I don’t really drink much, and I don’t really have a problem with it, and I didn’t really know the girl very well, and I didn’t want to be there.
But I thought a little rivalry could be fun — I have a lot of Yankee fan friends who have married Redsox fans and they both have a sense of humor about it!
She would then fill the little remaining crust-boat with olive oil, take a bite from it, and refill it. It reminded me of that, which might say more about me as lousy digital dater than her.
• We agreed to meet at a bar even though he didn’t drink (when I asked if he went to meetings instead, he was silent).
I was so grossed out I couldn’t bring myself to ask what the problem was. • I went out with a guy in his 30s who told me within the first hour of the date that: he didn’t have a bank account, had never filed taxes, worked on a drug farm, and paid with his “green card” aka pot for goods and services in the neighborhood.
By the end of dinner it looked like he’d spit out more than he’d ate. • Nowhere on her profile did it say anything about her being an acid casualty and ketamine dealer. The first is when I waited an hour outside at Harvard Square in late January because my date was in the North End buying pot (not for me.) The second was with a grad student in English who dismissed my skepticism towards Freudianism with, “I guess I’m just not as much of social determinist as you are.” The moral of these stories: don’t date Harvard men.