The Christmas List


I looked at the email from my sister. “Hey Darbs! We’re about to go out shopping for Christmas, is there something specific that you want?”

I started typing but was interrupted by the door ring. I always wanted to know what was coming through the door. Something I picked up from my army buddy.


My heart stopped. A strange occurrence considering the amount of caffeine pumping through my veins. I resisted the urge to rub my eyes. Now is not the type to look like a chump. That was the exact look of what I wanted. Tall, well accessorized with the whiff of effortlessness that everyone knows is bullshit, and thick enough below the waist with some love handle to give something to reach for at the gym. The only flaw being a blonde. But you can’t win them all.

I’m glad the baseline checks out but let’s be honest,  she’s probably a bitch. Fucking Guaranteed. It’s always too good to be true. “Hey welcome to Starbucks! Can I get something started for you?” My ears perked up. How you treat the staff is a reflection of your self worth. Probably one of those who’s got a chip on her shoulder from having a weird facial deformity that straightened out years later. Those types are always out for revenge. It’s not enough to be wanted by every guy, they want to have 1000 year old hymns written and sang from the peaks of the Himalayas because that’s how to cure a fucked up childhood. Everyone knows that.

“You know what? Honestly, I don’t know what I want. I’m sorry, I came in here knowing what I wanted but had a change of heart. I hate when that happens.” She turned to the lady behind her. “You can go ahead of me if you want.”

Fuck. She’s metaphysically hilarious and nice. What are the fucking odds. Situational humor is like,  my fucking go to. I literally said that exact thing not 20 minutes ago to a different Barista. It’s rare to see someone who’s comfortable enough to unfilter their thoughts to random strangers. Even more rare for a woman who’s oozing sexuality to do it. They can’t. Guys will become to comfortable, which makes it hard to get rid of them. She needs something to deter the average chumps. This is why Resting Bitch face became a thing.

She walked over to the counter right in front of me. Alright Darby. This is it. You’re interesting, slightly hungover, find humor in everything, made a payment on your oil leaking 2005 Civc, and had 7 people like a short story that you wrote really fast on your new blog. Basically you’re better than every male in the great state of Texas. Walk over there and mutter the first thing that pops in your head. Just then she dropped a packet of Splenda and bent over over to pick it up right in front of me. The perfect apple stared me in the face. Fuck. I could hear a church choir’s angelic harmony singing “Hallelujah” like they were sick of closed pearly gates. I began foaming at the mouth. A small dribble of saliva scraped across my unconnected 5 o’clock shadow.


I used the human pump to force the lubrication back to in it’s reservoir. I glared back. The Gazelle stared back at me. Our eyes locked and I felt the same parallelizing excitement the entrance. Fuck the Nintendo 64 kid. That’s what I wanted! Shit that’s what I deserved! I have dated women in all areas of the US. I’ve went through more catastrophically embarrassing dates that would make most men’s testicles shrivel into raisins. No more of these damaged internet souls. No more lining up endless date after date, hearing how great of a profile I wrote. How I have actual personality. How I’m not trying to impress them. How I am generally interested in who they are and why they are the way they are. What happened during their childhood? What problems are they facing now? How I can help them break out of the prison they’ve built in their mind? But it becomes exhausting. They always want more. This is what happens when you upset the natural yin and yang of relationships. The well always dries up when isolated.

She went back to her normal position, unphased by the audience. A real pro of beauty. I couldn’t stop staring. Throw me in jail for looking, I don’t give a shit. She emptied the packet into her coffee and walked out the door.

I went back to typing,

“Socks I guess…”

Nine Little Words


“I have a heart as big as my ass”

A catchy tagline for the only guy who actually reads tinder profiles. Fucking sue me. I want to know what I’m getting myself into. Most guys can’t see past the sweater puppets in mirror selfies to see a picture of the daughter on the swing in the background. Women have many talents, but noticing you notice shit about them, without explanation, is high on the list. I like the comments. I’m always happy when it’s unique and not the played out shit like “If your beard can’t connect, neither can we” or old school “It’s going down, I’m yelling Tinder”. Everyone knows that shit was crafted up by some sharp Lena Dunham type girl and stolen like a Motown hit by the engineered DD’d barbies.

I love wit. In it’s absence I’ll start picking verbal fights with the nearest female specimen that makes me hard. That makes me an ass but it comes with the territory when you have a high IQ. Needless to say, these nine words screamed volumes to me. Sure there’s the surface level qualifications of a huge ass and big heart. Check and check. But dive deeper and you’ll see it crafted with a sassy attitude that says I am, who I am. I may not be the slimmest, I may not always make the best choices, I may have been through some shit in my life that doesn’t always allow the most compassionate aspect of my personally to come through when I need it too, but GOD DAMMIT I’M ENOUGH! I’m the complete package of what a man will ever need. I’m not above you. I’m not below you. There isn’t a measure or scale of comparison for me. I’m a 100 percent authentic, uncensored, unadulterated, raw personality. Can you handle me? Cause I only want the man that can. And lastly if you’re brave enough to dive even deeper, you’ll find she really did undersize her MASSIVE DONK. It’s like two damn beach balls constantly inflating, pushing the elastic capacity by the pump hidden within her cooch. Two gleaming orbs that desperately wanted to escape the suffocation of denim which enslaved them for 20 some years. You can tell they we’re plotting a while to rize up and start the revolution but the left one got cold feet and they’ve said fuck it ever since. Yea, dat kinda Ass.

I swiped up and off went the blue star that hit the top of the screen and spun around like taking the gold at Rainbow Road. The super like to me was the hail marry of internet dating. A friend of mine told me it was a thirsty move. My barista home girl said it was a great ego boost. I could give two fucks at the end of the day, what people thought about it. It gave me a few extra seconds of face time with the type of girl I want. Black hair, brown eyes, sassy, intelligent, with a phat azz. A REAL phat ass. This is something in which I cannot emphasize enough.

A day later I was knee deep in a spreadsheet when I heard my phone buzz. “You have one new Match!” My iPhone was taunting me. “This is Thee one! Those other matches I was just fucking around sending you a bunch of internet cum dumpsters. I’m sorry to do that to you Darby but I needed some extra time while I found THIS FUCKING MATCH! This is the LAST ONE! I PROMISE!” I opened the app and the meaty balloons and hypnotic brown eyes peered back at me. Message me Darby! Use your witty, charming, understanding, down to earth personality that compensates for your lack height and penis girth to say something that will catch my interest. I took a look at her profile once more. She used the word “Uno” so I cleverly came up with something about the card game. Within an instant, the phone rings again. “Katylin has sent you a message!” My iPhone wrote in the pleasing voice. “I told you you dumb fuck. I want to be at the wedding. You owe me more data!” I open it. “Haha that’s hilarious! I miss that game. Talk about throwback.” It says. I was in. Despite instincts, I give it sometime to appear less interested. Need to show her that I have a life that just typing in the internet. Eventually I fire back with another perfectly crafted witty message that opens up the conversation to endless possibilities. Now the waiting game. An hour. A few hours. I go home from work. I write some shitty story. Jack off. Fall asleep. Wake up. Go to work. Repeat it all again. Tuesday comes through, then Wednesday, Thursday, and now today. Still no response.

I fucking hate Tinder.