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By the end of dinner it looked like he’d spit out more than he’d ate. • Nowhere on her profile did it say anything about her being an acid casualty and ketamine dealer. The first is when I waited an hour outside at Harvard Square in late January because my date was in the North End buying pot (not for me.) The second was with a grad student in English who dismissed my skepticism towards Freudianism with, “I guess I’m just not as much of social determinist as you are.” The moral of these stories: don’t date Harvard men.
• I went back to the person’s place after a concert and unwittingly served as passive-aggressive muscle for a drug deal. But when the conversation turned to “future plans” the guy could not tell me much beyond how many dogs he wanted to own at some future time. • Made the wrong comment about conceptual artist Matthew Barney to the wrong art student…
• I got walked out on on a date that seemed like it was going fairly well because I said I didn’t like french fries. • The date where the self-identified “artist” revealed her day job was working as a prison guard, and she spent much of our afternoon on a mumbled, paranoid rant about an anonymous “them” who were on the verge of their incipient take over of everything we hold dear. She ordered worth of lunch, which she wouldn’t touch because she was sure it was contaminated.
• My date ‘encouraged’ me to share the 0 steak for two.
• I am pretty good at not going out on dates unless I am fairly certain that I have picked someone I am at least a little compatible with, but at one point, I ended up going out with a girl to a cafe, where she had secretly invited her friends, who, it turns out, were mostly just AA buddies, and the next thing I knew, I was at an AA meeting.
On the phone it had come up that he was a Redsox fan — I am a diehard Yankees fan.After some words of consolation from me about how fucked up that experience must have been, she told me she made it up, and every other story she had told me that night, because she likes making up stories.