Meeting Girls on Metro

This is my seventh Bulleit Bag. Typically, I cruise through about two-thirds of a bottle of bourbon during each session, so by my estimate, I’ve spent $150 entertaining my readers in the past two months.

Ya’ll are a bunch of ungrateful invalids.*

*Please Note: If you are an actual invalid, I am not referring to you. I strongly support every paralyzed person that reads this blog. It is my hope that each and every one of you shares my work during your quadriplegic book clubs. Or book stares, if that’s all your severed brain stem allows you to do.

Do you really write these drunk?
Didn’t I just cover this 22 seconds ago? That’s the problem with America today. Nobody listens.

How do I not find psychos at the grocery store?
Honestly, I didn’t know that psychotics frequented their local grocers. They always struck me as the BJ’s type, purchasing their generic flat screens in bulk so they could display two nine-year-old Malaysian boys going down on each other in stunning 1080p. But if they are perusing shit at the local Harris Teeter, I think you’re safe in the produce section. Have you seen how pale the average serial rapists is? Not getting enough beta carotene.

How does one hit on a girl who is engaged?
I guess the best move is subtle confidence. You need to project that you know she’s married, but at the same time, show that you could give two shits about her husband. You have to use your coy, endearing smile to reminder her that the guy she married hits her, and that you would never do that.

“You’re too pretty to be smacked around,” your eyes need to say. “That’s what happens to ugly girls.”

That said, I only remember hitting on a married girl once before. I was in New Orleans, on my 70^th consecutive hour of being blacked out, and I was wearing a snap-button shirt. I convinced a girl to rip it off, and she got such a kick out of it, that I buttoned it back up and she giggled and pawed at it again. It was like playing peek-a-boo with a toddler. But out of nowhere, her husband came running up.

“What the fuck are you doing with my wife?”

“Tearing off my shirt. You can tear off my shirt too.”

He screamed and guffawed for a full two minutes before realizing I was more concerned about my drink being finished than I was about him hitting me. So, even more enraged, he grabbed his wife by the arm and dragged her out of the bar.

I like to imagine that they went back to their hotel room and he smothered her with a pillow.

My girlfriend told me she had a cold sore on her mouth and couldn’t give me a blowjob because she didn’t want me to get sick.
Look, I’m no Dr. Science, M.D., but I’ve been told that mouth herpes and sex herpes are two different things. I frankly don’t buy it, but every science journal says so. Additionally, I have several male friends who have mouth herpes. They swear it occurs naturally and didn’t come from being bent over in a corner of a club in SoHo. Since some of them have never even been to New York City, I buy it.

So, your girl was lying to you. She didn’t want to go down on you because she was tired. How do you get revenge, you ask? Easy. Fly to China, contract SARS and eat her out.

Could you come up with a Sex and the City drinking game?
Could I? Yes. Will I? Well, yes. As much as I’m loath to admit this, I’ve seen every single episode of that show. But that was only because I was depressed about being dumped and my female roommate owned the entire series.

Wow. Saying that out loud does not make that justification sound any better.

Okay. Here’s my Sex in the City drinking game for the ladies. You’ll love it. It involves Skinny Girl Margarita.

Step One: Pour yourself a Skinny Girl Margarita.

Step Two: Drink it and don’t watch Sex in the City. You aren’t going to find a man sitting in your bedroom, clutching tissues and pining about how much you want someone like Aiden. Here’s a secret. No man refurbishes antique furniture for a living.

In your opinion who is the most attractive National, Capital and Redskin?
Wow, the bait-me-into-saying-something-gay-about-myself questions are abundant this week. What’s funny is that the day before this question came, I called the girl who sent it racist. Then I read this and saw she left the Wizards off the list.

“You really are racist,” I said.

But, to answer her question, Brooks Laich, Danny Espinosa and Robert Griffin III.

Fuck. Gay. Whatever. At least I’m multiculturally homosexual.

Kidding. I would never sleep with a Latino man. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for his family murdering him.

If you’re unhappy, will a significant other make you feel better about yourself?
That’s hard to say, because everyone does act differently. What I hate is that old adage about how you won’t find happiness with someone else until you find happiness with yourself. I find that saying crap because it discounts shit like the truth and reality. Numerous people have been down in the dumps and met someone that’s pulled them out of it. I think Hellen Keller did that to a guy once. Or a tree. She couldn’t tell the difference.

That said, I think there’s too much unhappiness that stems from people wanting someone else to be in their life. In those situations, I think, more often than not, the joy you may find is superficial. Because in those instances, you aren’t looking for the “correct match,” but rather “a match.”

You should never jump into a relationship just because you want to be in one.

But if you generally are sad about being single, I suggest pot. Not too much though. Like twice a week.

Have you ever jerked off while driving?
Come on, dude. My coworker found this blog and reads it now. I sit next to her. Every damn day. She doesn’t look at me the same way anymore. And you ask this question?

Once. Five years ago, on the New Jersey Turnpike at 11:45 p.m.

Also nine other times.

How do you feel about women with ink?
You know, I’m torn about this. On the one hand, I could care less. Cool. Ink. But on the other hand, every girl I’ve dated that’s gotten a tattoo has had some sort of unresolved issue in her life. I can’t call it a direct correlation, but it’s there.

That said, I got my first tattoo in April. And I’ve lied to everyone about why for the past six weeks. Here goes.

I was at dinner with a girl I was obsessed with, who happened to have two tattoos. She was talking about them, and I told her I could never get one because of the whole permanence concept.

“I just have issues with forever,” I said.

“Wow. That’s just what a girl wants to hear.”

Ten days later I texted her a photo of a star on my bicep. Look at me!

We are, ummm, not together.

Moral of the story? Don’t date people with tattoos. We’re all imbalanced idiots.

Follow Up: I love my tattoo and wanted to get one for four years. Yes, the girl was an—an—impetus, but it really had nothing to do with her. I wanted this and did it on my own.

Discussion Point: Do you believe a fucking word I just said?

Is it better to ask a girl you are somewhat struggling with, or go single to a close friend’s wedding?
What would be worse, going solo to a plus-one wedding or taking a friend?
I got these two questions within the span of two minutes, which means desperate-guys-thinking-they-can-get-laid season is upon us. I thought I was gonna fuck my way through three weddings last year. No dice. It’s harder than the movies say. If you aren’t a guy that already picks up women, a wedding isn’t going to make the difference.

Let’s be real. You’re gonna have nine scotch and sodas before your first mini-quiche. You aren’t picking up girls after that.

But to the guy struggling with a girl: If you want to dump her, this is an excellent way to send the message. If you still like her, I say tread with caution anyway. Bad relationship vibes can explode in situations where everyone is supposed to be amped for happily ever after.

To the second guy: yes, take your friend. For starters, she’s your friend. It’ll be fun. And if she’s a halfway decent friend, she’ll have no qualms about leaving you the hotel room for 30 minutes.

It’s actually a baller move. Think about it. First girls will assume that’s your girlfriend, which makes you a desirable quantity. Girls love guys who have girlfriends. And then, when you tell them it’s your friend, you come across as the sweet, adorable guy who brought her. They be tingling in your palm.

What are the top lines guys fall back on when ending shit with chicks?
Since we all know the clichés, I’d rather look at them and explain what guys are thinking when they look at you and lie to your face. Let’s roll:

It’s not you. It’s me.
He wants to sleep with a couple other girls.

I just need some space.
He thinks you are latching onto him like an 18^th century leech that’s been tasked with curing syphilis.

You’re great, but I’m not ready for a relationship.
You probably aren’t great. Time for some introspection.

I just don’t think this is going to work long-term
He thinks you are crazy and/or he’s met someone else.

I think we would be better as friends.
He thinks you would be horrible as a girlfriend and the last thing he wants to do is be your friend.

I don’t know. I just, I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I don’t know. I really don’t know.
He is most likely me.

Girls love to ask why guys like to come on girls’ faces.  I can never find an answer better than “We just do.”  Would you care to share your thoughts on what exactly it is about facials that is so appealing?
So I got this question two weeks ago and have been sincerely noodling it ever since. I know what the stock answer is, that it’s demeaning and guys like to do it to lord of girls in some sort of Foucauldian power move.

There’s some sort of argument there. Facials have taken a larger prominence in culture and reality in the past ten years. And some would say that it coincides with women becoming much greater equals in society. Because of such, men these days feel the need to assert dominance in any kind of way, and they have found it in rocking a load all over a girl’s face.

I buy some of that argument. But I don’t think that all of it. There are a lot of sex acts that could be considered demeaning, but aren’t. When a girl goes down on a guy, it’s not a submissive act. Neither is the opposite. I get turned on by going down on girls. I think it’s safe to assume the reverse is true.

The problem with facials is that there’s no reciprocal way for girls to perform this, which is why it’s explained as a male-dominance thing.

But I, me, I frankly think it looks hot. Like it seriously turns me on.

Then again, I’ve only asked one girl ever if I could do it. And that was someone I loved. So to me it’s becoming so comfortable with a person that you are willing to cross societally acceptable boundaries in the name of pleasing each other.

I like that reasoning.

This past week, I’ve apologized 19 times for six different things to ten different people. And I’m sick of sorry.

First was the girl whose friend I tore down on these pages a couple weeks ago. That missive had all the sincerity of a flounder telling he wouldn’t be delicious if I fried him up. We know you aren’t being honest.

Then there was a massive project I fucked up at work. I spent days saying “I’m sorry” to my boss and higher ups for that, but those all came in the context of me wanting to keep cashing checks.

Lastly is my sister, who a month after her wedding discovered I did something that day she expressly forbade me from doing. For that, I found myself apologizing for getting caught, and even though I do feel miserable that she’s mad, it’s impossible to convey honesty and gravitas when people correctly tell you that you’re only sorry because you got found out.

Drinking Affligems last night in a dingy cellar bar with a friend, I recounted these numerous issues, ending the train of stories with an emphatic sigh.

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m constantly apologizing for shit I don’t really feel bad about doing.”

“Then stop doing it.”

This concept immediately struck me as novel. I was raised to reflexively apologize whenever something went wrong that was remotely close to being my fault. It became my modus, a combination—I guess—of inherent Jewish guilt, a passive attitude toward conflict and a genuine desire for shit just to be over.

These apologies I kept proffering, she correctly noted, were deflecting from my frequent claim about not giving a shit about anything in my life.

“Fucking own it,” the girl said. “It’s lame being in-between. If you actually carry a fuck-it attitude, then live up to. Piss people off and don’t apologize. Ever.”

I always thought about being a complete bad-ass before, but it never occurred to me that I could just do it. Right now though, it has a lot of allure. In my inbox sits an email from my mother from yesterday morning, borderline disowning me as her son. She sent it expecting—because this is what I always do—a sincere response that says I’ll make amends and do my best to never fuck up again.

But, here’s the deal. I’m going to fuck up again. I’m always going to fuck up again. I see no issue with routinely causing the same problems over and over again. Odds are I’m going to write another blog about my ex that compares her love box to an 82-year-old man’s tracheotomy. Odds are I’m one day going to publish a story and my father will found out that I lied to him all throughout high school. Yes. I was high on drugs that time you asked. What time, you say? The answer’s still yes. And the easy money is on me seriously upsetting my best friend once more while drunk by again insulting her ovaries. Possibly by that line right there.

It’s not that I don’t learn my lessons. It’s that I don’t care enough to change my ways.

There’s a general consensus among the reasonable Western population that everyone should strive to be a little bit better. That if every person tries to be nicer, tries to watch their tongue more frequently and tries to help others more, in 15 years we’ll all be eating sugar-coated gum drops in a field full of lilacs while Sarah McLaughlin hosts an acoustic concert with new songs about how cancer patients were cured with empathy.

Can’t fucking wait.

What, I say, is so fucking wrong with living with your flaws? Letting them be.

Look. Here are mine. In their entirety.

1. I don’t give a shit about anything.

I don’t. My mother always tells me that as a newborn, infant and toddler, I never cried. This story isn’t told as some platitude about the ease of raising me. No, she always said it with an air of incomprehensibility. I didn’t cry ever. About anything. The example she always gives is that she could leave me in my stroller for hours, while she swam laps at the pool. I just sat there.

Which makes me believe my genes predispose me to being a callous citizen.

Fucking own it.

Here’s the problem with that, though. I believe every word I just wrote. I simultaneously know that none of it is fucking true. I’m 28 and all I know is that I change my mind about who I am with the frequency and consistency of a metronome.

I’m a hardened, calculated asshole who frankly doesn’t give a shit that his sister spent all Saturday night crying in her room. I also spent the whole car ride home with a knot in my stomach, alone, trying to find a real, honest apology somewhere within me.

Girls are bitches and sluts and all that shit and aren’t worth a razor-thin slice of my heart. I’ve also written more love letters begging ex-girlfriends to take me back than anyone in America.

Nothing fucking bothers me. Ever.  I also once broke down into tears after trying for ten minutes to kill a mosquito and failing. I just sobbed, knowing I was stuck with this buzzing in my room forever.

Where does that leave me? I’m an amalgam of me, a countering, conflicting set of personalities and emotions, feelings that are as whimsical as Willy Wonka after whip-its. I have no idea why bouts of sadness hit me, but there are times when I, before crawling under my covers, put on sweatpants, a hoodie and a fitted hat, because I want to feel as protected from the world as possible.

Then again, three nights ago, I was skipping down a sidewalk in Northwest. This is not an exaggeration. I was literally skipping down the streets—hop , step, hop, step—because I was so happy.

The reason I was so thrilled was because I’d just been castigated for bringing a girl to tears over my blog. That. That made me happy.

All I really know about my life is that there’s never been a single concept in my head that wasn’t instantaneously countered by the exact reciprocal thought, which presents the completely opposing view point, which carries with it such a plausibility that I immediately assume it to be equally as true.

Basically, I’ve never taken a stance on anything in my life. I just traipse through the ether, pinballing and acting when I need to, feigning sorrow at funerals for my grandparents, acting joyful even though I could care less that little baby Brian is getting his foreskin loped off.

Look how many microscopes we have in this country. If we haven’t yet figured what life, emotions, relationships and psyches all are by now, it’s never going to be explained. And without an explanation, to me, it’s all meaningless. Believing what I did was right, or what I did was wrong, is an exercise in futility that frankly I don’t have the fucking time for.

What I do know, inherently, is that I like to smile. And I like to laugh. And sometimes, I like to be sad. And right now, my life gives me all of those things. And I know that I give all those things to everyone that knows me.

So yea, own it? I think I do, even though I’m not certain what it is.

While perusing Twitter yesterday, a friend posted a link to a blog about why men are the worst. The piece was written by two women from Philadelphia—which should probably disqualify it from consideration to begin with—and all they did was regurgitate the rote talking points everyone’s familiar with. Men are horrible communicators, Men don’t display emotion. Men are slow to recognize new carpets. That shit.

The reason I’m discussing this is the kid who pointed me to the post thought someone should write a counterpoint. Well, you’re in luck. Here at Meeting Girls on Metro, we never pass up the opportunity to savage anything. Shit, I’d call out a Mallard if someone asked me to—“Hey bird. Why you swimming? You ain’t no fish.”

It’s what I live to do. So when someone asks me to disparage an entire phylum of people, my gums salivate to the point where it looks like I have Bell’s palsy.

But if you’re a fan of this blog, you know I hate stereotypes. Well, except for all of them. I love them. Black people are poor. Ha. No. What I really hate is regurgitating the trite, reiterating the banal and repeating the hackneyed. So you aren’t going to hear shit like “Girls suck because when they menstruate they won’t have sex.”

Absolutely not. No. You are going to hear the honest truth, the nine real reasons women are the most awful entities in the world.

They know the difference between mauve and chartreuse.
If an elderly, grey-haired scientist was shipped to a secret government lair underneath the Erie Canal and tasked with creating the perfect person, here’s a list of attributes he’d strive for:

1. Cognitive brain function
2. Gregarious personality

See anything not on the list? Oh yea. It’s the ability to discern different shades of purple. I have no idea why, during the course of human history, women developed the skills to notice subtle hues of pink and touches of brown. That alone proves natural selection didn’t create girls. Seriously women, there are only six colors you need to know: Red, Brown, Orange, Blue and a couple other ones. You don’t even need to know them all; that’s how useless they are. Yet there you are, spending minutes—actual minutes—debating nail polish shades. Ridiculous.

They make terrible tennis partners.
I love to play tennis because I like to work up a sweat and sprint after tough shots and just generally exert myself. And when I partner up with my good friend, that’s what occurs. We have a competitive match that leaves me both exhausted and satisfied. But then every once in a while, one of my female friends will be all like “You know, I play tennis, too.” And after months of putting them off, they finally break me down and I agree to meet them for an hour of just awful, boring agony.  I can’t work on my serve because “Oh no! That’s too fast.” And I can’t practice my return, because no girl knows how to hit a proper overhand serve. And when I finally think we have a good rally going, that’s right when they clang the ball off the top of their racket and it goes over the fence.

“Oopsies,” they say.

Yes. Oopsies.

They hate their entrees.
Quick, recall every single time you took a girl to dinner. Remember afterward, discussing the meal on your car ride or subway trip or walk home? You were all like “Damn, that some good steak.” What does the girl say? She says, without fail, “Well, umm, the chicken was okay. I wasn’t crazy about it.” Why are you ordering chicken? No one orders chicken. Remember when you were debating what entree to get? What happened is you decided on chicken. That’s not the chef’s fault, that’s your fault for being 27 years old and not yet understanding that restaurants put minimal effort into their chicken dishes. Come fucking on.

They have children.
Have you ever met a child? It’s worse than having your fingers cut off. But here are these girls, just pregnant-ing it up, popping fuckers out and making the world overpopulated and collectively pissed off because their coffee tables are sticky from spilled juice. Ladies, this is you. You can stop having children. And then there would be no more children and we could legalize drugs and polygamy, because who the fuck cares about family now and every night would be a heroin-fueled group orgy in the living room because you can have sex in the living room when there are no kids to walk in on you.

They put salt on everything.
I knew a girl that once put salt on Chinese takeout food. The first time I cooked for my old girlfriend, she doused my perfectly seasoned chicken parmesan with little crystals. You know what I think it is? I think every girl has burned every one of their taste buds from all the hot tea they drink. Why are you drinking hot tea to begin with? It has gay names like Chamomile and Earl Breakfast. Stop burning yourself with hot tea. Then maybe you could taste flavors and wouldn’t need to dump six grams of sodium on every bite. Do even know what’s in Chinese food? It’s nothing but salt and water and brown and cow. It doesn’t need more salt. It could, though, use more brown. Always more brown.

They love group photos.
I went to a bachelor party last week and we took one group photo. And that was only because I saw a model taking glamour shots near a dock and insisted she sit in on a picture with us, because, you know, BACHELOR PARTY. Her photographer was not thrilled. But that was it. The rest of the trip, no camera clicking. No corralling every single person every 45 minutes to snap what might be a new potential Facebook cover photo. “But I want to remember this evening,” girls say. Well, that’s what your brain is for. You know how it processes things and you recall them later? That’s like a photograph.

They drink pink lemonade.
When I get a hamburger for lunch, I don’t like to chase it down with water. But since I’ve already been twice accused of drinking during the work day, in lieu of beer, I make myself a tasty half-lemonade, half-iced tea Arnold Palmer. Those things are lip smacking. But often times I get to the beverage dispenser, and instead of lemonade, there’s Country Time Pink Lemonade. The fuck is pink lemonade? Whose idea was it? I’ll gut him with a ladle. Imagine some shit walking right into your marketing meeting and suggesting you start selling blue orange juice. That’s how stupid pink lemonade is. And it is god awful. It tastes like a magic fairy mixed food dye with three gallons of gasoline and dumped in 224 Splenda packets.

They use the phrase besties.
Look. I love alteration and assonance and abbreviations and all fun linguistic shit. Fuck, half my life is spent living like some sauced up Dr. Suess, trying to make rhymes out of my friends’ comments.

“I really think we should head to the bar.”

“That bar? That bar? But John, that bar is oh so far.”

“Okay. I’m going without you.”

But there is no place in the world for the phrase besties. And girls don’t even use it ironically. No. You think it’s, like it’s fucking endearing or something. “She’s my bestie.” No she’s not. Ninety percent of girls’ friendship are based on whether they haven’t hooked up with the same guy. That’s not a foundation for besties. That’s just keeping you all from getting the same STD.

They can’t host Taco Night to save their lives.
The next time one of your female friends invites you over to have tacos, do yourself an enormous favor and get there as early as possible. You shan’t be disappointed. The girl will have done a fantastic job shopping, purchasing every item necessary for a successful taco party. But as soon as she steps into the kitchen, it’s like her cerebral cortex explodes.

“Should I put the sour cream in a bowl before I serve it?”

“Do I chop the tomato or serve it whole?”

“I put the taco seasoning in after the meat’s done, right?

“Does guacamole have almonds in it?”

It’s amazing. And I guarantee this girl has had people over for tacos like 14 other times. But somehow, every time, it’s like a Man in Black comes through and wipes her brain clean. They’ll ask if they should heat up the lettuce. They’ll forget hot sauce. They serve pita bread. It’s astounding.

And that reason alone explains why women are the worst.

I recently stated that the single world was a wondrous one, that there was nothing more enjoyable than being free from restrictions, meeting new people and diving into potential relationships with the gusto of penguins hopping off the Antarctic Shelf to catch them some salmon.

Herring? Char? I don’t know what penguins eat.

But two events transpired the weekend that got me to rethink my position. Not about being single, but just about dating in general.

First, a friend got seriously blown off by a guy she dug. They’d spent a month together, intrinsically intertwining themselves into each other’s lives, when–one night—he casually dropped the phrase no one wants to hear.

“This isn’t working out.”

That was followed by a girl posing a question on that perpetually percolating microblogging site, Twitter.

“Does dating make us awful human beings?”

Right now, I think yes,

Come June, I will be single for two years. And in that period I’ve gone on at least 30 first dates. An average of one a month.

None have worked out.

The question is then, am I a fundamentally better or worse person because of the past 104 weeks.

I’m certainly smarter, and more learned, but at the same time, when it comes to love, I’m now a much more hardened, cynical, pessimistic and generally downtrodden person.

And all these failures, they’ve made hope just a little more unrealistic. After every rejection, this ethereal soul mate, my exemplar ideal, the girl who eats fried chicken with her hands and works a vacuum like a Honduran, becomes less tangible and more abstract.

She’s something I want, but am not certain exists.

But because this creation is established in my mind, I find myself looking at every single girl and immediately dumping her into one of two categories. I don’t look at women any more as women, or even as people.

Just Noes and Maybes.

The Noes are a large group. They’re women I dismiss outright for a variety of reasons: She looks stuck up. She’s eating a sandwich while walking. She’s twenty nine.

And the Maybes, I find myself immediately looking for reasons to disqualify them the instant I glimpse their face.

So here I am, having already dismissed three-quarters of the potential dating pool, and looking to get rid of more based on my whimsical tastes, on which I am uncompromising.

And to the ones that meet my stringent cuts, I spend every other minute of my day attempting to impress a perception on them that I am the perfect suitor. From walking down the street with a gregarious smile to carefully—and I do mean carefully—crafting texts after I’ve gotten their number, everything I do in the realm of dating is aimed at projecting a construct that, well, isn’t entirely me.

The dating scene has turned me into one of the most calculating adults you will ever meet. Every single thing I do is a means to an end.

You can tell me it hasn’t done the same to you. I’ll call you a liar.

If you need proof, just think about the simple action of dressing before a date.

Do you wear what you want to wear, or do you wear what you think your date will want you to wear? Did she seem laid back and might prefer a stubble? I bet you went a few days without shaving beforehand. Did you think he might be put off if you showed too much skin? Then I’m sure you grabbed something on the way out to throw over that camisole.

So now everyone is just getting a semblance of the person they though they were meeting. They are getting that person, shrouded by a perception their date wants to project.

Not you.

And I may be the worst offender. I’ve held my tongue because I thought my date would be appalled at a joke I typically would make. I’ve cursed more than usual because I thought the person would find it funny. Shit I wore a wife beater on a date last week because I thought the girl would be more inclined to sleep with me if I came across as not caring.

(I was wrong.)

And to what extent are we doing this? To try and ensnare someone into a relationship?

That’s fucked up. Does anyone not see the problem?

Look, no matter how cynical you may be, I’m sure you think there’s a person out there for you. Maybe you don’t believe an effete blonde dude in epaulets will knock on your door holding the Rainbow you lost last night—Disney fairy tale 2010-anized—but you think there’s someone you can connect with for a long time, someone you can make gumbo with in the winter and hop to the Outer Banks with for a week come August.

But if we all believe that, why are we putting so much effort into making us seem desirable?

Shouldn’t it just come easy?

And that’s ignoring Babar standing in the corner over there. Do you not see him? No one ever does. Allow me to explain.

Why do we even bother? Why do we pour our heart and soul and free time into finding a potential match when science, fucking science, tells us there’s a better-than-half chance that person will leave you broken and broke and having to explain to your children why “Weekend Daddy” will be just as awesome.

Yes. Most relationships fail.

But this is what we all work toward, what we all strive and pine for? For failure? No wonder the dating scene is making us miserable. Forgive the metaphor, but it’s a lot like farming in Dachau. Sure, you’re going to come across the occasional spicy radish—and it will satiate you—but the specter of that furnace is always looming on the horizon.

And please don’t try and deny this. Don’t give me the sunshine and rainbows and leprechauns on ecstasy answer. We all know perfect, absolutely perfect couples whose relationships have failed spectacularly.

It’s no wonder we raise our standards high. That’s probably a good thing, even though, at the same time, it’s causing us to dismiss billions of people. And after every bad first date, I find myself eliminating literal swathes of the populace.

“That’s the last time I’ll date a girl who was in a sorority.”

“Redheads? Not after the last one.”

Now, every failed first date makes me more inured, more bitter, and less likely to achieve some sort of relationship Zen, which is admittedly an idea I already threw out the window.

So yes. Dating has made us awful human beings.

But, now that I think about it, the problem doesn’t lie in dating.

I watched my mom fall in love at 55. While I was growing up, she dated on and off, but after ten years of just shit, she quit. But Match came around, and someone convinced her to join, and she got a kick out of going on a couple of dates.

On the fourth one, she was overwhelmed. She was in love. Obsessed. She met the man she wanted to die with.

I didn’t like him the day I met him, but I was handcuffed. My mom was smitten, middle-aged and utterly giddy. It was the first time in 23 years of my life I saw her happy about something that didn’t relate to a thing her kids did. So I shut up.

After a year, her boyfriend said the phrase none of us want to hear.

“This isn’t working out.”

He then spent the better part of 16 months toying with her, hedging, keeping her at a distance but always on a rope. He was a 65-year-old man.

When his heart went out—while they were broken up—my mom went to his surgery. And when he came out from under he told her he wanted to get back together. That lasted three months. Then he did the same fucking thing.

It took my mom years to be normal again. She might still not be.

And these were adults.

So no. Dating doesn’t make us awful human beings.

We’re awful to begin with. Dating just exposes it.

Hey. Hi there. Hi guys. How are we all doing? Me? I’m a little tipsy, a little tipsy, indeed. And still kind of sick. Last night I inhaled liked 39 kalamata olives for dinner then took two Stoli Grape Bombs. The next hour felt liked I’d swallowed a Molotov Cocktail. Never, ever mix Greek food and hardcore American boozing.

How long would it take for a body in a space suit to decompose on the moon?
Forty-seven days. Now get yourself a science calculator or get out of my face. Related, do high school kids still use TI-83s? It’d be some bullshit if they got to come back from study hall all stoned and just watch YouTube on their iPhone during Trig. I had to play Snake. Fuck teenagers.

What are your thoughts on girls that play kickball, or any of the other D.C. social sports?
Given the pseudonym on this email, there is a 92 percent chance it’s my coworker seeing if she can bait me into trashing her best friend.

Prepare to be obliged.

To everyone that participates in the D.C. Social Sports scene, get a fucking life. Find yourself some real friends, ones who don’t enjoy standing in a barren field throwing little balls at an even littler ball. Seriously, social sports combine two of my least favorite things in the world: obligations and people. If you tell me I need to be somewhere every Tuesday for the next six weeks, I’ll just move. Making matters worse, there’s a ton of people there. And they all suck.

“So, those tiny whales that are on your belt, are they showcasing your love for Nantucket or your father’s status. What’s that, you work at the IMF with a focus in Kenyan microfinance? You say you just gave a guy $1,000 to build an internet café in Nairobi? You do realize he’s already spent it on goats. He took your money and bought 622 goats. And now his neighbor wants to kill him. To get all the goats.”

So, what do I think about girls that play social sports? I assume you have trouble making friends and I probably won’t like you. And the awesome guy you met there, he once thought he was climbing the social ladder by banging John Kerry’s niece’s cousin. So yea. Bocce. Woo hoo.

What do you think about fake boobs?
I think they’re like drugs. You’d be remiss if you didn’t try them at least once in your life. (I mean guys. Guys should try them. Not girls. Although, fuck it. Every one of you girls should try them too. Not get them, but at least touch ‘em). But really, they aren’t that fun. I’ve tugged them in the heat of the moment before, and it felt it would take the mitts of a polar bear to get her to notice. Call me old-fashioned, but I want a girl to be slightly uncomfortable when I’m squeezing her breasts during sex.

And to women thinking about getting them, don’t. They aren’t going to help shit. Your self-esteem, your career, your love life will not be helped by fake boobs. Try cocaine instead. It’s a wash pricewise, you’ll be happier and you’ll lose weight. Win, win and fucking win.

Is a Jacuzzi just a fancy name for a hot tub? Can you put bubbles in a hot tub?
Me and two buddies had a hot tub in our first house out of college and it was the most filth-ridden object in the world. I had sex with my girlfriend in it and she died of typhus. We still used it afterward, but there was always this serious hesitation when we were about to dip in our feet. I likened it to when a girl was about to go down on a guy she doesn’t like. There’s always that quick blip of “Should I really?” And you can totally put bubbles in a hot tub. The only thing you shouldn’t put bubble mixture into is pigeons. They die.

Almost every guy I’ve ever hooked up with has told me that I have an “amazing” vagina. Is this a line that guys use on all girls to get them to feel good about their lady parts?
The deal with this is there are two correct answers. One, you’re absolutely right. He’s lying to you because he feels complimenting your box will obligate you to tell him how wonderful his penis feels. But he’s also telling the truth. Your vagina is awesome, in that it is allowing him to have sex with it. Sex is incredible, wonderful, and because of that, pretty much every lady’s vagina feels fantastic. So each and every one of you girls is special in that you are all exactly the same.

My friend is getting out of a 15-year marriage (probably the last three without sex).  He’s desperate, and I think women smell it on him.  He needs help.
This isn’t a question, but since we have a girl that’s about to ask the same thing, we’ll help him out.

After a hiatus from the dating scene, I want to get back into it. So, as a girl, is it acceptable for me to ask a guy on a date? If it’s not, how do I hint/get him to ask me?
To the both of you, I understand that getting back is hard without feeling clunky or awkward, but that is true of anything you do in life. Think about when you haven’t gone on a run for a while. The first one is exhausting.

But here’s the dirtiest little secret in the world: flirting ain’t hard. What makes it daunting is its simplicity. We all look for complex formulas and advice and answers when there are only two things you need to do: smile and ask questions. That’s it. Always have a grin on your face and always follow up anything they say with a question. Congratulations. You’re flirting.

Alright. Separate advice time. To our male friend. Yes, to begin with, it’s best if you buy a prostitute. There’s nothing more debilitating than the downward spiral of rejection and self-loathing masturbation. So get a hooker. After that, you’ll feel better. But if you don’t want to do that, here’s how you use your grim outlook to pick up a girl. This will work. I promise.

Go to a bar with a friend. And when a girl piques your interest, walk right up to her and say this:

“Hi, so, ummm, this is going to sound a bit odd, but my friend over there,” point to your friend, “well, I noticed you, and said you were pretty, and he, uhhh, he said right away that you were out of my league. While he’s right, you are, it made me, it made me really want to introduce myself. My name’s ______.  How are you doing tonight?”

(Note: The umm’s and stuttering and tripping over words are critical. They show vulnerability and make her think she really is out of your league)

Now you’ve got conversation. And then, as soon—and I do mean absolutely as soon–as the conversation slows, say this:

“Thank you so much for, umm, uhhh, playing along? Can I buy you a drink one day to make it up to you?”

Unless you are an amputee, you will leave with her number.

To our female friend, it’s even simpler. If you think he’s cute, touch his elbow. He’ll get the picture. And fuck yea, you can ask for a number. That’s a diesel move.

What is your stance on chicks busting out “toys” when shit is going down?
Why did you put toys in quotation marks? Do you exist in a world where you’re girlfriend sometimes whips out a Raggedy Andy doll to rub against your dick and you need to differentiate? “No honey, I meant the vibrator. Not him. Not again.”

I’m all for toys in the bedroom, but I do feel you need to wait a bit to break them out. I was with a girl on the first night—she of the fake tits—and while we were hooking up she whipped out her vibrator, saying she couldn’t come without it. Okay. But you can’t do that tonight. You’re a girl. Not coming until the fifth date is your punishment for eating that apple.

Why do you enjoy fat chicks every now and again?
Because it’s occasionally nice to know, during a hook up, that you are undoubtedly the most attractive person in the room. And that you hold every card.

Masturbating in public is acceptable in Florida now, right?
Umm, sure? I’m not really that versed in the decency statutes in the Sunshine State, but yea. Go for it. I guess. I don’t know.

I mean, since murder is, I figure anything goes down there.
Oh. He was making a Trayvon Martin joke. Did you see that? He was making a Trayvon Martin joke.

Are you a shower or a grower?
I got this question at work the other day and had no clue what this phrase meant. So obviously I went to the Google 3000 and plugged in the query. When I clicked on the first link I was summarily fired. A shower, according to the depraved world of Urban Dictionary, is a man who shows all his length up front, and doesn’t increase when he gets hard. A grower, however, is someone who’s normal stature doesn’t reflect where he’ll be come game time —these are technical terms people. I looked them up on my science calculator.

Well, I am a grower. Frankly, I wouldn’t want it any other way. Being a shower seems awful, like your parents putting unwrapped presents under the Christmas tree. What’s the point of December 25^th when you already know you’re getting a Sega Game Gear? That would suck. So yes, growers for the damned win.

By the way, I shouldn’t say this, but I will. The girl who sent this in would know the answer to this question, save for the fact that I got housed on our second date. My drunk self finagled her into my bed, but then I couldn’t exactly get it up. And that was kind of the end of things.

So well played woman. Well played.