I feel the need to apologize to my readers for the lack of excitement around here lately. Oh, sure, there's France, and yes, that is fun to look forward to, but let's be serious. I know why you all come here, and it's not to hear me talk about my summer plans or criticize what passes for children's humor these days. You come here for the stories, ranging from the merely awkward to the excruciatingly horrifying, of my dating experiments and mis-adventures. Admit it. And lately I feel I have let you down, readers. Because, as I'm sure you've noticed, the last few months have been fairly light on the dating front. (Though I must be the only person in the world who can quit dating and still get rejected). I blame this on school and on the fact that the closer I get to leaving Boston forever, the less interested I am in making new friends, romantic or otherwise. So, it's likely you won't find any new, interesting dating stories here for a while. In the meantime though, there's plenty of horror in the archives to tide you over. Let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we?
When a date gets hot and sweaty, and not in a good way
Of motorcycles and machismo
How to guarantee you won't get a second date
A Thanksgiving day threesome goes thud
Wine, and a birthday surprise
Ahhh...good times, good times. And now, coming up on a year from when this whole crazy dating experiment started, I look back fondly and think...Wow, do I not want to do that again. And so, I'm done. I've threatened it before, but this time I really am done with dating. I even took down my Match and my Okcupid profiles today. I was worried that giving up dating altogether would leave me depressed, or bored out of my mind, but instead I'm feeling...well, I feel...
I feel a little like this, actually:
And while I'm at it, I would just like to state for the record that when I return to the French Alps this summer, I would really like to recreate that moment, if at all possible. Because nothing makes up for the fact that you just climbed 2,000 vertical feet up a snowy mountain in your loafers and with no winter coat, because it's June, like sliding all the way back down that mountain with no winter coat, in your loafers. Also, nothing will make you hate your loafers more than hiking up and back down a snowy mountain in inappropriate footwear, leading you to wonder what the hell you were thinking bringing loafers to France anyway, god, and finally disposing of said loafers in a fit of rage in a hotel room trashcan in Aix.
And I never looked back.