I Knew We Couldn’t Be Together When You Didn’t Take Me To A 5 Star Restaurant
I know I’m on the worst date EVER when the guy takes me out solely for drinks and calls me “cutie pie” a sum total of 8 times in one hour, even though I bear no relation at all to a
fucking cabbage patch kid doll. Or when we’re walking between bars and we stop at a newsstand to buy me a package of starburst and he asks me for one, which is rude because there’s only like, 16 in a package. It’s especially awful when he’s given the chance to redeem himself as it starts raining, except the oversized umbrella that he offers me is decorated with with red and pink roses. I repeat, roses. You can’t date a man who uses an umbrella that looks like it belongs to your Grandmother because the next thing you know, he will arguing with you over the efficiency of a coaster versus a doily.
Not to mention the date is no longer categorized as the “worst”, but rather, the “most gay”…