I get fucked over? You get lucky.

Bet you didn’t think you would see me this morning in your Reader, eh? Yeah yeah. So much for self-imposed blogging hiatus, but really, Fuck You. Nobody ever said I was good at playing by the rules. Or religion for that matter.

This disservice brought to you by “I have a dating story doozie,” which goes against all my beliefs for dating during Lent as well, but come with me for a minute. And also, a little “Fuck Him!” gem for ATV.

I recently discovered some Body who I became interested in dating. To be honest, he was a peaceful break away from full disclosure on the blog. He was a “friend.” And also a friend of an ex. We’re already walking on a thin line here, I know. Keep up.

We went on that first date initially to reconnect beyond the confides of Facebook Friends. We enjoyed a really nice dinner at Crop with tremendously awesome food  — and what I believed to be, an even better attraction to one another. He then took the bill, which I consider to be more-than-friendly territory, then grabbed my hand at the bar after. And held it.

Then he kissed me.  Among other non-sexual shenanigans, ’twas a good first date, right?

And we made plans for a second date – which I thought also went extremely well. A mid-week wine tasting, full of pestering and invasive questions by moi, followed by an Extended Length make-out session in the car. He even purchased a couple bottles of wine for ME to take home.  Genuinely thoughtful and considerate, albeit odd — looking back  — at how suddenly the date ended.

Saturday was Date #3.

I was looking completely hot – and I almost always wear jeans out, but I choose hot tight black satin skinny pants, but I digress. I got all sweaty from nervous energy waiting around for my date to confirm plans for our (maybe) dinner date. I paced. I fucking shaved. I self-tanned. I couldn’t even take a nap from all the excitement.

And the mother fucker stood me up.

During our Date #2 this week, he said he wanted to see me this weekend. And I got a text that read “I like u!!!” after I dropped him off. He also confirmed our date the day before via text message. I left a voice message Saturday morning in an attempt to make reservations early for us somewhere. You know, we females need ETAs!!! He texted a couple hours after my voice mail to say he would call when he was done doing… whatever. And another two fucking hours go by. Nothing.

I called. No answer. I texted (even throwing in a biting “Bueller?” to his non-response). Fucking nothing. I gave up.

He had more than enough attempts to call or text to cancel plans. Shit, he could have even ignored me, to which I would have also got the inevitable hint.

So I went out – got brilliantly blasted courtesy (and randomly) of the Boneyard in Mayfield bartenders  – and attempted to find somebody to fuck over myself. For reals. And then I realized that I don’t really like men. Or men from Mayfield for that matter.

I’m thinking dinner this week by myself at Luxe is a must. Must have. Hot waitress.

What the fuck is the matter with you grown, adult men?

And the question remains, how long would you wait to make other plans before realizing you were being stood up?

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