You drastically misinterpret facial expressions.

You opened the door and saw my friend and I looking at you, which seemed to flatter you since you looked so pleased with yourself. You stood in line behind us, much too close for conventional American standards of personal space. I thought you were either just drunk or foreign (or both) until I realized you thought we were interested in you. No, sir, we were not physically attracted to you in the slightest. What you mistook for nervous sexual tension was actually more like legitimate fear, since at that moment we had just learned from the cashier that the convenience store had been through an armed robbery 10 minutes earlier and we were watching out for suspects.

You have (The) Game.

Step One: Select a Target
I noticed you looked out of place because you had wandered into a company party, and you did not work for my company. It was obvious to everyone else, but you seemed to be oblivious to it somehow. That was your first mistake. You walked up to my female coworker and I and tried to act suave.

Step Two: Approach and Open
Your second mistake was opening with a line straight out of "The Game," a book on how to pick up women. Your delivery was shoddy, and you didn't pick up on the fact that I recognized the line (and the source). I answered you quickly and honestly, then threw the question back to you and stared at you blankly while you stammered through a response. I blinked at you through the subsequent silence until you walked back to your buddy in defeat. You never quite got to Step Three: Demonstrate Value.

You pose a moderate degree of danger to the public. And me.

It began with long awkward glances stolen in the office hallways - harmless, I thought. The more I ran into you, the more comfortable you became talking to me. Soon enough you began to awkwardly compliment me on my looks. I tried my best to avoid you, but then you started showing up at my office door looking to chat. At that point, Valentine’s Day was on the horizon; you wanted to take me out on the town. Luckily, I was out of the office the week leading up to the holiday and was able to avoid your advances. Upon my return, I learned you had been let go. That you had lied to the staffing agency. That you were a level two sex offender. This means you are guilty of: 

Engaging In Sexual Activity With A Person 12 To 15, Or Encouraging, Forcing, Or Enticing A Person Under 16 To Engage In Sadomasochistic Abuse, Sexual Bestiality, Prostitution, Or Any Other Act Involving Sexual Activity. 
 

Two weeks later you decided to drop me a line at the office. Directed to my voicemail, you left a message explaining that you missed me, and left me your number so that we could catch up. Catch up on what exactly? How your sexual preferences have shifted to a slightly older demographic?"

You crashed the party. Literally.

We had been arguing, so I didn't expect you to show up to the party. Especially since you dated the host's cousin and it didn't end well. But there you were, all smiles and bouncing off the walls. I found out later that you had sucked down two bottles of wine and a half dozen cocktails "with dinner" before you showed up. Nonetheless, you were the life of the party, chugging beers and stealing a camera to take a billion pictures of people you didn't know. I thought it was a little odd when you took the host's other cousin outside for a smoke and a quick makeout session, call me a stick-in-the-mud if you will. When you came back in with your arm around her, I just looked at you, puzzled, and asked if you were testing me. I found it even more perplexing when you tried to kiss my other friend, he didn't appreciate that very much and nearly decked you. Eventually you charmed so many people at the party that they asked you to leave. You were sweet to ask if I was coming with you, but I politely declined.

It is not I who you are testing, sir. It is your liver.

You're bigger than me.

 

We were at a house party, I was hammered out of my gourd and falling all over myself. I said my "gfllblebles" (goodbyes) and stumbled out the door, attempting to walk myself home. Being a total gentleman and seeing a lady in distress, you offered to rescue me on your Nissan stallion and drive me to my house. We talked about something I will never remember, I didn't puke, and a few minutes later I was home! Glory be. Apparently I had mumbled something that made you fall in love with me immediately, because all of a sudden you had a hungry look in your eye and a crooked smile on your face. You leaned over for a goodnight kiss with such gusto that you ended up eating my mouth while I wondered what was going on (and why I couldn't breath). After I wiped my face and spat out your saliva, you told me you were too drunk to drive home and asked if you could crash. I said no, the inn's all full tonight, and have a good drive back to the suburbs.

Every time I saw you after that night, you would get in my space and tower over me, asking me why I never returned your 4am texts. Because "blank drunken stare" doesn't ever mean "yes." Commit that to memory.

You smelt it.

I was out at a bar after a company party, all dolled up. You were waiting to order a drink, tall with a casual suit. You leaned over and said those five magical words any girl wants to hear:

"Did you smell that fart?"

 Let's break this down for a moment. The way I see it, the conversation could go in one of two directions.

"Yes, I did! How gross is that? What did that guy eat?"
or
"No, what fart? Can you describe it? Ah, now I smell it!"

Either way, you're talking about farts, dude.

I ran like the wind.

-story borrowed from "The Roommate"

You know how much cheese I eat on a weekly basis.

We see each other every few weeks, usually in the evenings. You're always friendly, and quick to offer me a slice of bologna when I look hungry. Yes that's three quarters of a pound, thank you. Sliced thin, thanks. Oh, you need my ticket number? 14. Can you get my phone number? No, I don't think so. What are we going to tell our kids? "You had me at 'we have a sale on Boar's Head Salami this week'?"

There may be only a deli counter between us, but we're worlds (and a Land O'Lakes) apart.

You smiled at me.

Here are the things you know about me: I'm often running late in the mornings, I work downtown, I know how to read (The Metro). Here's what I know about you: you wait at the same bus stop as me, I'm not at all attracted to you, and your version of charming a woman is sitting near her on the bus and once commenting on how late the bus was.

At this rate, we'll be married by 2060!

PS-One time I saw you in a bar and you smiled at me briefly. Still no.

Happy Holidays!!

Merry Xmas and other various holiday wishes! After a 20 month hiatus, YWNBDM will be up and running again soon, delivering sporatic snippets of real life disasters and failed interactions of all sorts. Have a good story? Send it to youwillnotbedatingme@gmail.com!* Have a mediocre story? Tell it to your cat. **

*All posts subject to editing (to make them more funnier) and please don't include names/dates to protect the uncomfortable.

**Have a cat? Send me a story about it.

You taste like a buffalo chicken sandwich, I don't like you anymore.

My #1 Fag Hag and your #1 Fag Hag were best friends from high school, so naturally they HAD to set us up on a blind date. We decided to do Dinner and a Movie. I chose the movie, The Phantom of the Opera. You hated it, and had no problem leaning over during one of the romantic scenes to tell me how gay it was (WE’RE gay!). After that, I decided to let you choose where to eat. The first thing that came to your mind: Wendys. Alright, I get it, you are one of those “straight acting” guys. I went to park and you said “oh no, let’s go to the drive through, I know a nice little park we can eat it in”. You proceeded to order a spicy chicken sandwich meal, biggie size, then told me how to get to the “park”, which turned out to be the lot behind your high school, that you had graduated from 5 years prior. By the time you were done, my whole car reeked of buffalo sauce, so I offered you some gum. You said “no thanks” as you not-so-smoothly leaned in for the kiss. About 4 seconds later my cell phone magically got a text from a friend in need and I had to drive your smelly ass home.


 
--Submitted by Liberace.

You live in Space Mountain.

You were quite drunk, the stumbling/mumbling kind. That's what first attracted me to you. The glassy eyes, unsteady gait--my heart was racing. You asked me to help you, and when I said I couldn't, you said that you had to fly to Orlando in the morning. I said that was great! You then leaned in way too close and whispered in my ear, "I could pleasure you like you wouldn't believe... you wouldn't even know I was there." I said that I didn't at all know what that meant, but you winked and said assertively, "I think you do."

You then yelled at me to tell you what book I was reading until you got thrown out by the bouncer. See you in Tomorrowland!

You don't play left field.

I was living 2,000 away from home. I didn’t know many people, so I spent a lot of time at the gym. My BMI thanked me, my social calendar did not. So when you got on the treadmill next to me, even though there were several other opened, I’ll admit-I smiled on the inside. We small talked about the usual: what we did for work, what we liked to do for fun, where we were from (Me: Boston , You: Texas ). I thought it was going somewhat well. You mentioned your family was originally from Mexico . We were down south-that sounded about right. I tried to impress you with the limited Spanish vocabulary I could remember from college. You tried to impress me by increasing the incline on your treadmill. All was going well. We left the gym together and as I walked by you to my car, you noticed the back of my Red Sox Tee. “Oh my god, that’s so weird!” You proclaimed. I turned back around just in time to realize there was no sarcasm on your face or in your voice as you said: "Your last name is Ramirez?? That's my last name too!!”

Apparently Red Sox Nation has yet to reach your native town in Mexico . You are a Male, correct? As in you have a penis? Do you not watch sports? How do you not know who Manny Ramirez is? I’m so confused. (Also I feel it is important to note: adding to the unintentional comedic value of your comment- I am 100% irish, with freckles, pale skin, red hair, ect).

So to answer your question: No. My last name is not Ramirez. And due to your lack of common sports knowledge-and common sense-it never will be.

You have an AARP Card, don't you?

Sitting at the end of a bar by yourself always comes with risks. I had no choice, my friends were running late. I ordered a drink and tried not to make eye contact with any of the old townie locals. My first red flag should have been when you said, "Is this seat taken?" as you crept up next to me. I didn't know people still said that. You could probably tell I wasn't interested, so you threw out your 'A' game: "I noticed you as soon as walked in the bar." I assumed it was because I was the only one there under the age of 35. I underestimated you. Or should I say overestimated you. Then you brought out the kicker.

"You look exactly like my daughter."

Hmmm. Interesting. So not only are you admitting to being old enough to be my father, you are hitting on someone you thinks looks like your daughter. Gross. On so many levels.

You're "with" the band.

I saw you help the band load in, set up their gear, and tune their guitars. Apparently you saw me, too, and confused my curiosity in the load-in process with interest in you. I asked you whether you were the band's manager, (you said yes). You asked me if I liked the band, (I did), and if I wanted a t-shirt from the merch table, (sure), but what you forgot to ask me was whether I wanted to hear a 10 minute long confession about your heartache over past relationships, your ex's drug addiction, and your level of interest in beginning to date again. Silly you! Thanks for the t-shirt, and I know a guitar tech when I see one.

You are your wingman's wingman.

You saw me texting and thought it was a good opportunity to try your luck, so you started reading off your phone number, saying "Oh, I thought you were trying to get my digits." Ha, good one, no. All good. You walked away and ten minutes later, your friend came over and tried the exact. same. line. Nice try, maybe next time. You then used each other's lines a good 2-3 times after this, somehow not realizing that you were both hitting on me until I remarked, "Hey that's funny, but your friend tried the same line a minute ago." I thought that failure and embarrassment would dissuade you but alas! You both came over at the end of the night to invite me to "hang" at your apartment, late-night. What's that phrase, if at first you don't succeed, join forces with your roommate in a desperate attempt to snag a girl so you can fight over her in the comfort of your grimy apartment?

You lived.

College thing. Both drunk. You liked it rough. Asleep.

Woke up. Floor. You in bed. My bed. Snoring, unmovable.

Slept in friend's room. On floor. You in bed. My bed. Goodnight.

Next week: Overdose. Cocaine. You lived. You left. I graduated.

Goodbye!

You were O'Sketchy.

We met at an Irish public house, the kind with no chairs and wood everywhere. I admired your youth and vitality, as well as your discerning palate: top shelf vodka to go with your Redbull. You asked me if I wanted to dance...that is, after the guy you were with went to the restroom. Forgive me for having intruded into your personal affairs, a thousand apologies...but I did have to know who he was. I explained to you my position on getting punched in the face. You laughed, explaining "Oh, that's my sister's boyfriend." Your sister was nowhere in sight. After a few more minutes, I was too.

You got home.

We met at a party. It was late, I was drunk, and you were there. I told you my plans of going home and making some blue box macaroni and cheese, and you told me you were a classically trained chef. I wasn't drunk enough to believe you, but I thought maybe some assistance with cooking would possibly help prevent me from starting a fire in my apartment. I let you walk me home, and by the time we arrived I was too tired to think about eating. I decided, against my better judgment, to let you stay over. You tried to convince me to sleep with you. I said no. You tried to convince me to pleasure you. I said no. You then excused yourself to go to the bathroom, when I decided I would lock you out of my bedroom… until I heard the all too familiar sounds of puking coming from down the hall. Since I'm a semi-decent person, and was afraid I would eventually have to clean something up, I decided to check on you. The bathroom door was open, and you were praying to the porcelain god… wearing only your t-shirt & tighty whities...that unfortunately for you were not so tight.

I screamed and ran back to my room to attempt to locate your pants. Being that I was quite intoxicated and forgot to turn the light on, the mission turned out to be quite unsuccessful. You finished your business, came back down the hallway, and started to put your shoes on. I told you that you could stay on the couch. You refused. I told you that you couldn't possibly go home in this state. You refused. I told you that there was no way you could walk home without your pants on. You told me, "Don't worry. It's happened before."

I still to this day do not know how you managed to get home with no pants, no cell phone, and no keys.

-Submitted by Neelloc.

You slept like a baby.

We were friends at overnight camp when I was 12, back when you had a big head and no womanly parts to speak of. I happened to randomly run into you ten years later, and you had turned out so hot I would, to quote a friend, "eat your shit." I nervously asked you out on a date and you said yes. We went out to an expensive club, you spent all my money on $15 vodka redbulls, flirted with several douche bags in Ed Hardy T-shirts, and ended up drunk and shirtless outside the bar at 12:30 an hour and a half after we got there. I ushered you into a cab and by the time we got to your place you had sobered up and invited me in. An impromptu bang session occurred during which you passed out. I woke up the next morning covered in a puddle of your cold, sticky pee. You woke up 10 minutes later, made yourself a bowl of cereal, and pretended like nothing happened. Did you think I wouldn't notice? I guess I should be thankful you didn't take a dump on me. Thanks but no thanks.

-Submitted by LLCoolJay.

You had an unhealthy obsession with William Shatner.

We had sex. It was ok. I was drunk and I think you might have bit me at some point. Everything was fine until I went to check my email and saw an online shrine to all things Kirk. I thought it was a joke or an ironic quirk. I couldn’t have been more wrong. You really thought he was hot. You watched his Priceline commercials with frightening glee. You really liked him. You had his musical records, pillowcases, pictures and even a poster of you superimposed, kissing him. I couldn’t tell you why I wouldn’t talk to you anymore. Maybe it was because I was embarrassed to have ever been inside you. Maybe it was because I was afraid you’d stab me in my sleep. Either way, the last time we saw each other, you came over my house to give me a parting gift. You gave me a Rubik’s cube because you “couldn’t figure me out”.

Beam me up creepy.

Your boyfriend showed up to our date.

It would have been nice to know you had a boyfriend before we went out. Three drinks in, and you told me that you didn't want to come to this bar because your boyfriend comes here. Interesting. Five more minutes and there he was, pulling up a seat right next to us. It was really nice hanging out with him by the way. When we all had a drink together, that was about as awkward as the sex we ended up having later that night. Since we're playing the "hindsight is 20:20" card, it would have also been nice to know that you weren't on the pill before the intercourse. If you're pregnant I'm claiming it's his.

You need to reevaluate your definition of a romantic evening.

You shouldn't have been hooking up with me in the first place. We had one drink, literally one drink and I drove you home. You wouldn't let me go up to your apartment because you have cats or something so you wanted to have sex in my car. Regrettably, I accepted. But seriously, you set the bar pretty high for this relationship thus far. You broke my cupholder off when you pulled some maneuver that ended up pinching a nerve in my back and giving me a herniated disc. In honor of this night's events, your bra is now on top of a tree at Mt. Snow. Talk to you soon.

Your friends literally shit on people for money.

You told me you were bisexual on our first date. Ok you win, I was intrigued. But when our dinner came out, was it really necessary to tell me graphic stories of your friends who have defecated on their sexual partners for money? I'll never look at shortribs the same way again. Thanks.

You got too excited talking about Bed Bath and Beyond.

I couldn’t fathom how someone could gain so much pleasure from a store that devotes an entire section to crock pots. It was a Friday night and you had your whole Saturday planned around going to a store dedicated to all things bed, all things bath, and all things beyond. Fogless mirrors, scented candles and stainless steel hell were your final destination. “Oh my god, I hope they have Snuggies! I totally want one,” you said with genuine enthusiasm. I said something sarcastic and you told me I was totally a “Chandler." I have never felt so aware of my own demise.

You bled in my mouth.

First of all, you took me to the one Mexican restaurant that I told you I was kicked out of - like literally a life ban. There was no reason to test the waters. Taking me there didn't put me at ease. Second of all, 20 minutes into our first date there's no reason to tongue kiss me from across a family style table - the table was too wide and the Asian family uncomfortably staring at us didn't make anything 'romantic.' I get it. You are a sensitive guy, you want to make a real life connection, but can I give you advice? Next time when you drop a girl off and go in for the goodbye kiss, wait a few days until after you have a root canal. Your mouth tasted like iron and now I have to bill you for my HIV test. Thanks.