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I set up one such first date at the pub down the street from my house.
In the hour leading up to the date, my phone would not. We sat down in a booth and he immediately starting talking about everything from his childhood to his job. I started ordering doubles.
1. New phone, who dis?
OK, so what are some ideas you have for inventions? He proceeded to tell me about how he wanted to revolutionize the typical kitchen, constructing a wall with a variety of different sized slots in it.
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Each slot corresponds to a particular type of plate or bowl Note: After eating on these dishes, the user would put it into the appropriate slot where it would go into the wall, get washed, dried and put away. When T-Wash, as he has now become known, got up to go to the bathroom, I texted my friends to tell them the date was a dud. They agreed to meet me at the subway station and when T came back, I informed him that I had to get going. As soon as my debit payment went through, I waved goodbye and booked it out of the bar.
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It was only when I was recounting this story to my friends later that night that we realized, T was stoned the entire time. In the summer between my third and fourth year of university, I went on the worst date ever. After a night out, we were heading back to his read: The rest of the walk back was spent listening to him talk about how he and his friends always do that between shovelling pieces of smoked salmon in his mouth.
I was SO ready for bed by the time we got to his house, but JK there was no bed for me and apparently not even a couch. Instead, he led me to a sleeping bag wedged between a treadmill and a toy box in a basement that looked like it was straight out of a horror movie. We dated for a couple of months until I was unceremoniously ghosted.
FLARE staff rounded up their legit worst dating experiences—all for your enjoyment
She handed me the pants and asked me to look inside. There it was, on one of the last artifacts of our crappy relationship: I wordlessly gave the woman her toonie back, threw the soiled jammies in a sewer and collapsed in laughter with my two best friends. So, she flew back, and my then-boyfriend and I decided we would take on the hour journey. Everything was going totally fine, until one particular pit stop.
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I went into a cheese shop in Quebec, solo, and came out to find him scratching at the hood of the car with the back of the keys. I asked him what the hell he was doing, and he said he was trying to get bird poop off of the hood. Like, fine, but with the back of the keys?! Needless to say, he left a pretty noticeable mark in the paint, and we spent the rest of the drive stressing about how we were going to fix it and what we were going to say to my dad who was waiting for us in Ottawa.
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We ended up deciding that I would take the fall, because my dad had to love me, you know? When I told him, he asked me how I could be so stupid. Let me preface this story by disclosing that this experience happened during a dark, dark period of my love life.
Her co-worker was with a group of his pals, and one of them was particularly intoxicated and tragic: Disregard their smell that once followed you around a shared apartment. All are nothing more than a shattered past wrapped in lust and masquerading as the present. Let the residual ache of every palpable failure act as water in the desert, capable of erasing even the strongest mirage. Those days are dead and no amount of heavy breathing will revive them.
Laying perfectly still will not secure a prolonged visit. They can still see you. Reblogged this on Big Blue Dot Y'all and commented: You can only drink so much and ignore for so long…but, we have all done this…usually at our own peril. Sign up for the Thought Catalog Weekly and get the best stories from the week to your inbox every Friday.
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