girlfriend

Tinder Strikes Back

Posted on by jimense86

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To be a dog. Live like 10 years and only worry about eating, pissing, shitting and getting your rocks off. Think about it, no bills, no lies, no financial arguments or bitter divorces. Even the homeless dogs I’ve come across seem happy, poor and malnourished but happy with their counterpart nonetheless. Had to be what Dr. Monroe had in mind when he was building that island. This got me thinking what if dating and meeting people was that easy? You know, just walk down the street, stop for piss, bark and go up and sniff somebody’s ass without the threat of Pink Eye in your mind. After a few awkward seconds of courtship they sniff your ass back and boom you’ve got a match, waaaay simpler than downloading Bumble, Tinder, Grinder or Match. No terrible conversation, meaningless moments or emotional letdowns and the best part? Even if you don’t get a sniff back there’s another pug or pit bull half a block away for you try again. No harm, no foul just sniffing away.

I’m on this rant partially because I recently adopted a wiener dog with no worries in the world and partially because the dating pool I keep going  back to now shows signs of drying up. Drake might be in the club, going up on a Tuesday while some of us are sitting across from a person with a squirrel tattoo, a drug problem and more father issues than I care to write about. But hey, she’s pro Bernie, believes all lives matter, drinks Pabst and wants to discuss the disillusion of the American Dream while we smoke Organic Cigarettes. Not marijuana but cigarettes not infected by Corporate America. Her name was Winter. Of course she had actually been birthed and christened Amanda but a Game of Thrones addiction and  her need to rebel against some system led to the name change(Real Life Winter, if you read this, I’m sorry.) Living in the Hipster Capital of Sacramento has privileged me to meet these characters on a regular basis. Most often we only nod in passing, acknowledge the other’s dog or sweet bike and keep moving. Every so often though the people who are “too cool” to care what others think get tired of drinking discount wine and talking about theories with each other. Apparently even they have their limit to how many times it’s acceptable to debate the impact of French culture on American cinema. Eventually they need a connection, one that makes the other feels as if they truly matter in the big scheme of things. The funny thing is we’re all nothing but spark in the night. See what I did there?  Apparently we have a problem these days where everybody wants to be Hough Grant in “Love Actually” but nobody wants to actually be the known as the guy  with the prostitution colored elephant in the room. So how did we meet? Tinder of all places. Like there’s anywhere else to meet these days. Yeah, you can get out but it always pulls you back in.

We’d both been actively swiping for some time now and had made a match over a year ago. Wow, as I write this I’m realizing I’ve been doing this way too long. After series of picture exchanges, late night messages and the review of each other’s social media accounts we finally broke. Now normally I’d recommend my bar The Virgin Sturgeon but she was anti animal abuse and Sturgeon being caught for their eggs fall into this category. Very serious stuff people. Catch and release guys, all lives matter. We settled on LowBrau, a local hipster hotspot filled with bright shorts and people with shoes but no socks. Think about it as the Pokemon Hotspot where all the smartphones go to find the elusive Jiggly Puff but instead of lost gamers it’s Hipsters and craft beer. The kind of place where they have Motown Mondays but nobody in there knows about David Ruffin and associates “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” with Julia Roberts in “The Step Mom”. Speaking of Pokemon, I do tip my hat to the app. I’ve never seen so many people out walking and enjoying the streets of Sacramento before. It even managed to change my swiping habits from right to up and to the left. Only lasted a few days before I relapsed back to my perversions but it was nice break while it lasted. Anyhow back to Winter and our current situation. Tonight she went all out and really owned the part. Winter wore a big ol floppy Breakfast at Tiffany’s hat, a floral/seagull covered long shirt and plum colored leggings. She smoked a mean cigarette and had Fran Dressure type of laugh. Maybe it was all those GMO free smokes were staining her voice?

As these things go, drinks began to flow and Bernie’s dying campaign was discussed and dissected. She didn’t appreciate my pro Hilary stance much but we agreed anything was better than Trump. Seriously, anything is better than Trump. Prop up Lenin’s frozen corpse, John not Valdimir’s just in case you were wondering. Three Pabst, a few American Spirts, something about the problem with the media later and I’m not paying attention anymore. Not that I didn’t enjoy her company, believe me, I’ve been in situations much worse than this. It was the damn tattoo that threw me off and peaked my curiosity. See Winter had a curious squirrel drawn behind her left shoulder with nose slightly poking over, taking a casual sniff if you will. I first noticed it when she excused herself for a restroom break. The thought of that tattoo started gnawing at me.  The shit that gets the juices going, I tell you human sexuality is a dangerous thing. Right when one thinks they’ve experienced it all there’s a new fetish that seeps into the wrinkles of your mind. Further  pushing you down the rabbit hole. One min I’m contemplating a fake family emergency like “I’m so sorry my brother’s parakeet just died. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you.” the next minute I’m full blown “I need to see this squirrel. What kind of person tattoos a squirrel on themselves? What other tattoos does she have? Is she pierced? Maybe there’s a monkey knife fight happening somewhere on her body? What’s wrong with me? I need to see this!” Spoiler alert, there was no Monkey  knife happening but with any luck I’d be doing my best Hmong impression and trapping some stew meat. I had to give this date my all.

When she returned the two Pabst in front of had already transformed into Eye of the Pig, Diablo Piss or whatever other craft beer you fancy. The conversation about her dabbing in expressive poetry as a way to protest troops in the Middle East was that much more meaningful. I made sure to keep eye contact, nod, say things like”Yeah? How so? Tell me more” making sure to indulge her takes on things that didn’t matter to me in the least bit. Before you make me out to be a bag of shit let me remind you that I’m not out here breaking up happy homes or praying on the recently divorced. Nobody’s here to split the atom so calm down. We both were on a smut site and I just wanted to see that rodent on her back. We talked, we laughed, we drank. 10:30 turned to 1am and the eventual  walk back home. I would need to be sure that my brother wasn’t asleep on the couch and that the parokeet was nowhere in sight. Easily accomplished via a text. Then a Snapchat when the text goes unresponsive and finally a phone call when the bastard doesn’t know how to take a hint. Try leaving a voicemail about needing to taste a rodent while in a drunken stupor. Trust me, the next day will leave you reaching for the penicillin.

You and Winter know exactly where this went, no need to share the worst of the details.  Just know that eventually I stared that squirrel in it’s cold dead eye and the tattoo’s owner made some unusual requests involving spit and choking and called me a bitch. My brother? He stayed on the couch having ignored all previous requests to do otherwise. Demanding the next day that I not invade his living space again, being that he pays rent an all it seems like a fair request. Come to think about it why did I need to explore this tattoo? There’s a 165 pound raccoon on my couch already. What did I learn from all this? I can write some grandiose exposition about the quality of people we meet and break down the multiple layers of human attraction but the truth is not too many people are comfortable with those conversations. So, I’ll keep it simple and say Hipsters are real people, real people have their own unique fetishes and more importantly, you’re more comfortable hunting Pikachu in dark alleys with strangers than admitting you swipe right on what really gets your rocks off. If only we could just go around sniffing asses freely. If it could all really be that simple. Swipe safely friends.

 

La Actavista: When You Get Tindered by a Protester

Posted on by jimense86

Because this makes you take me seriously

Because this makes you take me seriously

As it always goes with Tinder we met while swiping in boredom. La Actavista wore a safe but seductive smile, cat eyes, dimples and curly hair. Not kinky curly but those big loopy curls you see when women put extra effort into the occasion. Her profile was decorated with pictures of marches for “lives that matter” and “Migrant Workers Rights”. There was even a selfie with Dolores Huerta, this was a very thoughtful and insightful woman by all accounts. She contrast those profile photos with beer pong, red cups and some racy Vegas memories. So obviously there was a wild side to her. We had swiped right on each other months prior and exchanged information yet never managed to set a date. She was too busy with social meetings and shutting down freeway onramps while I was too busy working or developing an affection for a local card room/coffee shop. Aside: The things you see in a Vietnamese coffee shop on a Wednesday night are a cross between Tijuana, Vegas and episode of Taxi Cab Confessions. They are also unpublishable. Just know they involve buckets of Hennessy and Heineken, “Performance Dancers”collecting crumpled dollar bills and cigarette smoking indoors. It was during one of these Wednesday nights that I would receive a text to meet at a local Buffalo Wild for a beer and some wings. The struggle to decide if I wanted to donate to Chastity, Nikki or whatever she called herself’s college fund or attempt a connection with a Tinderella was a real one. On one hand I could sit here with a mutual grouping of degenerates and be assured a memorable evening where filth was encouraged. On the other hand I could spray myself with Axe body spray, pop a tic tac and drive towards triumph or failure. The former would offer me an expensive tease with an end result I could not and would pay for, while the latter would at least assure me a shot of a connection and potentially a walk of shame. Plus if all else failed I could drown my struggles in wings and beer during a reverse happy hour. My decision was made. I picked up my picketing signs and set off for a mutual protest against loneliness and celibacy.

As I arrived the fear of failure had been pushed out by the thoughts of drinks, conversation, casual sex and chicken wings. Maybe not in that order but they were definitely in my thought process. The parking lot was packed and full of “Bro’s”(Douchebags with biceps bigger than my head). I had forgot that it was discount Wednesday and this particular Buffalo Wild was located in the suburb of Natomas. Natomas once was a thriving portion of Sacramento, originally a community on the outskirts with a quiet local feel. In the years since (pre housing crash) it had turned into a expanding development of track homes, get rich quick Dotcommers, low income housing and both a Walmart and a Target. Real exciting stuff. Unfortunately for us, the bubble popped, development stopped and we were left with the skeleton of what should have been. All this leads me to Buffalo Wild being the single most popular place to be on a Wednesday night, full of a who’s who of the community. That’s sarcasm if you didn’t pick it up. After circling the parking lot for a spot that fit my Taurus I finally made my way inside.  A quick scan of the bar and there she was. La Activista had already started her drinking and had apparently made a new friend. Sitting next to her and engaging in what seemed like overly friendly conversation was Chuy(pronounced chewy). A younger Hispanic male, wore a lady killer smile, spoke fluent Spanish and had deep pockets. How did I know, well the Black Card was out on the bar in full display. Nice move kid, I tip my hat to you for the effort. It was becoming clear to me that my date was being stolen before I even had the opportunity to say an awkward hello.

Now what I wanted to do was go over to them and go Pan’s Labyrinth on him with a wine bottle and take my pride back. What I did do was nowhere near as drastic and somewhat submissive.  What can I say, I was still learning how to be me. I approached the happy couple and created every bit of awkward tension I could.  Introduced myself as Sergio…from Tinder and apologized for my delay. Chuy realizing the situation but not wanting to fall back swiftly apologized for any misinterpretation and offered to purchase us a round. Before I could shoot it down La Activista cashed in and seemed way to eager about it. Was there something going on that I didn’t know? This little Tinderonie was taking full advantage of what was quickly becoming a group date and abusing it to the max. So be it. Three rounds, a few stories of how we met, her latest crusade and what our new friend Chuy was doing alone at the bar later…we were allowed to start our date.

Chuy finally took a hint, gave her a half hug and wished a both a “beautiful night” and left with a smile and a shaking of his head. Finally. What the fuck had just happened? More importantly, where were my chicken wings? La Activist apologized for the situation but admitted that she wasn’t really sure about meeting or getting to know me. That’s where Chuy had come into play. See Chuy was an ex coworker of hers and they had just “randomly” run into each other tonight. He had kept her company and was advising her on this situation, providing a man’s perspective. Sounded like a bunch of malarkey to me. Chuy obviously was trying to get some butt love and cuddle time in, I’m not that naive to not notice the play. Who did she think she was talking to? So back to why I was not really that desirable. I was made aware that it was “different” talking to a man who had a child, worked a corporate job and spoke broken Spanish. So “Shooting Blanks” Chuy had less bagage , flashed a Black Card, had a degree in Ethnic Studies and owned his own home down the street was more desirable? Did I mention he was younger? She continued to explain that the kid was just fun and was nothing more than company. Hmmm, “fun”, that’s a dangerous word to decribe a person of the opposite sex. Whatever though, my wings arrived, Mango Habanero, how’s that for Ethnic Studies? We continued drinking and discussing deep topics like Social impacts of race and blah blah blah blah. By the time we both had finished our buffet of fried wings and no name tequila(Cuervo, again trying to up my Mexican for her) we both realized driving would be a mistake. “Split an Uber?” I casually tossed out. That seductive smile reared its head and agreed. “Yeah, I’m down the street. What time do you work tomorrow?” Had this night just turned in my favor? Thank the Retail Scheduling Gods that I was off.

We arrived at her condo, hit the fridge for a glass of wine and plopped on the couch. Next step was the Netflix. After a few minutes of deliberation there we were indulging in “The Wonder Years” and the episode where Kevin falls for his French teacher. We didn’t really pay attention but I recall looking up and making eye contact with Kevin’s Father as it seemed like he was judging both Kevin and I for our mistakes that evening. As if on cue I would be pushed off as La Activista bolted for the bathroom. Yup, that was happening. I sat on the couch, the Tony Romo bobble head staring at me and Joe Crocker singing The Wonder Years theme song over her LA Actavista’s gushes of vomit. Naked, afraid, drunk and fearing her pulling a choke job a la Tony Romo I did the gentlemanly thing. Put on my clothes, requested an Uber and checked on my date. She had casually walked out looked me in the eyes and asked if I was ready to get back to what we had started. Now I’ve made worse mistakes in my life and have hit further bottoms plus she had agreed to brush her teeth. Ride canceled. In the distance Tony Romo Bobble Head stared at both of us, judging with shame and disgust.

So what became of us? Absolutely nothing would become of us. We would hang out once more and repeat the scenario without the puking this time then we would drift away. There would be no responses to text messages or weekend Snap Chats. La Actavista would vanish and I would be left with a memory and the realization of what had happened. The missed connection would bother me but not hinder my spirits. Fuck it, it was a hell of an experience and not a bad Wednesday, all things considered. What would bother me and throw a curveball into the entire situation was a month or so later. I would be out with a friend of mine at Dive Bar( Swanky place that wanted to be LA but was stuck in Sacramento) the same bar with the Mermaid in it. It was there that I would run into La Activista, her roommates and boyfriend of three years. How was this verified? Facebook and Instagram post celebrating their anniversary with quotes like “Through everything you’ve held me down” and shit like that. Yup, I had been used on Tinder and was simply a dick during a time where “she was going through a lot, a lot of dick.” I wonder if there were others out there that she had taken down just like me? Was there a support group for this kind of situation or an establishment that would help me protest this kind of behavior? No, no there wasn’t at all. On top of this the real kicker? The boyfriend, well his name was Chuy. Yes that Chuy.

Suddenly Sergio: My Father, The Original Swiper?

Posted on by jimense86

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That’s what a weekend of free drinks will do..

“It’s a positive thing to talk about terrible things and make people laugh about them.”

-Louis C. K.

I’m bored and on lunch. It’s one of those unusually hot days for Sacramento and it’s October. I’m not a man built for this climate, I’m a man designed to last the winter (spare tire/Love-Handles) so naturally I’m not in the best of moods. I don’t much appreciate needing to invest in baby powder when I’m in between checks. While on my lunch I’ve chosen to set my lineup for this week’s Fantasy Football match against “The Great Hambino”. Hambino and I go back several years and in fact is a good friend of mine but for this week my sole mission is to split his belly and rob him of his manhood, safely securing the Top Dog position in our League. Life ambitions, I know. Nothing sexier than a man that dedicates his time to being an “owner”, wheeling and dealing like he’s actually you know employed by Roger Goodell and the Nation Football League. Early today, while doing my daily morning swipes(I do my best work on the toilet) Hambino had messaged me and continued our thread of shit talking leading up to this match. These attempts to get in each other’s head in order to create an advantage (at the time of this publication he’s somewhere between John Kerry and Tanya Harding) were becoming barbaric and downright disgusting. I can’t publish anything in those threads but think Reddit and the AMA entries(Ask Me Anything) to gain some understanding. Something about Fantasy Football just makes everything that much more personal. I’m going bury this man on the field, never mind the multi million dollar athletes that are playing the game tomorrow, they have no barring on this outcome. It was at that moment that I realized my Dad time (those brief hours not dedicated to work or the attempt not to ruin your seed’s childhood and preserve the legacy of your last name) had become Tinder, Fantasy Football, Scotch and writing about Tinder. Where the hell has my life gone? When did I turn into the bizaro 2015 version of the orginal “Thief of Hearts and Lady Parts”, my father?

He was a Sergio as well, I say was because we’ve had no contact other than an interlude while I was vacationing in the Motherland last year. That encounter ended with drunk phone calls, him trying to party like it was 1999 and the always entertain public argument. Cheers to vacations gone wrong! Back to our suddenly similar lifestyle though. As I write this I recall his fondness for a good beer but for the life of me I can’t tell you what his version of the Sturgeon was? I would like to imagine he had his own miniature Mexican version of Mark there to advise and humor him. There had to be some combo of Banda (Mexican Country), Lisa Lisa and Stevie B blaring in the background as well. This would be Paisa bar would be delightfully seedy and full of questionable women named Xochitl (pronounced “SOH-cheel”) that looked as rough as their name sounded. When I would get older I would go through a similar phase. Even purchased me some Levi’s, a Ranchero Hat and knock off pointy boots. The look didn’t work particularly well nor did it serve as a good profile pic for online dating. Sergio had vices just as I do. He swiped right with extreme prejudice but in the 90s and in real life! This is proven by the fact that I have brothers and sisters spread out across the coast of Mexico and possibly elsewhere in Merrica. Hola famila! Como te va? If you’re reading this I thank you for the support and it solves the question of who in Mexico took the time to translate this. I will not be able to pay you any future royalties though so don’t even think about it.

I can only thank God that man didn’t have a Smartphone back then. Can you imagine a darker, more perverted version of me that spoke fluent Spanish? With that kind of access to women? Who knows the damage he could have done. Come to think of it, he might actually own a Smartphone now, he is on Facebook and posts pictures of dogs, beer and shrimp from time to time. That means he has the internet, which means he might in fact be in Tinder?  What if the Old Man is somewhere in Mexico doing Tinder in Español? What if he started reading this blog and has been living vicariously through me and now Tinders in Mexico and my thoughts as a blueprint? Fuck, I may be responsible for a señoritas heartbreak, pregnancy and eventual rath. Talk about the Butterfly Effect. What could even be even worse is that he may have started swiping before I even decided to cross over to the dark side. That makes him Darth Vader to my a Middle Management version of Luke but with my hand firmly in tact. I don’t know what I would do without my right hand. I’ve never swiped with my left, that seems wrong and like a stranger or something. So what does this rant mean? Some may say that I’m out of line for this entry and some may be able to relate. I would say I’ve come to peace with that portion of my life and forgive the guy for his faults. It’s not easy to become a father at 18 with limitations in education, work and problem management. He tried, he did damage but he tried. I think we turned out just fine. What does scare me is that I may have become a carbon copy just with better resources, stronger abilities and knack to communicate through writing. Could this prove that history does in fact repeat itself? Please tell me it doesn’t. Does this mean I’ll eventually have a bunch of mini me’s running around speaking Spanish and rocking giant belt buckles with a love F150s? That’s way too much child support for me to handle. That’s all for now, my minds been blown wide right and I’m feeling the need to listen to some Marco Antonio Solis. Time to swipe and figure out my Saturday Night.

Shameless Sheri Part 2: Why You NEVER Swipe Right on an Ex

Posted on by jimense86

Bang Bang. She shot me down.

Disclaimer: This is the second half of my date with an ex I found on Tinder. Feel free to read the prior entry or take this as a standalone piece.

We sat there emotionless and sharing awkward conversations. Sheri was two and a half Long Islands in to my half a beer. This girl wasn’t playing tonight. Whoever had brought out the resting bitch face in her must have been important. The Ex maybe? I wasn’t about to ask and open that box of crazy, her texting war was doing more than an ample job.  Sheri was always a laid-back and easy-going woman, at least from what I recalled. Never one to ignore company or allow her emotions to burst from her pores like tonight, something was off. We exchanged some more small talk and caught up on one and others lives. She was still slaving away at a dead-end office. Her traveling goals had stopped at Vegas, Cancun and Los Angeles. She had attempted to purchase a home but her ex sold her on the idea of moving in to his flat in Midtown Sacramento. It’ll be fun he said, they would share their lives together and begin building towards the future. What he had failed to mention was that he had earned himself a 523 FICO and was in debit from DUI one and two. Never mind the gambling habit. None of that had stopped her though, he loved her and they’d find a way to make it work. Fast forward past some broken dreams and empty promises later and here we were. Thanks Guy, you really set me up for success! Lucky me. Waitress please pour me another drink.  This was going south fast.

After exchanging some pleasantries and fond memories, fond for me at least, we began to dig little deeper into our respected past.  She was surprised to find that I had been single and on Tinder. I delivered a white lie and explained that I was relatively new to it and was just trying to meet new people. My mouth must have smelled like a septic tank because we both knew there was some serious bullshit flowing. Sheri stated she had chosen to try Tinder after finding out Mr. Hot Shot was using it as a way to play Big Spoon with some Tinderellas. She was broken and admitted to feeling lost and depressed. She had given this man some of her prime years, lost friends and dented family relationships and it was all for nothing.  Like an ice cream cone withering in the sun she was feeling the pressure of that biological clock. The ticking would grow louder by the day. Now I by no means find myself old at 30 but it’s obvious to me that the line of thinking isn’t a two-way street. I’ve never understood the desire to meet, enter into a legal contract and reproduce. What happens when things go sideways? How is it fair for a man or woman to fork over 50% of what they’ve earned because their partner negated on the contract? Maybe this is why i’m still single. But I digress.

She was really opening up and venting.  She admitted to me about their final fight. Yes she had still taken him back after multiple indiscretions and wanted to work things out. “I just thought that he could change. I wanted to fix him.” Ladies, there’s no fixing us. Please don’t repeat my friend’s mistakes and have some self-respect. During the afore-mentioned final fight Mr. Hot Shot admitted to also seeing the “Mother of his Son” and wanted to work things out with her. Like that Shameful Sheri was being cast aside and put out to pasture. One smashed windshield and a bleach bath to his closet later she was packing and on her way out. Perfectly said response right? Initially lost and depressed she would learn to crawl and walk again. Sheri had explained to me that she had joined the Tinder Nation as a way of getting back at Mr. Hot Shot. She wanted to experience casual and meaningless sex. She wanted to see how this could be better than waking up next to her and her morning breath each day. In a sick way she was living his sexual fantasy to fulfill a void. I could see the tears begin to form as the memories were rushing back. How had I become Dr. Phil? This was Hindenburg all over again. She would excuse herself to restroom and I would continue to eat alone and order another Sake Bomb. Somewhere out there my Guardian Angel was slacking, guy must have been on the couch smoking some dust.

Sheri had been gone at least 10 minutes and was either passing a massive stool or was projectile vomiting all over the stall. Please tell me it was the former. Five more minutes passed, had this chick snuck out on me? That’s exactly what I needed for my ego. Some wandering thoughts later Sheri reappeared, a different woman this time. She was extremely chatting, wide-eyed and going 100 miles a min. From Debbie Downer to Charlie Sheen in one bathroom trip? Had my date just railed two lines of Starbucks Espresso Black? I wasn’t about to make any accusations and took the date as it was. We continued to drink and stepped out for a smoke. It took a few aggressive sniffles for me to understand what was going on. This woman was clearly “walking on the moon” right now. Of course this would happen, of course I would be spending my night at dinner with a junky. I’m not one to judge, we all have our vices and nobody’s perfect but come on now. Was it really that bad that you had to shove a rock up your nose in order to get through dinner and conversation with me? At least that explained why she hadn’t touched her meal. I had to remind myself to get that boxed up for tomorrow. Couldn’t let the chef’s work go to waste. We would go back to our table and attempt to communicate once more. I would ask some probing questions about what she was looking for and why we were out tonight. She would side step the questions and begin to rant about how much she hated her Ex and I would nod and agree. This would be my Friday night. This is why Exes are Exes. Sensing the train wreck and trying to throw a Hail Mary I suggested we pay the tab and head out back to my place or another bar for some drinks. She immediately shot me down and proceeded to chastise me for even suggesting. I’d had it with this shit and was ready to give this slut muffin the cold truth she deserved. Who was this Blow Head to judge me? Never the one to hold back I would ask if she realized who she’d become. I casually addressed that nobody really takes a party girl seriously and that it wouldn’t be the best idea to be a 30 plus year old woman with a consistent sinus infection. Like an agitated father I would express my disdain and disgust for who she was currently. Tears. Mucus. A quick glass of water to my face later and that would be our evening. I should have swiped left on this one. I should have left the ghost in the past. I made eye contact with our waitress. She put on her Hurt Locker suit, brought the check and helped me get this ticking time bomb out.

What would become of Sheri? I hear she doesn’t go out as much. I also hear she’s met Mr.  Right and they’re planning on moving in together. I also saw that they made it to Europe and China. Congratulations to the both of them and I wish them both the best. What did I learn? Never go out with an Ex on Tinder that has a fondness for the Devil’s Dandruff and a drinking problem. Seriously though, we meet people and for a moment in time everything makes sense. We grow and better ourselves. Some of us grow together and others grow apart. There’s nothing wrong with either, it’s one of those fun facts of life. In the end we must learn from our time together as we are only afforded so much of it. We must use that knowledge to enjoy and respect future relationships we may entertain. The problem comes when we refuse to acknowledge a toxic situation and attempt to salvage or revisit. Always good in theory but terrible in practice. Remember they’re exes for a reason. Happy swiping and remember nobody likes a resting bitch face at dinner.

Shameful Sheri: Why You NEVER Swipe Right on an Ex Part 1

Posted on by jimense86

tempFileForShare_2015-10-02-15-46-06 “How do women still go out with guys? When you consider the fact that there is no greater threat to women than men. We’re the number one threat to women, globally and historically, we’re the number one cause of injury and mayhem to women. We’re the worst thing that ever happens to them. You know what our number one threat is? Heart disease.”

-Louis C.K.

Her name was Sheri, she was recently single and on the wrong side of 25. We had met through a mutual friend years prior while at a Birthday party for somebody I didn’t really know and don’t hang out with any longer. It was winter time and she dressed as women do in the winter, leggings, boots, a long buttoned sweater, flannel shirt under (flannel was in then). She carried herself with confidence but not cockiness, was consistently smiling and engaging in conversation. We found ourselves circling around a cheese and buffalo wing plate and regardless of how sexy those wings were I knew an effort had to be made to get to know this stranger. It would help that we both had allowed our inhibitions to drown in Hennessy and Coke. When introduced, I managed to fumble my red cup and spill onto my shirt. Jackass move Sergio. In an attempt to divert attention from the mishap I made a joke involving public urination and how she should be happy I didn’t throw it on her. Crickets. She wasn’t laughing. In between the small talk there was subtle flirting, nothing out of the ordinary and certainly nothing to brag about however there was a connection. 

Back then, when I first knew her, she was a bubbly girl full of life, ambition and was deaf to the realities of life. She spoke of traveling the world, owning multiple homes and following through with her graduate program. As I sat there across from her years later, I couldn’t help but wonder where had that person gone? This woman before me now was jaded, emotionally unavailable, broken and harboring a substance abuse problem. Then, just as now, she was single and not particularly looking for anyone, but rolled with it, a real “free spirit” to put it kindly. I on the other hand was the polar opposite, quiet, dry and in a darker part of my life. I had experienced the loss of a friend and was cold cocked with the truth of how wrong this world could be. Not knowing how to process everything and looking for some sort of human attachment I latched onto her. It was the eyes, her reassuring voice and always positive outlook that sealed it for me. This was the person I could never be but knew I needed. It took me several weeks of persistence to gain enough of her trust but I would finally break through. We had our first date and shared good awkward first-date types of conversations. We ended up sharing more than a cab that night and when it ended we were both left satisfied and wanting a little more. We’d text, call and just hangout with each other. It would be a short time before we’d begin exclusively dating; meeting each other’s friends and family as things organically grew more and more serious. What would our next steps be? As far as we were concerned the future was a blank canvass and we had nothing but our imagination to fill the void. What we ignored were all the hairline cracks in the picture we carelessly painted. Slowly but surely our faults would come to the surface. Starting as small irritations and eventually leading to full fledge disputes. This was nothing like the romantic comedy that we had signed up for and it was apparent that time was being wasted. Neither of us was particularly at fault. You could blame my lack of compassion or her failure to communicate the disappointment that what was on her mind. Either way you sliced it we were fucked. This union had eroded and all that was left was the compost of what once was alive and thriving. It took time but I would eventually admit to my contribution in the breakup. I know now that I shouldn’t have entered into that relationship when I was both emotionally and mentally unavailable. I would make several ill advised attempts to recapture the lightning in the bottle we shared but would never succeed. Once she drifted into another 48 month repeat of our story (with another guy) we lost all contact. She’d wander the dating scene being strung along by some Hotshot that was slightly older, a little edgier and always one step ahead. They would live together, party together and eventually ruin each other. It would be a chance encounter while swiping that would bring us back together for this evening and we both knew this was no ordinary Tinder date. Sheri and I were rolling the dice on a re-match. Historically these things never worked out but fuck it why not here, why not now? I was up for some drinks and a challenge. I was on Cloud Nine, had a solid day of work, some fresh money in my pocket and a revived wardrobe to celebrate a new job title. I was an older, wiser and slightly more experienced version of myself not like the guy she remembered from the last time we had last shared a conversation. What led us here to this fateful night? Let’s call it a Tree Smacker( a terrible cocktail concoction named after the late Sonny Bono), a bag of bad swiping habits, persistence and more than anything our need to connect with a live being. When she arrived there was obvious irritation in her voice. She took less than three minutes to order her first drink. That drink lasted maybe 30 seconds. What was I getting myself into? I would soon learn there was no climbing Everest.