Last night, my best friend and I shared a pint of Ben and Jerry’s[1] and a good cry. I came to some important realizations.

I have had it with bad relationships. I’m done being treated like dirt! And I’m done staying when, in my heart, I know I should be staying less. I know, I know; it’s been my own fault. It’s because I made bad choices (although I’m pretty sure I was influenced—at least partially—by that episode of Oprah with the teens who want plastic surgery). But that’s going to stop! Starting today, I will not settle for anything less than what I know I deserve. And to prove it, I made a list! Because if something is in a list, it can’t not be true!

• I will not date anyone who is not motivated (a “go-getter”)[2].
• I will not date anyone who does not take care of themselves[3].
• I will only date someone who is open-minded[4].
• I will not date anyone I am related to.
• I will be honest with myself (and the police) about how much my relationship is or is not like Ross and Rachel’s.
• I will not press charges unless I have evidence (at least circumstantial).
• I will not relinquish the remote control.
• I will not date anyone who plays childish games (except Hungry, Hungry Hippos: that shit is fun!).
• I will not date someone who verbally abuses me (unless they are really good-looking).
• I will only date someone with a sense of humor[5].
• And finally, I will only date someone who accept me for who I am (i.e., an abusive alcoholic with a gambling problem[6])

Maybe that’s asking too much. Well, if that’s asking too much, you can just go ahead and call me “the person who’s asking too much,” because apparently I’m asking too much, and I don’t even care! Because I’m worth it! Maybe it’s Maybelline, bitches.

1. Mmm, FULL-FAT Rocky Road!
2. I.e., makes a lot of money.
3. I.e., no fatties.
4. I.e., no Blacks, Jews, Puerto Ricans, or Unitarians.
5. Especially about how fat and stupid they are—hey, if you don’t want me to joke about it, try skipping dessert and not being so stupid for a change! Zing! It’s fun! Idiot.
6. Also, a serial adulterer.

He offered his simple, effective four-step plan:

1. Kiss her.
2. She will cry.
3. She will kiss you.
4. You will have a girlfriend.

Ingenius, no?

Update: He has no similar advice for women courting men.

“Am I gay?” I want to be sure I understand the question.

“Yeah.” The girl is drunk. She wandered into the bar and sat near me. She came in with friends but they’re in the corner talking.

“No,” I say. “Do I seem gay?”

“Well, you see,” she says, clutching her Bud Light with Lime, “I’m kind of attracted to you, and usually the guys I’m attracted to turn out to be gay.”

I see. This is her pick-up line. A little self-deprecation or irony or something. Clever. Although, if she wasn’t stupid-drunk and hadn’t been slurring to my friend about being a bad influence on her nephew, maybe she’d realize that suggesting a guy is gay is rarely endearing—at least in a heterosexually romantic sense. On the other hand, she has a mustache tattooed on her index finger so she can hold it under her nose to appear mustachioed. So maybe she knows what she’s doing.

But she isn’t really my type. Then she spills her beer.

I should have said yes.

She’s a waitress. No, she’s a busboy. A busgirl… A… busser? You know, an empty-glass-picker-upper. She has great posture. She’s short, but stands tall. RC is too afraid to talk to her. I don’t know how he lives with himself.

When she’s picking up our glasses, I reach out and shake her hand. “You’re doing a great job,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “Do you want a glass of water?”

She thinks I’m drunk. “Yes, please.”

It’s closing time, and she hasn’t brought me water. I see her on the way out. “What happened to my water?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I forgot.”

It’s the following week. I shake her hand again, and she remembers me.

“Sorry I forgot your water,” she says. I say it’s no problem.

Clearly she’s beginning to fall in love with me.

Me, RC, and our friends continue to sip our beverages and converse. The night wears on, much in the way you’d imagine a cocktail party of Great Gatsby-esque sophistication.

She comes around again, to pick up our empty glasses.

“Hey,” I say, before she walks away. “You have really great posture.”

“Thank you,” she says.

The end.

My friend Ryan and I ended up at the Starline. It’s the closest thing Fresno has to a big city little music venue. It’s all ages (over 21 gets a wristband for alcohol), and showcases mainly local bands and open mics and occasional salsa dancing. It’s small and dark and smells like a cold beer keg. It’s cool.

Ryan’s friend’s husband is playing in a band. There are four or five or more bands on the bill. Chances are, it’ll be worth the six-buck cover.

We sit on stools at a tall table in the back, Newcastles in hand. There’s something weird going on. It’s early, and there are only like 25 people there, but I feel like I kind of recognize half of them. As more people trickle through the doors, I realize that I do recognize them. I went to high school with them. People I haven’t seen for years. People whose names I don’t know. People who I wouldn’t be able to have a conversation with. But I remember them. Soon, I’m looking for it. I see faces I used to know in people that, it turns out, I’ve never seen before in my life. I see dead people. It’s weird.

I get another beer.

There are some good-looking girls here. I think I recognize a lot of them. Maybe I went to high school with them. Then I see another one. “This one is really hot,” I point out to Ryan. She’s beautiful. Maybe I went to high school with her. She’s near us, then drifts away, out of mind.

The first band is mellow and airy and xylophoney. They remind me of The Headlights. I like them. When they’re done, a much louder band takes the stage.

The beautiful girl is back. She’s talking to her friend, and—is she?—she’s crying. There are no tears, but she’s got a pained look: furrowed brow and quivery lip.

“Is she crying?” I ask Ryan for a second opinion.

He looks. “Yeah.”

That’s a bit troubling to me. “We should tell her everything will be OK,” I say. I like telling people “I think everything will be OK,” because it doesn’t mean anything. And I like not meaning anything. Plus, it’s a line from Empire Records. (“What makes you think that?” “Who knows where thoughts come from. They just appear.”)

“Yeah, we really should,” Ryan says.

If it were a normal night, like one of a thousand other times Ryan and I have said we “should” do something—and then don’t do it—that’s where it would have ended.

But it isn’t a normal night. Maybe it’s the Twilight Zone vibe I’m getting. Maybe it’s the encouragement. But I feel like being stupid.

She’s still crying to her friend a few feet away. I step towards her and interrupt the conversation, giving her a good-natured pat on the shoulder. “I think everything will be OK.”

She looks at me and nods. It’s scary, and I’m ready to turn and leave. “Do you want to buy me a drink?” she asks.

It’s unexpected, but doesn’t take me more than a second to decide: I’m a compassionate person, and I have upwards of seven dollars in my pocket. “Yes. I do. What do you want?”

“Corona.”

“Just a minute.” I head to the bar and order a Corona.

When I return and hand her the beer, she says, “Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Conlan.”

“Tomlin?” The music is pretty loud.

“Conlan.” I lean in to yell in her ear. “Who are you?”

“Lauren. Thanks,” she says again, lifting the bottle. “I needed this.”

I’m thrilled with my progress to that point, so I step away and let her continue commiserating/dancing with her friends. I figure, if it’s meant to be (and of course it is), I’ll strike up a conversation a little later.

I marvel to Ryan about how cool I am. He agrees.

A few minutes later, I see Lauren go to the bathroom. A minute or so after that, she comes out. An employee—one of those T-shirt-wearing security types—grabs her by the arm. He’s guiding her towards the door. I immediately realize what’s happening. She’s under 21.

Whoops. I guess I forgot to check her wristband.

I point it out to Ryan. He laughs.

It’s a shame. I don’t think she even got to finish her beer. And, really, she definitely looked older than 21. Maybe she just left her ID at home or something. The bottom line is, she’s gone.

What a waste of five bucks.

Thick.

Black.

Bold.

And made of plastic.

Hence, my oh-so-clever, 2.0-inspired pre-blog.