Time To Go Gay (part one)

I'm a picky guy. Though, maybe I shouldn't be. It's not like I'm the most attractive male alive; that honor belongs to Lorenzo Lamas. I'm also not terribly suave; that would also be Lorenzo Lamas. I certainly can't dance, especially compared to Daniel D's sweet moves when he's drunk off his ass at weddings. (If you don't know Daniel D, imagine lots of bumbling, stumbling, ass grabbing, and puking.) Shit, I don't even have a job. Truth be told, I should stop being picky and just take what I can get. "Do you have a vagina? Is it functioning? No? Shit. Well, you appear to be breathing. Pull down those granny panties because I'll hit anything that moves."

Unfortunately, I am misguidedly picky. I attribute this affliction to my parents for two reasons. First of all, my parents adored my ex-girlfriend, Sunny, probably more than I did. When we broke up, I think my mother cried and even shrieked, "How did I raise such a stupid child?" Thanks, mom. Since Sunny, no girl has ever successfully won my mother's favor. A few have tried, only to have my mother remark, "Why does that girl look like a platypus?" or "I hope you don't catch any diseases from that girl." To this day, she still talks about Sunny - how Sunny's so pretty, how Sunny's so nice, how Sunny's so smart, how Sunny's the best I'll ever get. I'm pretty sure my mother yells out Sunny's name when she and my dad have sex. But she doesn't, only because my parents no longer have sex. This brings me to the second reason for my being picky - I don't want to end up like my parents. My parents are quite unhappy. While they still live together, they most certainly do not sleep in the same bed (going on twelve years now) nor do they talk to each other, aside from the occasional "You have the brain of an ape" and "You are a dumb woman". Nice comeback, dad. It's sad really. During last summer's family trip to Yellowstone, my brother and I asked our parents about how they met and what they saw in each other. My dad explained how he fell in love with my mom because she was intelligent, hard-working, and attractive. My mom then plainly stated that she married my dad because she was lonely. Don't beat around the bush, how do you really feel, mom? As a result, my seemingly fussy goal is to marry a woman out of love and not out of loneliness. I'll also marry a woman if her breasts fit really nicely into my hands.

I communicated with Natalie for a solid week on match dot com. I say it was a solid week because my "game" is usually quite fast-paced. I've fallen in love, slept, fought, and discontinued all communication with numerous chicks, all within a one week time frame. It's ridiculous. If I ever tell you I've met the love of my life, wait one week. I'll then likely respond, "Who? Oh, that conniving whore? I stopped seeing her because she didn't use a loofah." I don't know what's wrong with me. Actually, I do. I like the chase. I love constantly wondering if a chick is into me. If a chick text messages me good night, my interpretation is that she wishes I was laying next to her. Suckling on her tit. Alternatively, if a chick tells me that she's busy on Tuesday because she's hanging out with friends, my interpretation is that her buddy, Todd, is going to suckle on her tit. Fucking Todd, I always hated that guy. I thrive on the constant interpretation, re-interpretation, and misinterpretation. Of course, after the chase is over and we're living happily ever after, I get confused. Instead of basking in the love and adoration of my newly beloved, I grow complacent and bored. I don't mean to. It just happens. I could make some sort of excuse and say the chick just wasn't the right one. But really, I'm just fucked in the head. With Natalie, I wouldn't need to worry about any of this chase, interpretation, and suckling tit business. Natalie was wack. Even if her breasts fit perfectly into my hands, I'd prefer to have my hands filled with something more useful, like a video game controller.

In my email conversations with Natalie, I ascertained a few things: she was quite plain; she was intelligent, but socially stupid; and she was lame. I'll explain. Her general lack of panache was exhibited in her scintillating questions: where do you live in San Francisco (what fucking business is it to you); how's your week going (swell, I masturbated twice today); are you a fan of Grey's Anatomy (no, but I am a fan of your mother's scat sex video). While she appeared to be doing well in the business world, her social skills were lacking. If a chick chooses to spend 50% of her emails talking about inane, uninteresting aspects of her job, that's cool, I'll simply respond back with 50% of my emails talking about how I'm amazed that there are millions upon millions of dead sperm in my wastebasket right now. Whoever said that semen has an odor is wrong. Finally, she was lame because she thought my story about underbite (see first date recap) was mean. It ain't mean, bitch, it's the fucking truth. Perhaps I should forgo my hopes of becoming a writer and instead focus on doing underbite-reconstruction surgery. It'll be a specialized field, but I'll be doing a service for mankind. So, you may be asking, "Dating machine, if this Natalie chick was so lame, why did you ever agree to go out with her?" Glad you asked. I went out with Natalie because I haven't been on a date with an asian chick since last summer. For some reason, I've exclusively dated non-asian chicks in the past six months. I've been ignoring an entire continent. That's fucked up. Chicks of all colors should have the equal right to be dissed in my recaps. Natalie, today's your day.

Natalie and I went out last Sunday, February 15th, starting at 1pm. We met at Cafe Du Soleil, a patented Dating Machine first date spot. Cafe Du Soleil's chill atmosphere and selection of inexpensive organic wine are absolutely perfect for a first date. I arrived at Cafe Du Soleil ten minutes early, as I always do. I also called Daniel D to give him a date pre-cap, as I always do. I went over the fact that I was not hyped about the date and basically wanted to go home. I've always been known for my winning, optimistic attitude. Soon, it was 1:05pm and she was five minutes late. That's bullshit. I finished my conversation with Daniel D and turned on my cell phone's countdown timer. She had ten minutes to show up. I can't stand tardiness. At 1:13pm, she text messaged to tell me that she was in a cab and would be there in five minutes. I debated whether or not that was allowed. I wasn't sure. When I finally decided that I should just leave, she showed up. I wish I could tell you that, as soon as she stepped foot inside, I was captivated by her beauty, absolutely smitten by her aura, and transfixed by her smile. Nope. She looked wack; she walked wack; she reeked wack. I hate dating season. I hate match dot com. And I hate the entire continent of Asia.

By most standards, Natalie would be considered attractive. She was a 5'4", skinny asian chick, originally from Los Angeles. My friend, Bowman, who has an asian fetish, would probably say, "Fucking bullshit. I want to go out with a hot asian chick. Wait, I only date hot asian chicks." However, her face resembled the moon. It was round, really round. I guess some dudes like that sorta shit, however, I've always liked my women to have faces closer to horses (long) than moons. And when you're comparing women's faces to moons and horses, you know you're on match dot com.

We greeted each other and took a seat at the bar (there were no regular tables available). I ordered an earl grey tea with milk and sugar. She asked me what was good. I thought to myself, "It's a fucking coffee joint, order your favorite fucking type of coffee." I then told her, "It's a coffee joint, order your favorite type of coffee." Nice, I think I've just learned tact. All these shitty dates are finally paying off. She eventually settled on a mocha. From that point, I consciously decided that I was being a little too high-strung and should loosen up. Then Natalie said something in her stupid valley girl accent. The only thing worse than a valley girl accent is an asian fob accent. If you ever catch me going out with a fob, please only speak to me in improper plurals, like fishes, shrimps, and sheeps. I'll snap out of it in a hurry. Anyway, a valley girl accent is a close second on my accent shit list. When she, like, strung to together, like, a few sentences, like, yeah, and like, uh huh, yeah. I decided that instead of loosening up, I should just concentrate on not choking the bitch.

The very first thing we talked about was money. If you know anything about me, you likely know that I don't give a shit about money. After all, I do throw away $60 every three months on wasted match dot com subscriptions. Granted, my perspective is slightly more privileged. While I do come from immigrant parents, I've never had to pay for my own college tuition, lap dances, or He-Man toys. I've also been lucky enough to save a good amount of money so that I could probably live for seven years without a job. Anyway, this chick really liked to talk about money, cars, and fancy jobs. Those topics suck. My preferred topics of conversation would probably involve fantasy baseball statistics, video games, and comic books. Those are some awesome topics. If I could find a woman, with a shapely, firm ass, interested in those three things, I'd be a happy man... with my head constantly laying on a shapely, firm ass.

After about five minutes of conversation, I realized that I was going out with a standard Marina chick. For the non-San Franciscans, a Marina chick is a girl who "works hard and parties hard", with her usual vocation being trophy wife or, pre-marriage, secretary. The Marina chick lives in the Marina district of San Francisco and regularly frequents the bars on the corner of Fillmore and Greenwich. Additionally, the Marina chick wears such apparel as Seven jeans and Ugg boots. Needless to say, the Marina chick is pretty fucking lame. Here's a typical snippet of my conversation with Natalie:

natalie: yeah, so, like, i went shopping yesterday and bought, like, all this great stuff.
me: (silent)
natalie: oh my god, it was raining so hard, i had to get a valet to, like, park my car.
me: (silent)
natalie: how much money do you have?
me: about eleven dollars and some change.
natalie: no, i mean in your bank account.
me: seriously?

Wow, I'm getting a little agitated just thinking about it right now. That's weird.

While we were in the midst of our enlightening conversation about the merits of mani-pedis, I felt a sudden poke at my side. Normally, I would've been quite startled and scared. But in this instance, I was hoping that someone was trying to stab me to put me out of my misery. It was my friend, Melissa. I've never dated Melissa, so that's probably why she's still my friend. Anyway, while Melissa and I were greeting each other, Natalie took the opportunity to use the restroom. I then took the opportunity to tell Melissa that I hated Natalie. Melissa giggled and said she'd watch out for me. Though, I'm not sure if pointing and giggling count as watching out.

When Natalie came back from the restroom, I asked her about the other dudes that have been contacting her on match dot com. There was no ulterior motive behind my question, rather I view match dot com as a huge social experiment, where the lonely, the desperate, and the perverts are all thrown together and told to mate, and I was gathering intelligence. She told me about one prospective date who was some British dude who liked to use emoticons and the phrase, heehee. You will never, ever catch me using emoticons or heehee. Aside from being against my principles, I am also a full-fledged male. Using emoticons is, like, basically announcing to the world that you want to turn gay. At this moment, I'd like to tell you to disregard the subject of this post. Anyway, I encouraged her to go out with the British dude. I may have even said, "I wonder what he's doing right now." I'm kind of an asshole.

Somehow, we then got onto the topic of Bay-to-Breakers. I cannot wait till Bay-to-Breakers in May. My friend, Philly, and I have this grand idea to build a float centered around a huge cauldron of beer. We'd then dress up as leprechauns and parade around like jackasses. Obviously, if anyone wanted some beer, they just needed to yell, "Cauldron of beer!!!" Awesome. Even more awesome and perhaps less likely, I'd probably take a shit into the cauldron of beer without telling anyone. That way, whenever anyone took a swig of beer, I'd giggle and cackle maliciously. "That's my pot of fecal-stained beer that you're drinking. Enjoy."

After about two hours of ball-crushing torture, the date was over. I went to the restroom, looked in the mirror, and said, "You did it, buddy. You didn't even have to fake a stabbing. Nice work." We made our way outside of the cafe and it was raining. I considered doing a little dance in the rain, maybe the pendulum move from New Kids on the Block. I wasn't sure. Natalie asked if it was easy to get a cab in that neighborhood. I responded, "It should be really easy, but I'll give you a ride." She said only if it wasn't too much trouble. I said, "I'm a motherfucking gentleman." Few words go together better than motherfucking and gentleman.

Since it was raining, I didn't take my scooter and instead borrowed my dad's car. Natalie and I would have the opportunity for a nice fifteen minute conversation about all the things that wack chicks like to talk about. Thankfully, it wasn't that bad. In talking about a previous date of mine, I mentioned how White Chicks by the Wayans Brothers is one of the shittiest movies ever. Natalie said that she actually liked White Chicks. Natalie is a goddamn moron. The moron later said that she was deathly afraid of birds. I asked how that came about. She said she had no idea. I offered some possible reasons, like maybe a chicken shat on her face. She laughed and said that wasn't it. Then, I said, "Oh no wait, that's me." When I was about six years old, I really, really wanted a dog. My parents got me a couple baby chickens instead. I tried to play fetch and teach the baby chicks different tricks. They just looked at me like fucking idiots and continued pecking the ground. One day, one of the chickens somehow jumped up onto the branches of a tree. I looked up and yelled, "Goddamn it!" While yelling goddamn it, the chicken took a shit into my mouth. My entire face was plastered with chicken shit. There could still be some chicken shit in the crevices of my eyes right now. Anyway, I'm not scared of birds at all, but I've learned to keep my mouth shut when there's one above me.

Soon after that delightful chicken shit story, I dropped Natalie off. It was finally over. Obviously, there was going to be no second date with Natalie. In fact, I immediately erased her number from my cell phone so I'd never have to scroll by her stupid name again. I made my way home and prepped for my next date. That's right, friends, I had two dates that Sunday. Apparently, misery comes in twos. Compared to my next date, my date with Natalie was like finding a mint, first printing of Miracleman #15, or beating Contra without dying. Ha, that was dork. Anyway, that date will be divulged in its horrific, painful entirety in part two of "Dating Season: Time To Go Gay". Dating season may be over.

Fun - 2
Interesting - 2
Future Relationship Potential - 0.5
Future Friendship Potential - 1