Dream Dude Final Installment! (Part Whatever of Infinity Gazillion)

Gloria: Did you have any luck?
Gloria: Of course not! Men hate me, remember? I ended up writing a column about it. My shitty/bizarre experiences with men are always fun to write about.

Gloria: So would you write about a good experience with a guy?
Gloria: I have, but the good dates aren’t funny enough. It’s really hard for me to make fun of an awesome guy, or an awesome dating experience because there’s no point. The awesome guys or dating experiences just aren’t funny. The disaster dates are so much fun to write about because they are laughable—well, unless you get raped. That’s not laughable. But the good dates…those are the ones you replay in your mind over and over…

Gloria: Anything else? This interview is fucking LONG.
Gloria: I’m not for the faint of heart. If you want a Stepford chick, good luck with that. I think I can do formal events, but at the same time, I like getting my hands dirty while planting a garden. I like dressing up at times, but I don’t consider myself a girly girl. I appreciate worldly sophistication, but at the same time, I’ll gush over Hello Kitty accessories. I’m a woman and a girl at the same time. At least I’m giving the guys some warning. I like guys who smell good. If you smell good and you’re charming, and if I’m physically attracted to you and you’re nice to me, my brain will turn to mush. Honestly, I won’t be able to think straight. Combine all that with a foreign accent, I might just cream myself and pass out at the same time. Oh, here are a few more things.

His name can’t be Tom, Tom├ís, Thomas, or any other variation.***

I hate when guys park toothpicks in their mouths. Or cigarettes behind their ears.

He has to dress appropriately. If you’re having problems with this, just go to the nearest Ralph Lauren store. They’ll help you out.

Please make sure your breath is acceptable.

I shouldn’t have to mention this, but please shower frequently. With soap.

Wash your Goddamn hands. WITH SOAP.

Please, no felonies.

Don’t be cocky. Don’t brag about your sexual prowess, how big your schlong is, or how women throw themselves at you. There’s a fine line between cockiness and confidence, and men screw it up. I actually feel more confident around men who are self-deprecating. I get that you are not Superman. That’s fine.

Don’t send me pictures of your genitalia. All guys think that’s hot. Trust me, it isn’t. It’s fucking creepy. Send me a picture of your junk and I will never speak to you again.

Players—you aren’t interested in women like me, so go fuck yourselves. I’m sure there are plenty of vapid young sluts thrilled to be with you. Enjoy your STDs!

I don’t want to hear about all the women who were sexually satisfied by you. Why? Because women lie too. Sometimes we say nice things so you’ll get off of us. Sure there’s a chance you’re good, but those previous women are not me. You’re not going to get waived to first base because you’ve got a good batting average. Are you good? PROVE IT.

I can be very contradictory. If everyone else is drinking, I’ll be sitting there with my best school teacher glare. If everyone else is stiff, I’ll say something outrageous. I think it’s the whole “attention whore” thing. Either that, or multiple personality disorder.

Cologne is ALWAYS nice.

I rarely drink. So if you are trying to seduce me by getting me drunk first, lots of luck. You need to do it with the wit, charm and intelligence God gave you. If he shorted you on that, tough. You’re not getting laid. Not by me.

If I am not looking into your eyes, it’s probably because I’m shy. Or perhaps I have Asperger’s Syndrome. Or I’m afraid you will hijack my soul. Who the fuck knows?

Sometimes, I am not looking for a solution. If I’m crying, just hold me. Tell me it’s going to be okay, even though it might not be.

I like Hello Kitty accessories.

Have a sense of humor. If we’re hiking and you fall down on your ass in a mud puddle, I sure as hell am going to laugh.

Occasionally, my 17-15-12-year-old self takes over. So, I might misunderstand that sexual overture you just made. Or, I’ll get it, but I might be horrified.

Gloria: Are you done? I mean, this is like, really, REALLY long.

Gloria: That’s what she said. (Makes goofy Jim Halpert face, walks away.)

***Blame my brother for this one.


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