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Unfortunately, we were both the human equivalents of melted ice at the bottom of a cooler previously filled with beer, dreams and the empty promise of a good time.
Final Words Speed dating, even the kind tailored toward your preferred sexual role, is a great alternative to the more obvious option: online dating.
"I mean, I don't blame them, but it's not like I had a choice," I continued thinking to myself while mindlessly nodding along to what my fifth date was saying. Once everyone had registered, our organizer separated us into our respective groups. Whereas I tried to look as though I had just gotten off my fancy job as a writer, a majority of the men looked as though they had just left their shift at Aeropostale. Why were they dressed like that dude from high school who always tries to sell you knives when you run into him every trip back home?
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(I'd like to go on record and say those men are horrible, and the human equivalent of a parfait.) The men here were normal dudes: mostly over 30, and mostly in custody of faces I almost instantly forgot. Have you ever been at a party and realized, with a cold sweat and a shiver of dread, that you were the smartest one in the room?
It's happened to me once before; I realized that if I was the smartest person in the room, then we were all screwed.
I might have had better luck convincing them I was a a very lost and confused lesbian. I was bottoming out after talking to guy after guy for .
My voice was so hoarse that it was one broken leg away from a glue factory, and my personality had a heavy case of whiskey d**k.
One gentleman, for example, interrupted me halfway throughout our introductions and asked with a smile, "Are you a Greek god? I gave him the ol' side eye and sipped out of my beer suspiciously. "I would love to take you back to my apartment to photograph you." Flattered, and with a bit of beer foam dribbling out of my mouth, I politely declined.