Dating Confession


Hello, my name is Kristy. (Pause for dramatic effect.) It’s been one full week since the date of my last first date. I know, I know. My single life will not be absolved if I do not continue to confess my deepest darkest secrets and desires to random strangers who are willing to cough up $2.75 to buy me a beer. The ones I have pegged for big spenders take me to Starbucks. I am in love with coffee dates because Starbucks makes even the most boring person entertaining. Or is that the beer. I’m starting to confuse the two. They always ask the same boring questions, and use the same cheesy compliments.

It’s like all the men in the world are given a handbook when they’re told how to approach women. This universal approach seems geared towards unintelligent, simpering, vanity driven fembots that can laugh on command and alternate between Mother Theresa and Jenna Jameson in her prime. As a free thinking woman I’m held accountable for every expectation the male I’m out with has. If sex happens at all, then too soon and I’m a W.H.O.R.E. or if I hold out then I’m a tease. If it’s too easy to get, then it’s not worth it, if it’s too hard, well shoot, it’s still not worth it.

I’m apparently asking for a miracle among men, while being average among women. Is it really too much to ask that someone have basic human courtesy skills? Instead of assumptions, ask. Instead of judging, discuss. Instead of ridicule, educate. It’s hard to be single in your thirties when everyone you know is married, engaged, or in a long term committed relationship. Everyone is so quick to point out that I don’t need a man. No shit. I’ve survived a decade without a real solidified relationship.


Maybe I don’t want to do it all on my own anymore. Maybe I want someone to wake up next to. (That doesn’t drink like a fish, smoke like a chimney, have a criminal record longer than my sons, or a wife waiting for him.) Is it truly asking too much to have all of that, and someone with a vehicle and employment? I’m employed, I have a car, I have a place to live. Sure I struggle sometimes, but I have my shit together.

Of all the men I’ve met and talked with over the last few months, only one isn’t going straight to spam when he texts. Either I’m the pickiest bitch on the planet, or I attract the crème de le crème of Jacksonville men. (See I can do sarcasm!). Apparently I should have listened better during my formative years, so that I could learn to be a fembot too.

Oh God, I believe I just cringed writing that. It’s far too late for me. Save yourselves… The fembots of the world are in charge now.



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