If Tinder Profiles Were More Than 500 Characters: Pt. 3

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Part 1 Part 2

You:

-Hold my hair back when I puke

-Gives honest thoughts on my writing

-Are up to blow off work one Thursday to go to Navy Pier but happen to run into your boss when drunk walking down the boardwalk. You duck behind a Red Eye paper dispenser while I walk over to distract him, kind of like Julia Styles in 10 Things I Hate About You, only I keep my clothes on but would flash as a last resort.

-Thinks swing dancing in New Orleans is one hell of a vacation

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I:

-Can flip eggs without a spatula

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Pretty fair trade if I don’t say so myself.

The First Time I got Laid as a Writer…

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The first time I got laid as a writer, she smiled when I asked to smoke outside. I don’t think she heard me over the bar chatter. She just saw me leave into the patio and came with. I lit a Newport in-between October wind gusts while she filled the silence.

“So what have you been writing about?” she asked.

“Well, I applied for a non-paid writers position at a satire magazine on campus a few weeks ago. My friend told me about it. She gave me her editor’s contact and told me to send a sample of my work. Right now, I’m managing/designing a protection scheme for the school’s solar car. It’s my senior project, one of the most difficult Senior Engineering projects in the school’s history. Between that, not missing a game of the Cubs historic 2015 playoff run, and getting yelled at by my restaurant manager who hasn’t been laid in 20 years, I found time to write the sample,” I said.

The cherry on my menthol lit up my face as I took a quick break from my speech. I exhaled and continued.

“I showed it to every one I knew. I mean EVERYONE. My roommate, my lab partners, my fellow engineering nerds, my friend that worked at the magazine, the girl I had a crush on at work, the girl I had a crush on in my History class, and etc. I got a lot of notes. Some I implemented, some I didn’t. I re-wrote the damn thing four times. Waited to the last minute to send it over,” I said.

“Wow” she said. A piece of grey ash smeared on her blue dress. “So what happened?” she asked.

“Well, days went by. I’d check my email but nothing. I’d hear a ding on my phone, only to read flights from Chicago for only 79.00! Orbits bastards. I got asked by everyone that helped me if I heard anything yet, but I had to give them the same lame answer.

Then a week and a half later, I saw an email from an address I didn’t recognize. I quickly pulled it up and read it.

Dear Darby,

Although your piece was entertaining, we don’t feel you’re a good fit here.

Take care

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, ” I know writing can be tough thing to get into.”

The wind from the maple leaves rustled and almost blew out my half smoked cancer stick. We took a couple steps back behind a side of the bar.

“You’re not kidding, I ran into my friend who works there. I asked her what the editor thought about it. Now we’d been friends for a while, but she didn’t come clean with me until later in the conversation. Apparently, they spent the first 20 minutes of their meeting talking shit about it. The word choices, the grammatical errors, the sad attempt to be funny. I became a running joke, ” I said.

“Oh my god!” she said. “Did they really?”

I slammed my butt on the ground and looked at her brown eyes. My head slightly nodded.

“Yea they did. I guess one guy kept calling me a no talent ass clown. He even got up and drew a picture of his interpretation of said ass clown. He scribbled the face with red marker and the hair with green. She took a picture and showed me.” I said.

“Wow,” she said. She swayed back and worth trying to keep warm from the chill fall weather.

“Yea I was pretty hurt but what can I do? I just need to get better. You know, work a little harder. I decided to open up a shitty blog. I’m also reading articles about the craft and asking questions daily on a forum.

So as of right now, that’s what I’ve working on,” I said.

She looked back at my wide eyes. Her words hesitated to exit but I already knew what she was going to say.

“Do you still have the piece? Like, do you mind if I read it?” she asked

“Not at all,” I said.

I grabbed her hand and we walked two blocks to my apartment.

The Neighbor and Shape

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Dear Neighbor at 303,

I believe your name is Hannah, or at least that is who the March issue of Shape is addressed to. Although we’ve never met in person, this magazine was sitting in my mailbox a couple weeks ago. I meant to give it back to you then, but I became enthralled with the issue. Majority of the shit I read is a mixture of bad online dating profiles, technical work shit, and lots of fiction. Needless to say, it was a breath of fresh air when I read the 62 ways to nurture my body and brain. Apparently I already do number 36, so I’m ahead of the game.

Unfortunately, not everything is gold in this zine. On page 28, they say Go Bold with your Tights Game! This is horseshit. Every bimbo at L.A. fitness in the DFW area is doing that right now. Fashion is an expression and they’re saying with that is “I got dressed in the dark and I’m replacing my fashion sense with squat reps.” Don’t be that girl. Nobody likes that girl. Also on page 2, they have a picture of Shay Mitchell from the cover standing in a tall grass field when it’s obvious she just had a Brazilian done before the shoot. Kind of a dick move on the photographer’s part, don’t you think? I would imagine her thighs would be itchy enough without the wind rubbing tiny blades of grass on them. But I’m a guy, so what do I know?

Anyways, I apologize for having this for so long, but technically you’re still getting the March issue in March, so I think your still making out okay.

Sincerely,

Your neighbor at 302.

PS. To answer your lingering question: Yes, I was loaded when I wrote this.

If Tinder Profiles Were More Than 500 Characters: Pt. 2

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Part 1

-I don’t want you to come straight over to my apartment to watch Netflix

-I don’t want to send you $5 on Venmo for naked Snapchat pictures

-I want to meet at a coffee shop or bar

-I want you to get upset at me for being late because I thought we were meeting at a different spot down the street

-I want to hear about your day over glasses clinking and the faint murmur of 90’s alternative music

-I want to interrupt with various jokes that show off your perfect snorty laugh

-I want to hear about your superstition with ghosts and how you once saw a figure in black when you worked at the Old Adolphus Hotel

-I want to whisk you out of the bar and wonder around the city looking for other haunted buildings

-As we walk, I want to tell you how much I love to write, despite the amount of times I’ve been told my writing sucks

-I want to hear the passion that gets your blood pumping

-I want to finally find a dark building and make up a story why one light is still on

-I want to get so lost in our conversation I miss the last train home

-I don’t want to get super “handsy” when we stand behind your car, just bask in the tension of our eyes lingering during a pregnant pause

-I want you to say awkward things because your happily uncomfortable in the moment

-I want to interrupt by pulling you in for a kiss and breaking it off before you reach to bite my lower lip

-I want to say good night and walk an hour back home, past our haunted building, thinking about how excited I am to see you again

If you can’t handle any of that please swipe left

 

The kik. Attempt pt. 2

Part 1

He was killing time again at work with OKC. It use to be his favorite dating site when he could send a witty message to anyone, but now the stars have to aline for a girl to read it. His odds are just as good on tinder now that they’ve taken the personality portion out of online dating. Let’s be honest, who really has time to get to know someone these days?

He was 4 swipes in when the title “Mz Badd” came up. He stopped for a second. Most girls use their first name, but seeing this white 33 year old, with braided hair sparked his curiousity.  Her pictures revealed a busty 5’4″, beautiful thick waist woman, with a natural ass that would make Kim K jealous. He swipped over to her sassy misspelled profile, something he could respect as he was dyslexic himself. The last section of “You should message me if…” read as followed:

Whit Bois tred litely. I hang wit a lot of hispanic and blaks. Take ur bes shot whit boi if u thik u got game. Come corect or dont come at all.

His fingers quivered. When he was 21, he had a fling with a girl who had a raw personality back in his small home town. She wore South Pole suits like J-Lo and her apple bottom could be seen for miles. She even once surprised him on Christmas eve wearing sexy Ms Clause lingerie. They fucked for an hour and a half all over the dark stained carpet motel room that smelled like menthols. She told him he fucked like a pornstar and made her cum 4 times. He never came because he was embarassed of what others might think if they heard. Now he’s alone in a city, and she’s married with a guy who works at jiffy lube.

He fired off a message “I feel like a lot of guys don’t come correct”, and put his phone away, figuring it was a lost cause. An hour later she answered back.  “Lol no they dont”. then threw out three more behind it. The last one saying, “normally I dont hit whit bois back but u cute fr. I dont chec dis much, hit me up on kik XXXXX” Damnit, he thought. His achilees heel of dating apps.

As the day went on, they messaged back and forth. He found it hard to desifer her text speak, but when it came to online dating he’d put his writing and wit against anyone (except DT). He made a joke about how all white boys are corny. She laughed and asked him if he’d ever dated a “Boss Bitch”. He replied yes as he thought of his ex and the girl from back home, who both refered to themselves in such a manner. He joked about how she should wear a skirt and play golf. She said that you’d never find her anywhere near a green, unless your talking about that good shit.

He laughed then asked where would he find her? A few hours went by and she said “u still owe me the pic I asked for last night.” He instantly fired one back, “Woha, I think your trying to hustle me now. When was this?”

He sat there puzzled with absoultely no memory of getting solicited. He scroled through the messages again. Finally he found a random one that read “take me one of u now. stick ya tounge out too lol”. At the time he didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about, so he ignored it.

Within the past couple days he checks his phone periodically, still no response.

kik 2 – Darby 0

The Application

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I’m currently accepting applications for someone who loses track of time when joking around with me. Someone who shows up at the bar when I’m two Moscow Mules deep and instantly tells me about her day. Someone who mentions that she had good intentions of heading to the gym to work out today but instead just showered. Someone who laughs when I joke and mimic that she just washed her thick Italian hair over and over for two hours, almost making her late for work. Someone who takes the joke further by saying it’s all baby steps towards getting healthy and next week she’ll actually get a drink at the gym water fountain before heading to the showers. Someone who laughs so hard she snorts unexpectedly making me laugh harder.

I’m currently accepting applications for someone who storms off after an argument about me flirting with another girl. Someone who gets so frustrated, she moves in with her friend, Sasha. Someone who sips wine and makes jokes all night about how small my dick is. About how they never really liked me anyways. And about how she ‘settled’ for me because her ex moved away and she regrets not going with him. Someone who finally takes Sasha’s advice and heads out to the club wearing her favorite Orange dress that somehow fits. Someone who meets a charming guy that’s tall, witty, and successful. They connect on a deep level and he takes her to his place. Someone who texts me out of spite saying “I’ve already replaced your loser ass!” at 2:23am. Someone who fucks this guy and is still satisfied in the morning. Someone who gets a ride back to Sasha’s and hears Amy Winehouse sing over the E-class Bose speakers, reminding her of how I learned “Valerie” on my guitar when her mother passed away.  Someone who tells the guy they had a nice time. Someone who half way to the door breaks down crying on the street, and texts me, “I’m sorry”.

I’m currently accepting applications for someone who doesn’t want kids. Someone that understands that even though both of us would be awesome parents, it’s just not in the cards for me because I have too many dreams to chase. Someone who gets pissed at me for throwing every dollar towards a goal. Someone who throws a vase at my head when the financial shit hits the fan. Someone who screams every night at me when we sleep out of our two door Honda Civic dx parked behind Walmart and takes turns sleeping and watching out for employees trying to kick us out. Someone who dances with me in the heat in our new apartment when my hard work starts paying off. And a year later sips champagne with me at a fancy party, wearing a stunning red dress, and joins me in telling everyone “remember when” stories.

I’m currently accepting applications for someone who enjoys the spontaneousness of attraction. Someone who doesn’t mind shopping for paint at home depot and catching a gleam in my eye when I joke about the color ‘passion fruit red’. Someone who takes my hand and sneaks in the back by the patio furniture. Someone who tries her damnedest to hold back her moans as I jam my throbbing member in her at a repetitive rate. Someone who breaths extremely heavy at sound of incoming footsteps and kicks out during the climax, knocking over several boxes. Someone who laughs as she puts herself back together because I’m tell the worker about how it’s impossible to find the right outdoor plastic table due to the disorganization of this store.

But I’ll be honest, I’ve been accepting applications for a while now, and not many make it past the grueling the interview process.

OKC Messages that have Gotten me Blocked pt.1

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Her profile read:

I’ll be in town around Valentines Day. I’m originally from Chicago and I would love a date while I’m traveling for work.

Write down your best attribute (not physical), what you like to do, and where we would go on our date?

My message:

We’d meet up at the bar down the street from my place, where the bartender Frank is a friend of mine. On the 4K TV will be a re-run of game 7 of the 2016 World Series. You know, the one where the greatest baseball franchise breaks that awful curse. We’ll make small talk about how I use to watch every game with my grandma, a die hard fan who once met Andy Pafko at a drug store. From there I’ll segway about growing up in a small town in Michigan and tell stores about the mischief I got into as a kid.

You’ll talk about how you’ve always been a city girl but you love to get away to see the country. Actually, you’ve only told a few people this, but your favorite place in the world is this small cabin you stumbled upon while hiking at Yellowstone. I make a joke about you saving up and buying it. We both laugh.

The food arrives, it’s New York style pizza. I tease you about how it’s better than Chicago style. I take the joke too far not realizing  your close Uncle just lost his pizza restaurant after owning it 20 years. You’re visibly upset. Just when you’re about to write me off, I apologize.

The Game hits the big comeback in the 9th. We cheer, knocking over a bowl of peanuts. We both laugh and apologize to Frank. I pay. You call an Uber. I wait by the corner with you, joking about the cold Texas winters. You smile. Your eyes linger a bit longer than usual. Slowly I grab the back of your head and bring it close to mine, obeying the 80-20 law from Hitch. We kiss. Sparks fly. A black Camry pulls up. I pull away.

You thank me for a great night. I say good luck with new cabin purchase. You smile. The door closes. We lock eyes through the scratches on the window, and the car drives away. We never see each other again.

….Also, did I mention that I like to write?