OKBye Story #10: Romance Not Guaranteed

I was on a dating hiatus. Just for a little bit. It was the summer of 2014. I had cut off my hair, because I was sick of it being so long and also fuck the patriarchy! I didn’t give (that much of) a fuck about the male gaze! I was (am?) a strong, independent woman who could do whatever the fuck she wanted, including get boys without relying on some stupid online dating website. So what if I had gone to a women’s college, meaning there would be no opportunities to reconnect with the imaginary cute guy in my feminist social ethics class on Facebook? Psh, I could meet guys at work.

Well. Okay, I couldn’t do that either, since all my coworkers are cis hetero females and even if they weren’t, that would be very unprofessional and inappropriate.

I could…meet guys at the bar or the club!

LOL as if, moving on.

Meet guys through mutual friends?

That would also be weird, and everyone kept saying that the available guys they knew were douchebags anyway.

Meet guys on the street?

Not with my resting bitchface and existing de facto conditions of sexual harassment.

So then what?

Back to the online dating cesspool it was. Damnit.

So I created a new account and wrote up a new profile that, according to my friend Elizabeth, was less quirky and way more cynical than my old profile, one of the reasons probably being that this time around I decided to be more explicit of my personal battle against white supremacy and wrote “pissing off white guys” as an item under the section of things “I’m really good at.” I figured it would filter out most of the ignorant, entitled assholes and colorblind idiots. This was round two, and I was always already over the bullshit.

One of the first dudes to message me was an Indian guy who was maybe like a 70% match. He looked cute, plus he liked Pokemon, and he wasn’t white.


I figured he couldn’t be that bad. And hey, I actually have proof of this awkward interaction (and others from here on out) since this account was never spontaneously deleted, so here you go:

RandomDude10 – Sent on 7/31/2014

If you’re pikachu, then I’m Ash (nickname + one of my pics on here haha)! What’s your list of karaoke songs / what must you always sing? I figured I shouldn’t stick to only pokemon. Even though I want to so bad.

CrumpleHSnorkack – Sent on 8/1/2014

By that analogy do you mean to suggest that you’re my master and you want to capture me because I’m an animal?

Nicki Minaj and T-Swizzle

RandomDude10 – Sent from the OkCupid app 8/1/2014

No I just think we’d get along. Pikachu and Ash are more friends than master/animal. Maybe I’m too innocent to see otherwise :<

Ooh nice selection. Mines backstreet boys and some Baby by Bieber. A lil bit of Katy P sprinkled in too.

So you hate small talk, and I’m not white so you probably won’t piss me off… What do you think about maybe grabbing a drink next week and having that deep convo about {whatever you want or whatever we come up with}?

CrumpleHSnorkack – Sent on 8/1/2014

I could still piss you off. But I guess we’ll see.

RandomDude10 – Sent from the OkCupid app 8/1/2014

Right. I said probably. I can’t tell if you want to get drinks or not haha. Can I get your name and number if you do

CrumpleHSnorkack – Sent on 8/1/2014

Learkana xxx-xxx-xxxx

your name?

RandomDude10 – Sent from the OkCupid app 8/1/2014

Abed*, xxx-xxx-xxxx

Let me know when a good time next week would be.

*name changed due to barest minimum of respect for individual confidentiality.

(I know I know, I sounded totally cold and detached and heartless or whatever but it’s a defense mechanism okay sheesh.)

We made plans to meet up at some bar in downtown Oakland. He texted smileys to me, a communication style that I did not reciprocate. I was wary of appearing affectionate or overtly friendly to dudes I didn’t know, regardless of whether I actually liked them or not. Stupidly enough, it didn’t occur to me until much, much later that maybe acting like Frosty the Snowbitch would bite me in the ass and, as a result, maybe I should take preemptive measures to not have this alleged defense mechanism bite me in the ass.

I’m getting ahead of myself though. On the night of this tenth first date, I drove to downtown Oakland and proceeded to walk over to the aforementioned bar that shall not be named, mostly because I don’t remember what it was called. He was already there. He was more attractive in person, which made me feel self-conscious. He smiled at me, but made no move to touch me. “Ready to go in?”

“Yeah,” I said cheerily, digging in my pocket for my ID and credit card. Oh fuck. I checked my other pocket. Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk. I didn’t have a purse because of my fuck-gender-roles-I-don’t-need-a-purse-to-carry-shit-and-make-me-even-more-vulnerable-to-being-robbed mentality at the time, which was why I had slipped what I needed into my pockets before I rushed out of the house. Or at least, I thought I had, but my pockets were coming up empty. So I had no ID to get into the bar, and no card to pay for my own drink like the strong, independent woman I wanted to project.

Abed didn’t seem too annoyed about it, and suggested we go to the beer garden on Telegraph instead, which would be less of a hassle to get into. We ended up sitting at a table and just talking. Well, he was the one doing most of the talking. I said very little because I was repressing my raging intersectional feminist dialectic and couldn’t think of anything interesting to say that wasn’t somehow connected to the white capitalist heteropatriarchy. Am I really that boring without feminism? I wondered as he went on about his job. Oh god. I’m a boring person. Ugh.

I found myself staring at his lips a lot, and wondering what it would be like to kiss them. I hoped he wasn’t noticing my creepiness. He did seem very into his own story. He was talking about his roommates who were a couple and also like his best friends, and he was recounting the one time he walked in on them having sex. I laughed and OMG’d in all the right places. (I mean, I think I did.) He then launched into the story of how he auditioned for the role of the token Indian dude in Safety Not Guaranteed (that shitty movie starring Aubrey Plaza and some white dude), but didn’t make the cut.

My raging intersectional feminist dialectic bubbled up to the surface. “Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t get the part,” I said. “I think it’s fucked up how the Indian guy is emasculated in that movie.”

He made a noncommittal noise and changed the topic. I took that as a sign that he didn’t want to discuss the emasculation of Asian males in the media with me. Oops.

The burden of being interesting weighed more heavily on my shoulders as the night went on and Abed continued to be an annoyingly charismatic storyteller. God. I needed alcohol. Well actually he needed alcohol I decided, since I didn’t have my ID. Maybe if I got some alcohol in him he would see me in a slightly more interesting light. “You want to get a drink?” I asked more than once, nodding over at the bar.

“No, I’m good,” he replied every time. Ughhhh, damn him, and damn the fact that I needed alcohol to feel less awkward and boring on a first date.


So he kept talking, and I kept trying to listen, but mostly I was wondering where this was going, because so far it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. After an hour or so, he finally got up and started talking about getting dinner, and how he had some work meeting he had to attend, and I found myself leaving the bar and walking with him as he pointed out how he needed to go that way down the street before asking me where I was going and there I was, with a sort of disbelieving feeling and look on my face, caused by a gradual realization that made me blurt out, “Wait…are we splitting up?”

“Yeah, do you know where you’re going?” he asked, slightly concerned.

“Yes, I do,” I snapped.

“Okay, great! Well, it was nice meeting you,” he said while smiling and shooting finger guns at me, “Had a good time, we can text each other if we wanna hang out again okay bye!” And across the street he went.

Bitch, you know as well as I do that neither of us are gonna text each other! I wanted to shout at him.

Instead, I turned around like a normal person and walked back to my car, trying to figure out whether that was the rudest or politest rejection I had received from a guy. I made it to my car JUST FINE, opened the door and found my driver’s license and credit card laid out on the driver’s seat. Both must have fallen out of my pocket while I was on my way to meet up with Abed. Of course. Of course that would happen.

I wondered if the night would have turned out differently if I had had my license and credit card on me when we met up. Maybe the night would have ended in some sloppy drunk kissing. Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, because he had decided I was ugly in person, and that was why he had been so passive-aggressive about wanting to end the date early. Or maybe I was really boring and he had used up all his small talk skills on me. Or maybe he was hoping I was only a stiff, cold-hearted bitch through text, only to realize upon meeting me that I was actually also a stiff, cold-hearted bitch in real life. Or maybe…

Oh, fuck it. I couldn’t deal with all this antifeminist overanalyzing and wallowing by myself. So I went home, got a beer from my roommate Mackenzie, made her listen to my heteronormative woes, and she made me watch The Birdcage starring Robin Williams the end.

tl;dr Boy messages girl, girl and boy meet up at a bar, girl forgets her ID so they go to another bar, girl and boy make awkward sober small talk which is the worst kind of small talk, boy leaves and literally pulls a kthnxbye on girl, girl and boy never see each other again

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