You barfed on my floor.

I met you at the bar on my birthday. That tight white tee shirt made you eye-catching and the beer made you gorgeous. I'm not quite sure how we ended up dating. I think it was boredom, mostly. Remember that time when you came over with your staple six pack of Mike's Hard Lemonade? It took about ten minutes for you to come in the door, barf all over my kitchen floor, clean it up, and quietly excuse yourself. We all felt bad, you probably felt worse. Thanks for cleaning the floor, though. I mean I wasn't gonna ask you to clean it. In fact, I don't think I ever actually said another word to you after that. Good times. Good times.

You left out crucial shit.

I really had a great time. Our dialogue was engaging, I'm legitimately interested in what little I understand of what you do for a living and you look spectacular in that top. Even though I don't typically like chick flicks, it warmed my heart when that chick finally got married at the end.

Perhaps after I had taken you out to a dinner at a place where people put nice pants on, cheerfully ordered the vodka in my drink by name to appear cultured, dropped ten bucks on Area 51 while waiting for the movie because you can't shoot aliens worth a damn, shelling out outrageous movie ticket prices which I know full well are going into buying props like ugly bridesmaid #7's dress and taking a cab home because you don't like the way Park Street smells and me trying to kiss you good night wasn't the best time to turn away and tell me that you weren't ready to start a relationship because you had just got out of another.
I had a great time and I got no problem burning bucks to have a good time, happiness is more important than money any day. But while you're relaxing in your warm apartment, I'm walking back to fucking Brighton in 10 degree weather because it's 12:50am and the T is closed, I got half a hardon that's mad at me for waking it up for no reason when its cold out, I just threw away 2 1/2 Sunday shifts at City Sports working the stupid shoe floor where everyone wants goddamn Merrills, and by the time I got home the keg was empty and everyone had already eaten all the mushrooms.
It wasn't like I was handing you a ring or making plans to take you to my parents place, lady. I could have dealt with all of this if you had just given me a quick peck and a smile and I would have floated home on rays of fucking sunshine.

A few notes for you, because I'm all about constructive criticism:

1) Shoot the big green aliens with the shotgun. They're twice the size, they need more firepower. We're not talking quantum physics here.

2) Gainfully employed women don't order Smirnoff Ice at a restaurant.

3) Park Street smells because the train wheel lubricants biodegrade. Way to hate the environment.

4) Hugh Grant sucks as a standing rule. Even if you make him a woman and name him Cameron Diaz or something stupid, he still sucks and the movie is still a waste of time.

5) When you tuck your jeans into those big furry boots, you look like a yak. Yak's aren't hot. If you're gonna dress like that, make sure I've had way more to drink and wear something with a more revealing neckline to balance it out.

6) Don't think I didn't see that pair of fucking Merrills next to your front door. I hate you.

So thanks but no thanks, I'll be dining with alternate company in the future. Mooch.

You called me old.

I was totally waiting for someone to talk to me while waiting in line to get into that club, that's why I was shivering and looking straight ahead. When you came over to chat and asked how old I was, I thought it was a fair question. What I did not expect was your reaction to my answer: "You are way hotter than 26!" I told you that that didn't make any sense and was a little offensive, but you felt the need to keep going. "You don't have any laugh lines or anything!" When I remarked that I didn't know any 26 yr olds with laugh lines, you looked down, sensing your defeat. "We aren't going to have sex, are we?"

No, we aren't.

You got married.

Remember that time that I called to tell you that I took off work for your birthday? And you never called me back? Literally ever? Then you totally got married.

You called me Angela.

Granted, you were clearly on a heavy dose of acid, that's ok. And when you spilled your beer on my feet and looked sheepish, also not a problem. But you shook my hand and said "nice to meet you, Angela!" and scampered away. You will not be my husband.

You talked about Jesus.

Now, please understand that I have nothing against religions that are not my own. I have studied them at length, and I respect most of them deeply (not you, Scientology). But when we are on a date and I happen to mention that I am Jewish, what made you think that a 15 minute soliloquy on your close, personal relationship with God's son would make my heart melt? I love that you are into your faith, that's totally cool with me, but telling me you were sad when he died? Like you were there? You make-a me squirm, sir.

You took me to Chili's.

There were hundreds of restaurants in the area to choose from. Japanese, Indian, Hawaiian, Middle Eastern, Australian, really anything you could think of. But you chose Chili's. Granted, I did meet you in a car dealership, but when you picked me up in your dark green Camaro and asked me where I wanted to eat, that was not what I expected you to suggest. I didn't think you would take such advantage of my easygoing nature and obvious lack of experience with any date that didn't involve the mall or a keg. And I do love Chili's, don't get me wrong, it's just that the harsh lighting and crap on the walls doesn't exactly put me in a "romantic" mood. Thanks for the $13 meal and the free refills, I'll never forget you.