Urine, Ur Out

Just before the six (unsuccessful) months of my eHarmony membership was up, I matched with Craig, a baby blue-eyed recently divorced social media strategist. Craig and I decided to meet for a drink after the work day one Thursday night.

Normally I would consider someone who was fresh off the ending of a marriage to be a slight red flag, but as I was rapidly approaching my 32nd birthday I decided it would behoove me to lower my standards cast a wider net and expand my horizons.

When I got to the wine bar of Craig’s choice he greeted me, and handed me a glass of Malbec. I our previous conversations via eHarmony I had mentioned that it was my drink of choice, but was  found it quite strange that someone I had never met would order me a beverage without me present.

Nonetheless, I thanked him for being thoughtful, and prayed it wasn’t roofied.

After twenty minutes of illustrating his tedious day-to-day routine of crunching cloud-based algorithms…..or whatever the fuck he does, I briefly summarized the the riveting work I do as an corporate accountant.

Our conversation thereafter was reasonably entertaining, and I was feeling rather hospitable that evening in particular, so I suggested Craig and I continue our little rendezvous back at my place.

We were on my couch enjoying a civilized glass of wine and rather civilized conversation when my roommates returned from a bar hopping extravaganza only to continue the party at our apartment.

Craig and I gladly joined in the fun of polishing off an entire bottle of tequila.

Clearly in no shape for sexual activity or a journey back to his own place, I invited Craig to pass out in my bed.

I woke up early in the morning to him standing in front of my closet.

Then I heard it…


Craig was pissing all over the floor of my closet.

All over my shoes.

All over my hamper full of clothing.

After coming to grips with reality and noticing that it was in fact my wardrobe and not a toilet in which he was pissing in, he apologized, and made an attempt to salvage my belongings from his mid slumber urination.

I had Craig carry the contents of my hamper to the basement to the washing machine, then threw him out, along with several pairs of perfectly good suede boots.


Big City, Small Dating Pool

After taking a much needed spiritual hiatus from the chaos that is the online dating scene I decided I’d better throw my hat back in the ring and attempt to meet someone before the impending wedding season began. I was hopeful that this was finally the year I would take advantage of my ‘plus one’ option.

Soon after I matched with Patrick on Tinder.

Patrick was a svelte gentleman with dirty-blond hair and slightly on the metro sexual side. His jeans were somewhat tighter than my liking but I figured I could overlook something as minuscule as the size of one’s pants so long as I am pleased with what is underneath.

Patrick invited me out on an unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon in February on a patio for some margaritas and some guac whilst soaking up the inevitably short-lived sunshine.

The date went surprisingly well, and I decided it wouldn’t hurt to bring him back to my apartment I recently moved into to show him my new digs and perhaps another cocktail.

We were sitting on the balcony engaged in a random conversation about astrology when my roommate came out to say hello.

She switch on the lights.

“Oh fuck,” Patrick said.

I glanced at Patrick as he stared at my roommate with a horrified look on his face.

“Well hello,” my roommate said as if she had caught someone with their hand in the cookie jar.

Confused, I awaited an explanation.

“So remember the guy that I was having sex with who told me he couldn’t see me for a long time because had mono and was contagious? YUP. That’s him.”

We busted Patrick’s balls for being a cowardice little shit and he split.

Big city, small world.




Well That Date Blew [Chunks]

I met Brandon on Plenty of Fish because let’s be honest, I moved to New York City a few months prior, and any money I make seems to evaporate into thin air. Shelling out $40/month on a Match subscription was certainly not in the cards considering the lack of funds in my bank account.

Brandon was hot. He had blond hair and blue eyes which looked especially adorable when framed by the worn out brim of his Syracuse baseball cap. Despite him being a few years my junior he seemed to relatively have his shit together. 

We met at a German beer garden in Chelsea, and enjoyed some local brews while nibbling on a giant fresh baked pretzel with stone ground mustard for dipping.

Brandon and I were so enthralled in intellectually stimulating conversation that we lost count of how many beers we had consumed.

Feeling rather toasted, I said that I was going to return to my apartment…

And that he should come too.

After some aggressive necking in the back of the taxi and up the elevator we landed on my bed to continue our adult recreational activities.

Brandon pulled away and paused for a moment…

rolled over to the side of the bed…

and blew chunks all over the floor.

For several minutes Brandon violently heaved while emptying the  contents of his stomach all over my Pottery Barn area rug.

Too drunk to do anything about it, we both passed out.

I woke up the next morning to the putrid smell of vomit permeating my tiny studio apartment, so I gave Brandon a nudge to wake up and somehow take care of the situation.

He stumbled to his feet still seemingly inebriated while trying to assess the situation.

He then slid the area rug out from under the bed, rolled it up tightly and threw it over his shoulder.

I never heard from Brandon again, but I did discover a mysterious Pottery barn gift card in my mailbox one week later.