the guy who knew exactly what he wanted.

His words were like poetry and anything he typed seemed like something out of a sappy publication. We had gotten to the point in our conversations where he wanted to know what my tastes were.

“What kind of guy are you looking for?”

I pondered this a moment, and decided to give him the simple answer.

“A guy with a good heart, strong convictions, and knowledge of what he wants in life.”

Somewhat cliche, I know. But I also hate answering this question because the guy should let me decide if he’s even the right type of guy for me, rather than having me recite the things that I want and just hope that he fits the mold. Anyway, I wanted to be polite so I asked him right back what he wants in a girl.

He sent me a three-page PDF. Enjoy.

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When he didn’t hear a reply from me for a few days, he wrote to me and said, “Guess you didn’t make the cut.”

BRAVO, SIR. DOUCHEBAG OF THE YEAR.

the guy who hid his baggage (and not well).

You would think that for a girl who goes on a ton of dates, love is an even bigger possibility. This is not the case for me, and it’s more common for me to go on a date with a guy who has clear issues than not. I went on my first GOOD date in months a couple nights ago, and I have been over the moon about it ever since. ONE GOOD DATE. IN MONTHS. Anyway, one thing that happens often is that the guy ends up lying to me about something. But it’s not a small white lie like, “Oh I only lied to you about that phone call because it was actually the restaurant confirming our amazingly beautiful date where I rented out the whole place and the floor would be covered in angel dust and rose petals.” It’s more like, “Oh I know I might have said that I have never been married, but I actually have and I’m divorced. And I have two sons who I pay child support for.”

By the way, that shit actually happened. But this is ANOTHER guy who lied about being divorced.

I had gone on a few dates with this guy who had the whole package: he was tall, he had a great job that he loved, he didn’t have mommy issues, and he was surrounded with family and friends who he had seemingly great relationships with. He seemed transparent with me, and by the third date, we were strolling over a romantically lit bridge with our fingers tangled together. It had been nearly a month since our first date, and I was ready to move forward.

Now, I had decided to do a little experiment and told myself that I would not Google-stalk this guy. No matter how tempting, I would keep from typing in his name and scrolling through page after page of little fragments of his life (if he actually had that much of an interesting life). I remember I was trying to fall asleep after that third date, but I simply couldn’t. My heart was heavy and there was this deep feeling in my gut that made me super uncomfortable (and this time, it was NOT gas).

I sat up and grabbed my phone. Without pause, I Googled him. The first couple pages were normal; the usual social media pages, his company’s bio page, his name on his alma mater’s Dean’s List page. Real basic shit that made him seem like a saint. Then I saw it. A photographer’s website featuring my date and his WIFE. Mouth agape, I flipped through all the photos and their smiling faces became a blur when I saw that there was a link to their actual wedding day, which the same photographer shot. Now the burning question remained as I squinted out the window to see the sun rising. Was this motherfucker married?

I decided to wait until a humane hour to text him. But before I did, I scanned through our old texts and his profile. He had made it very clear that he had never been married, and he was single. We had even joked about wedding rings before, and I said that diamond rings were outlandish and boring, and I wouldn’t mind a tattoo around my finger. He responded that he didn’t get why people bought those rings either, and if he ever got engaged, he would consider the tattoo idea too.

I collected my thoughts, then finally texted him.

“Hey there. Can you talk real quick?”

He said yes and I called him. I asked him casually, “You don’t have a twin, do you?” He laughed and said no, then asked why I was asking. I told him calmly what I had found and just needed him to tell me if he was lying to me this whole time. There was a deafening silence after I was done, and he quietly stammered, “I don’t even know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

Then the confession came flooding out like a tidal wave of vomit. He was STILL married, but separated. They had decided to separate a MONTH before he first messaged me. He didn’t love her, it was over a long time ago, blah blah blah. I interrupted him severely and asked him why he had to lie to me though.

“I don’t know. I like you a lot and it just seemed like the right thing to do.”

I said goodbye to him right then and there, and later came to this realization: If a guy likes me, that is a wonderful thing. But in liking me, if I am any part of the reason why he turns into a liar and a coward, there is something horribly wrong and he needs to stay the hell away from me. I can only hope that I’ll bring out the best in my partner, and he’ll trust me enough to even confess his very worst.

the guys of barney (rest in peace).

I recently got into a major accident and my poor Barney was totaled. Not only was that car a symbol of my adulthood (first big purchase with my hard-earned money), but it was a memory machine that contained within its red shell a lot of good times. And definitely some shitty ones. I’d like to take this time to mourn this loss by recollecting the top 5 memories I shared with Barney.

Don’t worry, they all have to do with men.

  1. I was dropping off a really drunk friend who—as soon as I parked in front of his place—lunged at me, licking the entirety of my face and confessing his feelings for me in-between saliva splattering on me and the odor of heavy alcohol consumption seeping through his pores. He even excused himself to throw up… into my cupholder. We don’t really talk anymore, and to this day, he refuses that anything like that ever happened. What he’ll never know is that I actually recorded him.
  2. Someone had scraped Barney’s rear bumper during church one morning, and they didn’t even leave a note or anything. Since it was the first “ding” on his body, I was especially upset and it was exactly like that feeling you get when you leave the screen protector on your iPhone on for as long as you can and then someone rips it off as a cruel joke and you just can’t put it together again. I digress. Anyway, I was ranting to a guy who I was talking to about it, and he was really sweet. The next day, I was leaving for work and once I approached my car, I noticed something on my rear bumper and saw that someone stuck an adorable band-aid over the scrape. God, that was cute.
  3. I saw it in movies, and I always wanted a guy to do it. Then when it happened, I wanted to rip off my clothes and dance on the roof of my car. Within a split second of kissing a date adieu, he lifted my whole body by the waist and placed me on top of my trunk. I giggled like an adolescent girl, and a small dream was fulfilled that night.
  4. A boyfriend and I had broken up, and as soon as I turned on the ignition to leave, he ran up to my window and admitted that it was really difficult to say goodbye. I agreed, and we ended up having one of the best conversations of our relationship right there, our arms tangled and draped over the window. All the arguing and tense situations we faced as a couple dissipated and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was talking to my dear friend again. However, the drive home after that was nothing short of an emotional explosion.
  5. I spent seven hours in my car with this one guy who I had really began to like, and it was as if we were living like a typical, fantastically adorable couple in a tiny-ass studio. We had a dance party, we sang along to Disney songs, and we made out like crazy kiddos for at least 57% of the time. When the sky started to brighten, we were wrapped around each other with a beach towel over our bodies and the voice of Celine Dion softly lingering in that sweaty space. We knew it was time to call it a day, but why not go out with a bang? That Beauty and the Beast song still makes me blush.

Thank you for being a part of many beautiful moments, and thank you for tolerating the really ratchet ones. You were a good and loyal steed, Barney.

the guy who stood me up.

I wrote this in a private blog a few months ago and it was worth re-blogging for you all.

I was in such a rage today that I couldn’t even manipulate my tongue to form any words.

All I could do was make extremely unflattering guttural sounds while jerking my arms in the air like a marionette in a tornado.

I got stood up for the first time today. And it didn’t feel good at all.

It was my second date with a guy who wasn’t doing a very great job in trying to impress me or to win my favor, but I decided to give him a shot anyway when he contacted me and asked me out to brunch. We were supposed to meet at his apartment, and I had a whole hot outfit chosen and mentally prepared to wow him like I usually do with people. Come on.

I had texted to tell him I was running late, because my roof decided to pour remaining rain water into my kitchen. The maintenance guy took forever to examine the crack in my ceiling, but how fucking long does it take to look at the ceiling and notice the crack in the ceiling? Why do you need a flashlight to look at it, sir? Why do you need to peel back the paint to further investigate? JUST GO TO THE DAMN ROOF AND FIND THE CULPRIT LEAK POINT. AM I BEING COMPLETELY IRRATIONAL HERE?

Sorry. Back to the story. I tell him I’m running late. No response. Fine.

I get to the apartment, text him again. No response.

It’s getting cold (by Southern California standards, this means the low 60s), so I walk over to my car and sit inside. This is when that feeling of embarrassment starts taking over. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Why the hell did I waste my time coming here? Why did I have to look so damn cute for NOBODY?

No. Words.

I waited twenty minutes and heard nothing. I peeled out of there, absolutely mortified.

The thing is, when I didn’t hear from him at all that night or even the next morning, I became concerned. As I mentally scrolled through the different tragedies that could have occurred to that boy, I remember jokingly telling myself, “He probably got trashed.”

LO AND BEHOLD, AT 5PM THE NEXT DAY:

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I had to practice a lot of restraint not to lose my shit. I simply texted that he needed to call me and apologize, so he did and then explained about the wild drunken night he had with his homies. What upset me the most was that for someone who already knows about the effects of alcohol and how horribly difficult the next morning can be, he still made the decision to drink his ass off. It seemed super irresponsible and I didn’t feel like he put any value into our pending date. And then he TEXTED to apologize with that pathetic two-liner. I was too disappointed to give him another chance, which he asked for.

Cool story bro, but get out of my life.

the guy who sent me this.

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This upsets me for a number of reasons.

1. Why is he wearing sunglasses? It’s clear to see that it’s sometime in the evening, according to the harsh brightness of his lamp. I mean, just look at the shadows and observe the spot of piercing light on those shades. He’s squinting like he’s looking directly into sunlight, but he’s indoors anyway so why in God’s name is he wearing sunglasses?

2. He didn’t even introduce himself or properly say hi. All he said was, “I hope u like what u see.” NO SIR, NO. I DON’T LIKE WHAT YOU’VE SCARRED MY EYES AND SOUL WITH.

3. This pose. Definitely tried this pose through an in-home Pilates program a couple years ago. It’s not easy, and I’m sure his balls hurt from doing it so robustly. And how did he manage to place his chin so delicately on the other hand? It’s like he channeled all of his strength to gripping that hair-riddled leg and the rest of him is a ballerina.

4. Okay it just occurred to me that he’s not wearing pants. I am going to flag your ass as inappropriate, mister!

5. It’s like staring at a kitten playing Patty Cake with another kitten. I can’t stop.

the guy who I recycled.

I feel like a lesson that I learn over and over again is that I really need to trust my gut instincts. 

I had started talking to this guy named James for several weeks, and we seemed to get along quite splendidly. He made jokes, I giggled like a freaking idiot, and then I made hilarious quips back to which he replied with his boyish “hehe’s” and “LMAO’s.” But for some reason, I frequently would get a weird sense of heebie-jeebies that I couldn’t quite explain. Nonetheless, I brushed off the feeling as soon as it arrived, and proceeded to get to know this guy.

I have this tendency to cyber-stalk every potential date, and I’m pretty damn good at finding the most random shit on a guy. That’s a whole different blog post though, I’m afraid. Anyway, back to this story. I was looking through an old Flickr account that James had when suddenly, a chill ran down my spine and I uttered out loud, “Oh NO.”

The prickly sensation was back, and I knew why. Major deja vu alert. I had stalked this guy before. It was all coming back to me now, full force Celine Dion style, and I was mortified. I recalled the first time that I had talked to this guy and WHY I had stopped talking to him, which was that he was FUCKING CRAZY. This was the guy who told me that he had a list of marriage requirements, and then actually took the marriage requirements list out to read to me aloud. This was the guy who had completely bashed Christian culture and called Jesus the “devil in disguise” while laughing bitterly into my ear. This was the guy who I had an hour-long argument with about domestic violence (which by the way, he was totally in support of). This was the guy who after exactly three days of chatting and two phone conversations, I did everything in my power to delete from my life. This. Fucking. Guy.

Yet here I was, speaking in a baby voice and acting the complete fool over him. To further explain, the last I talked to James was nearly a year ago, and he had actually lost some weight. The beefy football player looked more like a lanky librarian, and his name on his profile used to be “Jim” (I seriously hate these stupid ass nicknames that aren’t similar to the original names… Robert/Bob, William/Bill, Richard/Dick, UGH). I don’t know if I should have given him a second chance, but the first impression he left on me was too deeply embedded. What shocked me the most was that out of millions of single guys out there and the tons of messages I either reject or accept every week, I had to recycle him. Was the universe telling me something? Was I running out of single guys to talk to? Did I need to move to a new city with a fresh batch of men? I remember feeling sick in my stomach and not touching any of my dating apps for a couple weeks.

I’ll never doubt you ever again, squishy gut.

blonde changes everything.

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My profile photo used to be a rather adorable one with a brachiosaurus and a brunette CJ, and as soon as I changed it to a blonde CJ with sunglasses and a skirt, my inbox blew up with guys commenting about it and going into detail about why Asian girls with blonde hair is the shit. And to answer this guy’s question (although not directly to him since all his photos were him practically naked… my word!):

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Yes, yes I am. The catcalls are more frequent, the compliments are more scandalous, and the guys are more blatant about making it known that they want to do disgusting things to me. There was one guy who called me Marilyn Monroe at the supermarket who added nonchalantly that I should wear her little white dress, and then there was that other guy who said I looked like an import model and I should get breast implants next.

The reason why I went blonde is because I felt like it described my personality better. I’m loud and I don’t mind a lot of attention, but I also consider myself a thoughtful creative who’s colorfully abnormal, like a walking Picasso. And I’m proud to be that, therefore the blonde was more of a profound unveiling. But to these MEN… it’s like I became something fantastical that would fuel their trashy desires even more and it has been quite interesting (and unnerving at times) to observe.

I met up with a friend at a club because this DJ she liked was there, and that was probably the most Amish I ever looked. I had gone straight from work, and I was wearing a long sleeved shirt, a skirt, and leggings. There was no boob or ass action to admire, and I was (and I know this is very hard to believe) sincerely there for the music. One guy came over and murmured into my ear, “Love the hair. You look wild.” His hand was suddenly on the small of my back and I wrestled my way further into the crowd.

Now I’m wondering if I’ve made myself an easier target, and if it’ll just be harder for me to go on dates with guys who want to get to know me, rather than the slutty Asian chick they are concocting in their minds. It would be nice to be able to express myself without being sexually harassed and handled like a sticky, dirty magazine.

the guy known as “The Italian Stallion.”

I was never that girl who got drunk and wobbled around like a newborn foul, spewing yellow gunk from my nicely lip-lined lips while hurling insults at strangers. The worst that I’ve done is to bolt, never to return again. My friends found me later that night sitting on a curb as a police officer in tight biker shorts scolded me for being an idiot. Other than that though, I’m a fun, happy-go-lucky drunk.

When I’m on dates, I like drinking a lot with the guy because a) it relaxes them and if they’re nervous, it calms them down, b) it relaxes them and if they’re fucking boring, at least I’m drunk, and c) it’s a lot more fun when the walls come down and alcohol makes anyone brutally honest.

I went on a date with this Italian lawyer (let’s call him the Italian Stallion because I just watched Rocky II and III, so I’m feeling sentimental) and he was going ON AND ON about his own life and how wonderfully handsome he is, and I kept taking shot after shot because I wanted to drown out his voice with the pounding that my liver was taking. Finally, we finished and took a walk, and no surprise, he was STILL TALKING. All of a sudden, he grabs my head and tries to kiss me. I screech and say very eloquently, “You kidding me?!”

His eyes were wide and dumbfounded as I admonished him for talking my ears off and then trying to take advantage of my clearly drunken state, but it was probably funnier that I tried to come off high and mighty while standing there awkwardly with my high heels and hair slightly disheveled from his eager hands.

He apologized and offered to buy me a McRib.

So I made out with him.