To call tonight’s experience a Date From Hell is to insult the actual Dates from Hell I’ve been on.
I looked nice. I didn’t put on makeup until just before I left the house so that it would still look fresh and not blotchy. I had on my magic Date Bra.™ I got a pedicure today. I smelled good.
This guy-thing-creature-person was smelly. Smelly. And unkempt. A front tooth appeared to be chipped. Slightly cleaner than a homeless person. I’d bet he could win a homeless guy beauty contest if he entered. And that’s as far as I can go.
And also? I’m a catch. Okay, fat. But if you like ‘em large, I have everything you could possibly desire in womanly womanness. I’m smart. Accomplished. Stable. Own my own home. Funny. A good mom. And did I mention the smelling good? And I think I should be able to go out with guys who can meet me on more or less equal footing. I think there should be parity of catchfulness. I think creepy unemployed smelly guys who collect SSI because of mental disability and BLOW THEIR NOSES IN THEIR SHIRTS should not ask women like me out. Should. Not. Ask. Date within your own species, mofo.

