Dating Disaster: WHAT A WASTE OF GAS

Dating Disaster: WHAT A WASTE OF GAS

Modern Dating Edition: Now With More Beer Breath and Emotional Manipulation

You’d think by now I’d know better.

But every once in a while, I let a little hope slip through the cracks — usually around 10 p.m. on a Friday, when I’ve got a glass of wine in one hand and a dating app open in the other. This particular time, the app was Bumble. (Yes, the one where the woman is supposed to have all the power. Spoiler: we don’t.)

Anyway, this all started on a dare. My guy friend — who clearly hates me — convinced me to give Bumble another shot. He swore it was different now. That “everyone’s on it.” That “it’s where the hot guys are.” And okay, fine — the lineup was promising. Tall men. Like, over-6’2" tall. Men with jawlines and boat pics and dogs named Moose. I was hopeful. Hopeful and tipsy.

Then I matched with him. Let’s call him Derek.

We talked on the phone for an hour, and for the first time in forever, it wasn’t awful. No weird breathing. No crypto monologue. No “my ex was crazy” speech (yet). Our first date? Shockingly great. Smart banter, lots of laughs, and he even offered to help me move. A+ for effort. I thought, wow, maybe I manifested this man.

Girl.

Enter: The Netflix Trap

The very next night, Derek invited me over to “watch a movie.” Classic. I told him upfront:
“I’m exhausted. No funny business. No heavy petting. Just a chill night.”

And I meant it — especially because I’d just come out of back-to-back relationship trauma. One ex cheated on me with a literal porn star. The next one was sexting other women while lying next to me in bed. (Iconic behavior, really.) So yeah, I was emotionally charred. Charcoal-level trust issues.

But still, I went. He lived 30 minutes away. That’s a commitment in L.A. time — basically long-distance. But I was clinging to the idea of maybe, plus I still needed help moving boxes, so...off I drove.

The Vibe Shift

The second I walked in, I could tell:
This man was drunk. Not fun drunk. Not loosened-up drunk. I mean slurring, stumbling, your-uncle-at-a-barbeque drunk.

But I forced a smile. I sat down. I even tried to pretend I was into the conversation, until he leaned over and tried to swallow my face whole. His breath? A crisp cocktail of stale beer and broken promises. I pulled back and said, “Let’s just watch the show.”

He didn’t listen. At all.

Instead, he started pouting like a child and said, “If you don’t make out with me the way I want, it’s kind of a deal-breaker.”

A deal-breaker. As if I was auditioning for the role of Drunk Man’s Makeout Puppet #4.

Sir, please stop licking my actual face and threatening me with your absence.

I said “no” again, clearly. And then I left — with zero help moving, a deep need for mouthwash, and the kind of headache that only comes from trying to be polite to a frat bro in a grown man’s body.

The Aftermath

The next morning? Ding ding ding. My phone lights up like I just got a boyfriend overnight.

“Hey babe 😘”
“Miss u already 🥺”
“Let’s do round 2 soon”

ROUND TWO?! OF WHAT?!
The facial assault? The manipulation Olympics? Again, why am I dating? It has only gotten worse. This was when I was 30 and now I am 40 and it has only gotten multitudes worse. God save us.

Moral of the Story:

Don't date a guy just because you need help moving.
Don’t trust a man who calls you “babe” after one date.
And for the love of Febreze — don’t ignore beer breath red flags.

Want more cringe-fueled cautionary tales from the trenches of modern dating?
There is more dating disasters every week, and if you want me to roast one of your terrible trenches, email me at yourdatingunexpert@gmail.com.