect. At least they're "spirited" sluts as Two is described, despite her abundance of pubic hair. Quite a motley crew what with spirited sluts and registered sex offenders (Fifteen). This list is starting off with a bang (or 16).

Most Some people might find his chronicles rather offensive, but not I. He's aggressively bold and I appreciate that. I wish I could compile a list like this, but I am, of course, saving myself for marriage. That, or I lack the detailed memories, which is probably for the best (thank you, vodka).

I cannot blame these women for falling victim.  On the few occasions I came in contact with him, I too was charmed.  His cool confidence emanates off him in a seductive scent (think Pepe Le Pew's scented trail but substitute putrid for erotic).  Initially these women have no idea what they're getting themselves into. They're at home, pregaming with their girls, asking dumb questions like "does this make me look fat?" (of course it does - but really, it doesn't matter because someone, somewhere will fuck it), and they have no idea what awaits them out in the world.

Well, ladies, Casanova awaits. Enjoy.

The List

Oscar Wilde once said, "A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her."  He went on to later say, "If you can't beat 'em, fuck 'em." Or maybe that was Chris Brown. I digress. For a dead guy, Mr. Wilde is pretty spot on. Case in point...

The below email was written with no intent to be read by a woman - ever. I luckily happened upon it by perusing through a boyfriend's email chance. While it lacks the intricate formatting of the excel spreadsheet douche, it does include plenty of eloquently observed details and does not disappoint in length (that's what she said).

Written in 2006, this list was one of many emails from its author that piqued my interest. He has a style unlike any other and paints a beautiful picture with his pot-fueled recollections that are as amusing as they are descriptive.  I might be a satisfied woman if only I possessed the updated version - a list that is sure to have quadrupled in brilliance size (as per usual, I'll have to get by with satisfying myself).

To ensure its authenticity, I will post redacted pictures (obviously, I'm not supposed to have this - or even know it exists) of the email over six parts beginning with its introduction.

It's rather self-explanatory, but I will note that he's for real. He's a womanizer, and he's great at it (he's also pretty fucking good looking).

From the self-proclaimed "Junior Casanova" (click to zoom):

I will take this opportunity to clarify that I am not on this list, which is a bit upsetting seeing as how these women become "immortalized" simply at mere mention. Well, now that they're on a blog for the world to see, I suppose Casanova was right. If you're considering compiling a similar list, might I suggest making the same preparations (e.g. "rippin bowls," "acid jazz," and "trippin out").  Sounds like a lovely little Sunday if I do say so myself.

Obviously, my favorite part of the entire email is "imagine if it got out" (cue my creepy smile and eerie cackle). He even calls himself out for being scumbag - do I hint a small measure of moral fiber? This introduction makes me happy, but the actual descriptions to come are the real cherries on top, or lack thereof (see what I did there?).

To note: The email recipient was, in fact, able to name quite a few more that didn't make the list. He named enough to maintain a high for at least a month from receipt of the many "blunts in the mail" (which is just stupid, because anyone knows you shouldn't send drugs through the mail - that's what poor people drug mules are for).

The Help

Try to limit bar attendance to four hours max. If more time must be allowed, bar hop. Nothing good comes from being in the same bar for an extended period of time. What does come is this...

Not too long ago, one of my girlfriends and I ended up staying at a bar for nine hours straight. Inevitably, we flirted with most of the inappropriate men that approached us (drunk does not mix well with questionable self-esteem). Just as the night was picking up, one of my beaus convinced the bartender to come out from behind the bar to “ice” me (for those unfamiliar, “icing” occurs when a person is surprised with a Smirnoff Ice and is then required to take a knee and chug said beverage - classy). Apparently, my icing talents are sexy because this same gentleman told me he would marry me...if I was brown.

A quick lesson for the guys reading this: Don't “ice” chicks - buy them a cocktail of their choice; and more importantly, don't tell them you wish they were brown (or any other color for that matter).

After I shook off Prince Charming and wiped the remnants of the luke warm bitch-drink off my face, I was caught off-guard by a convict. How did I know he had spent time perfecting his grip on bars of soap in the shower? His orange jumpsuit. OK - I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and say it was his Halloween costume (it happened to be October 31st). Fortunately for him, I was in a great mood having escaped my icing Indian (dot, not feather), and I was a bit more intoxicated.

(Source)



Prisoner 69 (how creative) introduced himself to me with a mumbled “Let me buy you a drink.” Sadly, as it turned out, his offering was not an invitation to free alcohol. Instead, it became more of a “Come over here where I can trap and force you into a conversation you don’t want to have.” Wow, did he know me well - this was just as enticing as a drink. He stared me down with his rape eyes, and, clearly, the only way to alleviate the situation was to insult him. So, I made a comment on his Buccaneers bandanna (yes - he was wearing a bandanna - not part of his costume): “Why is it you don’t follow a real sports organization?”

Failing to deliver my insult with the proper bitchiness resulted in further bullshit-driven conversation, mostly, regarding football. All I remember of this conversation was muttering "Cowboys" with the hope that he had been gang raped by their O-line and didn’t want to talk anymore. So, one thing led to another, and I gave him my number (before you judge - drunk, remember?).

Of course, I completely forgot the number exchange, and it wasn't until he texted me (two nights later) that I was so pleasantly reminded. I knew it was him because I had him saved in my phone as "Bucs Convict :(" - yes, there was a sad face emoticon. At least drunk me was giving sober me a warning. Our text conversation progressed:

Bucs Convict :(: hey lily, it's brian. how r u?

Me: Oh hey, Brian, I'm doing well. You?

Bucs Convict :(: still hating on me for being a bucs fan?

Me: Haha, yeah, of course

Bucs Convict :(: lol but were not a threat to dallas lol

Me: Yeah yeah (Translation: I am embarrassed by your grammar.)

Bucs Convict :(: so do u work?? (Did you seriously just ask me that as your third question?)

Me: I do...do you?

Bucs Convict :(: yeah I'm at work Now I'm a bad boy lol (Uhhh - OK? Please avoid "bad boy" talk as well as inappropriate capitalization.)

Me: Late night?

Bucs Convict :(: yeah 3-11 (Oh, maybe he’s a doctor?)

Me: What do you do? (Since we’re already crossing boundaries.)

Bucs Convict :(: I'm a janitor in a nursing home. what u do (...)

Me: Finicial services company 

Bucs Convict :(: that sounds like a good paying job (Who says that? Oh, yeah. The same guy who asks if you work as question three in “getting to know you.”)

Me: It pays the bills, haha

Bucs Convict :(: lol cool, so where are u usually free (He can't even put a complete sentence together. At this point I chose to stop responding.)

Bucs Convict :( (an hour later): hey lily guess u were busy before, well talk soon then goodnight

Bucs Convict :( (five days later): hey lily, how's it going, what are u up to tonight? and remember my friend who was talking with ur friend he wants to know if we can chill tonight, let me know, ttyl

Bucs Convict :( (ten days later): yo what's up u never respond to me from last week that's not cool, if I want i'll just erase it number then, ur FUCKED UP peace!!!!

Needless to say, I haven’t heard from him since. Was I a bitch for ignoring his texts? Maybe. Was he a bitch for not taking a hint and losing his shit via text? Absolutely. If, sitting at that bar for nine hours taught me anything, it was this: Avoid all men in bars who refuse to buy you a proper drink. I would take a roofie-colada over being iced or dealing with an illiterate, foul-mouthed janitor any day.