things I find while reading rss feeds… just… lmao!

So while reading through my RSS feeds, I come across a post titled, who to ask me out on a date.
I found some of this amusing, so it’s being put here.
enjoy and we’ll post again soon.

I realize that it’s usually considered déclassé to discuss exs during
the first date, and probably even more so before the first date. But
this is a funny story. And, in a roundabout way, it serves a function.
Once upon a time, the year before I came to law school, I went out
with a guy named S. He was a a PhD candidate from the
Anthropology (don’t you always want to spell that like the store now?)
department at —. On our second date, I went over to his house so he
could feed me fresh fried chicken from his deep fryer. His idea, I
swear.
Anyway, so a bottle of wine or two later, he leans in and kisses me.
One kiss turns into a full make out session. Then he starts to get a
little hands-y. I stop him, because it’s the second date and I’m a
recent graduate of — looking to reform my image into “career girl”
from “crazy undergrad slut who hit on her broadcast prof.” After a bit
of blocking, he gets all flustered and says, “You know, L.? We’re
going to have to reach a compromise here.”
“What are we compromising, exactly? My boundaries and your reputation
as not a rapist?”
“It can’t be all about you, L.”
I wish I could have spoken. I wish I could have said something really
clever. Instead, I tried to see past the red that blinded my vision,
and I left.
He called the next week and told me that he was sorry, would I have
dinner with him? Because I was still in that transition phase and knew
more about vibrators than I did about boys, I accepted his apology and
went out with him.
At this point, I should mention that he only owned a scooter. No car.
Just a tiny little scooter. And I knew enough not to trust him to
drive.
So he gets in my car to go out to dinner, and the first thing he says
is, “I want to talk about last weekend.”
“Go for it.”
“I just feel like things are moving too fast. I just can’t handle it
when you’re affectionate and attentive.”
No lie. Word for word, he said that.
He went on and on for a few minutes about how he wasn’t used to being
treated well by his girlfriends and said, “You know, sometimes, I just
wish you would be more of a bitch.”
He was so busy waxing philosophical on the deeper meanings of why he
wanted me to change everything about myself to cater to his needs that
he didn’t notice that I turned the car around until we were five
minutes away from being back to his apartment.
“Did you forget something?” he asked.
“No.”
“Why are we back here?”
“Because you said that you needed someone who would be a bitch. Well,
this is me being a bitch. Get out of my car. And don’t call me again.”
We’re facebook friends now.
Anyway, the whole point of this is, if the situation was reversed, if
I had to be me again and you were S., I would be that bitch for
you. And this time, I wouldn’t drive off and ignore your phone calls
for three weeks and tell you, the next time that I saw you at our
favorite Indian restaurant (okay, fine, the only Indian restaurant in
Baton Rouge) that what you really needed was to pay a hooker to be
your dom for the night, in front of your friends and that boy who I
later learned was your brother. No. I would stick around and be
bitchier than a dog in heat. Because I care.
Now, when are you free for dinner and drinks?”

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