Every once in a while, some ballsy guy who comes across my blog will work up the nerve to ask me, whom some have called the Man-chopper, to go out with him. At first, my policy could be summed up with: “Why the hell not?” I figured, worst case scenario, I’ll have blog-worthy material, so this could be a fun exercise.
But ever since the big box of crazy that was Mr. Hostility, I’ve had to revise this approach.
It all started out harmlessly enough. Mr. Hostility read my blog, emailed me to ask me out for a drink, and I agreed. In retrospect, I should have found it odd that even though he wrote, “I just read a few of your blog entries,” he didn’t compliment my blog in any way, nor did he tell me that he found my blog hilarious.
Let’s face it. I AM hilarious. I am obviously vain. And the least that any reader can do is acknowledge these facts of life and stroke my ego a bit before asking me out.
That definitely should have been a red flag, but I was so young and naïve then.
So I met him for a drink.
The guy looked like a stick insect. Except skinnier. I remember thinking that the width of his leg was disturbingly comparable to my arm. The illustration to the right is an accurate, to-scale representation of his skinniness vs. the thickness of an actual pencil.
The guy smoked what appeared to be a whole packet of cigarettes… in less than two hours. It’s one thing if he had smoked a couple throughout the entirety of the date, but, as a non-smoker, this excessive smoking just didn’t sit well with me.
The guy was as dull as… Good god, he was so dull that I can’t even think of anything that could come close to being as dull as him. He lacked a sense of humor, to the extent that he — brace yourself, folks — took my blog seriously. Hand to God, the guy told me that he didn’t really enjoy my blog and criticized me about some its finer social points, to which he took great offense. Basically, the Man-shopping train left the station, arrived on the other side of the continent, and left Mr. Hostility standing on the platform with his trousers around his ankles.
I tweeted an abbreviated version of these three strikes that evening when I got home.
The next day, during my lunchtime gym session, I received the following text from him while I was on the treadmill:
Sticky insect is your mother, you fat, repulsive Asian cow.
I laughed so hard that I nearly fell off the treadmill. It was such a close call that I haven’t been on a treadmill since.
His reaction was so out of proportion to everything that I thought that it was a joke. An hilarious joke. But then I remembered that Mr. Hostility didn’t know how to joke.
So I realized, wow, this man may be a little unhinged.
I mean, come on. He knew that he was asking out a blogger. He knew that he was potential blog fodder. He knew how merciless I can be. Transparency was never an issue, as my dating life, personality and, dare I say, scathing wit, are here on the internet for all to see.
Yet he clearly thought that he was so spectacularly awesome that he would have been THE ONE with whom I would fall madly in love and abandon my man-chomping ways.
So Mr. Hostility clearly didn’t take it so well that, in less than 140 characters, I managed to sum up everything that displeased me about him. Frankly, for those of you who witnessed that tweet, you can probably attest to the fact that it really was the nicest that I’ve ever been to any of my dates. 140 characters doesn’t give me much room to be truly bitchy.
What a big baby.
Oops. I mean, what a skinny baby.
Skinny, hostile baby.
I said it then, and I’ll say it again…
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P.S. Big shout-out to my buddy, Alex, who found a MacPaint program for me to play with. We have Alex to thank for the rock-tastic drawing skills showcased in the above representation of Mr. Hostility. If all goes well, I hope to be showing you more of my unparalleled artisitic talent in the future.