Tag Archives: dating

Dear Future Husband

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ecc2726a24fd14672ec865457b52cd28

Dear Future Husband,

I’m sorry that you missed me in my prime, man. Damn I was FIT. I now value the happiness that bread and booze bring me over the happiness that my jean size used to bring me. I care a whole hell of lot more about making a friend’s happy hour celebration or checking out a new restaurant than I do about how many minutes of cardio I got in. I’ve accepted butt cellulite and you should too, sir. I still get carded sometimes, I’ll have you know.

I know what I want. This has been a little off-putting for some men–they want me to only want…what they want. To accept everything they say and everything they do, without question. I’m not that girl. I’m not easily suppressed. I have strong opinions, I stand up for myself, I tell you when you hurt my feelings and I tell you WHY. Thank you for loving that about me without being intimidated. I love the same things about you.

I’m no longer in a rush. I’m not going to settle for that dude who called teaching “such an easy job,” that dude who smoked way too much weed, that dude who spoke in teenager-slang, or that dude who wouldn’t stop talking about his huge bank account–I’m waiting for YOU, obviously.

Thanks for supporting my writing. Thanks for wanting to get to know my friends and family. Thanks for wanting more than just sex, but…ya’ know, thanks for also wanting sex. Thanks for being a foodie (thank you for not letting me settle for that dude with the ginger allergy) and thanks for wanting to travel with me (thanks for not letting me settle for that dude who didn’t even want to buy a passport). Thank you for reading books and not just Facebook posts.

Just thanks, for being you, whoever you are 🙂

 

Love,

Alysha

Misguided Ambition

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photo cred rebloggy.com

My dad drove us to San Antonio a couple days ago and we talked about…life. That’s kind of how me and my dad are—we either talk about ridiculous, trivial things like, I don’t know, “Decent Honey Mustard and Where To Buy It” OR super deep topics that stick with me forever like, “The Time A Man Died In My Arms.” We don’t have much of an in-between. Fart jokes or how mistakes can shape your future. The importance of washing your vehicle or the importance of family, friendship, and love.

So when careers and ambition came up, it started off as Dad casually listing every job he’s ever had (before, during, and after his 31 years in the Coast Guard). It was like a game—because the things he’s done are absurd. They sound like pure fiction. Movie-stuff.

Mowed lawns|Ranch laborer|Roofer|Tugboat oiler|Rode rodeo|Convenient store night manager|Seaman|Wrestler…yes, wrestler. I’ve seen the photos. Don’t tell him I wrote this, it’s supposed to be a family secret hahaha|EMT|Boat coxswain|Aviation structural mechanic|Search and rescue air crewman|Special agent|Chief warrant officer|Bailiff

Yeah, now you get it. Like, I’m sorry, what? How have you been all of those things? How have I never heard the word “coxswain” before? And how many people out there have had this many titles in one lifetime?

What I really started realizing though was—wow…Dad has done SO much in his life, traveled to SO many places, saved lives, earned awards—but his true happiness came from marrying my mom. Kind of crazy, right? To think that all those sappy cards, cheesy movies, and romance novels are *gasp* RIGHT about LOVE being the true purpose of life?! Ahhhhhh my life is a lie!

Except, oh yeah, that’s right, I’ve been a hopeless, disgusting romantic since maybe…second grade? I’ve always wanted the meet-cute, the traveling the world hand-in-hand, the poppin’ out babies…you know, that whole gross thing. When asked my CAREER AMBITIONS and LIFE GOALS I say things like, “I want to publish another novel and travel to a new country every year. Maybe get my PhD. Maybe teach college one day instead of high school.” And then in my head, I add, “Meet a lovely man and have a giant family and a really noisy house.”

My ambition has been a little misguided over the years. I think it’s a generational thing. Our parents had no problem stating their goals of settling down. They are content with “average lives” because that means love, family, friends—bliss. They have no qualms with “ordinary” or “mediocre.” This means happiness. Whereas my generation sees a conventional life as a failure—you’re not rich, you’re not famous, history books won’t talk about you, you’re not a household name, you didn’t shake the world? Oh, well then you’re a disappointment.

Everyone my age wants to be EVERYONE’s everything, instead of “settling” for being someone’s everything. It’s kind of sad. And it’s weird because we admit it, freely. I would LOVE for my novel to take off one day, landing me a publishing deal that I could skate on for a lifetime, sipping coffee by the beach and typing a few pages a day.

But do we really believe THAT’S what will lead to fulfillment? I think it’s far too easy to get caught up in that line of thinking—solely focusing on how to make your life more meaningful, exciting, memoir-worthy—constantly comparing yourself to “the average Joe.”

Having ambition is amazing—it shows confidence, it proves work-ethic, it displays creativity—it’s sexy. But if you let career ambition define you…and nothing else…what will you have when you’re wrinkly, sick…dying?

If all I ever have “to show for my life” (ugh, even that expression is a terrible tactic used to make people feel bad about…what exactly?) is a few students who thank me or a guy who digs my quirks and flaws or a kid who calls me Grandma and likes to read my old poetry notebooks, I’ll be pretty damn happy. That kid might be the last person to ever even remember my existence, but that’s OK, as long as I’ll be able to say that I did what I loved (I wrote, I taught, I traveled) and I loved who I wanted to love and they loved me back.

Supposed To Be

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chaos

I’m supposed to be working on my novel.

I’m supposed to be sipping this Live Oak Hef, my favorite beer, and working on my novel.

I’m supposed to be enjoying the Texas summer (before it gets too hot)—wind through my hair, sun on my skin, taco truck scents drifting my way—and working on my novel.

I told my friend Ashely that it’s been difficult to write lately because I’ve been so happy. “Give me a heartbreak and I’ll pump out a few novels,” I’d laughed and given her tiny Pomeranian a pat. And it’s true, it really is. I mean, that’s how the first novel came to be.

But the thing is, you make me want to write all the time. And that’s not always a good thing. Usually it is. Usually, you make me want to write sappy poetry after I’ve had a few glasses of Cab. I grab the first writing utensil I find in your grungy garage and jot some cheesy observations into the legal pad that you draw in. I sketch stanzas about your whiskers and kisses and huge hands and you telling me you loved me in that sketchy motel we stayed in. I paint lines with your expressions, sayings, Spanglish, noises your watch makes.

But sometimes. Like now. I’ve felt on the edge of crying for a couple hours—thankful for my Ray Bans and lipstick and beer. I wish I could explain why. I wish I could be honest when you ask me what’s wrong. I think the sad fact is simply that I’m in love, I’m so in love with you and I’m so scared and I don’t want to feel completely destroyed ever again and that’s the only thing I wind up being able to write about.

I get anxiety, I feel this intensely strong desire to put giant walls back up, brush these feelings aside, break this off and avoid any kind of pain. I thought I’d be over this—I thought you’d be the one to be freaking out, tight chest, on edge. How hilarious that it’s me!

I wish I could explain this…better. But that’s what it is—you haven’t done anything wrong, necessarily. I think I’m a little crazy is all. Isn’t everyone? That Kerouac quote about “mad ones,” you know?

I need reassurance by the bucket or else I think you’re going to leave. It’s sad, really, but it makes me feel better that I’m not alone. So many of us have these skeletons, the burned past—the exact same insecurity, fear.

I wish it were my fault and I could fix it. I’m great at fixing things that are my fault. But I didn’t do this…my father did this, my ex-boyfriend did this, my friends and their stories, their nightmares, almost every single man I’ve dated, actually. It’s a long list, it’s a lot of pain, it’s kind of like this campfire experience of ghost tales that travels with you forever, the smoke seeping into your heart.

I hope you won’t be added to the list. That’s all I can really do, I suppose. Drink my beer, try again tomorrow to work on my novel (I’m supposed to be working on my novel).

Prompt: Unexpected Night

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Sometimes, when I’m in a writing slump (which lately, is always), I allow Twitter to feed me prompts. There are an astounding number of tweeps whose sole tweet purpose is to motivate others to write. It’s pretty great. So here goes: an unexpected night.

Mystique-as-a-child-teen-and-adult

Blue paint was creeping into my nostrils and caking around every crease of my lips but I was two drinks down and feeling anything but blue. I guess I can be more specific—it wasn’t blue paint exactly, that was curdling around my eyebrows—it was (unfortunately) more like periwinkle. Luckily, I had a BLUE long-sleeved t-shirt, BLUE shorts, and BLUE tights to combat any confusion: I was blue (even if my face was periwinkle). A long, RED (orange-red, if I’m being honest) wig draped itself around my splotchy neck and YELLOW (definite on this one) cat-eye contacts continued to rotate creepily since I was wearing them over my regular contacts.

In other words, I was a bit of a mess. The paint wasn’t spreading onto my skin very evenly, in fact, it was being downright exasperating. I had chunks on one side of my face that were thick and wet, spots on the other side that were thin and dry, flecks in strands of my hair (real and wig), flecks everywhere else within a 10-foot radius… I looked like something out of a budget Smurf production. An elementary school’s Spring performance. An understudy for a second-grade Smurfette.

Luckily, I didn’t give a damn. Amazing friends, Halloween excitement, and vodka do wonderful things to a mind, body, and soul. I hopped around my living room in my beige canvas slip-ons (apparently I don’t own blue shoes), sipping and laughing and unknowingly splattering a few paint specks on couch pillows and the likes.

“Girrrrrl, you are BLUE!” Anne giggled in her goddess dress and I eyed her (cat-eyed her) jealously. She looked like a goddess, with or without the costume. Giant green eyes, dark hair, olive skin, white dress, curves for days—she was straight out of a Greek myth.

“Do I even look like Mystique, though? Or do I just look like a blue girl?” Mystique has been an idol of sorts for years. First of all, holy hell she’s smokin’ hot. Secondly, she kicks ass. Third, she can literally be ANYONE she wants to be. I’d thought about buying a latex suit to look more like her—I mean, let’s face it, clothes really aren’t her thing. But um, tummy pudge is also not her thing, so yeah, I decided on the t-shirt-shorts-tights.

“Yes, you really do. You really, really do!” I knew she was lying, but in a lovely, daughter of Zeus kind of way.

“It’s actually creeping me out,” Jennifer the 80’s rocker chick chimed in. I was surrounded by such happy, “fluffy” costumes. Athena, the Molly Ringwald-esque punkstress, Tara was Rainbow Brite, and Sandra was a cute pirate. I stood out, obviously. I looked pretty evil, but like I said, Smurfette. So a Smurfette gone bad.

We eventually shuffled into a taxi and met up with a few more friends on Rainey Street. Here’s where I cut to the chase. Fill in the holes with (what else) drinking. There was lots of that. Also, random guys shouting out things like, “Ohhh, I get it! AVATAR!!!” and “Genie chick, cooooool.” To the bro’ who guessed that I was Beetlejuice: You. Are. An. Idiot.

—– cut>>>>chase:

Two pedi-cabs and lots of walking later, we drunkenly made it to our final destination: Gypsy Bar on East 6th to see our friend Brian’s band play.

Here’s where it’s important to know a couple things about me and alcohol.

  1. I’m pretty good at it.
  2. I get suuuuuper ballsy and confident and seductive sometimes (i.e. when I see something I want).

Also, I’d told Anne earlier in the night, “I’m gonna make out with someone tonight, OK? That’s the goal. You in?” And she was in, SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO EXECUTE THIS PLAN WITH ME. However, the goddess, Molly, Rainbow, and One Eye watched as I, and I alone, smoothly decided to yell at a stranger, “WHY aren’t you wearing a costume?! How lame! It’s HALLOWEEN, HELLO!”

Super sexy, amiright? Paired with my crusty paint job and rotating, wompy contacts, I was basically a catch. Did I mention that my skin was starting to itch underneath all that periwinkle? Downright foxy.

Look: he had dimples and he was really tall and someone obviously needed to yell at him for not wearing a costume (that’s just dumb…why even go out?).

Even closer: goddamn he was really tall and he had a random sprinkling of freckles and gray hairs and his eyes were kind of caramel in the light and he immediately matched my bluntness with, “Well, at least my paint isn’t weirdly coming off. And your contacts are all kinds of crooked too.”

Barely a breath between us: “Well then here.” I pulled the cheap tube of paint out of my purse—it was almost the only item in there. “And while you’re at it, go ahead and rotate my contacts for me please.” I leaned up towards his stubbly chin and opened my eyes wide, not allowing him to hesitate, my lips pursed in amusement.

All of our friends had vanished by this point, leaving us in a strange bubble we’d created within minutes. This is apparently the point in which I tell a stranger everything about me: teaching, my novel, moving from Hawaii…I don’t even know what else I told him, I just know that we were locked in conversation and we’d moved to a picnic table and it was ten minutes ‘til the bar closed.

“I really want to kiss you but you’re going to get blue paint all over your face.”

Yeah. That came out of my mouth.

He must’ve said he didn’t care or he might’ve not said anything at all, but as people shuffled out of the back gate and the lights were being shut off, Mystique made out with the costumeless man with two last names. He looked like he’d been periwinkle-pied. I giggled and tried to wipe it off of his lips. He asked for my number. I gave it to him, scampered off, and expected to never hear from him again.

Five months later and my friends still affectionately call him “Blue Man Group,” but usually just behind his back.

Sometimes it’s not a terrible idea to paint yourself periwinkle, take a few shots, and yell at a stranger.

Damn you, E.E.

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So I just watched The Notebook a few days before Valentine’s Day. That was just downright stupid, amiright?

I’m glad I did though, because I now fully realize…THE NOTEBOOK IS TO BLAME FOR EVERYTHING.

Oh wait, this post has already been done a thousand times. No, seriously, it’s been done a TON. Ok one more because this is HILARIOUS. It’s not about how The Notebook ruins lives; it’s about how composition notebooks ruin lives (but it came up in the top ten when I googled “The Notebook ruined my life”). I am laughing out loud.

So I won’t write about The Notebook (or composition notebooks).

I honestly just want to write about love. I can’t freakin’ help it, ok?! I want to write about that sick, disgusting, unshakable love that makes me want to read E.E. Cummings and lay in the grass for hours looking at the sunlight coming in through leaves. THAT love.

I haven’t felt THAT love in a very, very long time. But I think I remember it swallowing me whole. I think I remember realizing what that “head over heels” thing truly meant and I think I remember trying to soak up another body and soul like a sponge. I definitely remember not being able to breathe for a long time after it was gone. I definitely remember ache and searching and want.

And I guess what I’m wondering now is…is it ok, to be waiting for that crazy, tumbling feeling again? Or is that just, sadly, immature?

I’ve met nice guys. I’ve met smart guys. I’ve met funny guys. I’ve met attractive guys. I’ve met ambitious guys. I’ve even met a couple nice, smart, funny, attractive, and ambitious guys. All my secret inner checklist boxes were checked off. But no swallowing me whole. No head over heels. No soaking up body and soul or reading Cummings.

I guess chemistry is something else entirely. And of course I’ve always known that looking good on paper, so to speak, doesn’t mean much in the real eye-to-eye, heart-to-heart, mind-to-mind. The whole checklist thing is pretty hilarious actually. We all kind of have one, whether we admit it or not. But the people we wind up falling for never seem to have very many of those boxes checked, do they?

Anyway, it’s V-day time. Everything’s pink and cupid-y. And I really am fine with the fact that the extent of my agenda is: House of Cards and pizza with my best friend. I’m actually excited about it (is he really going to become President?!).

The truth is, I really do want to wait until I feel that crazy, tumbling feeling again. I don’t want to settle for just some guy I have chemistry with, just some guy who has a ton of boxes checked.

Who needs those damn boxes, anyway?

“I do, sometimes, all the time, maybe, I don’t know…” says the angel on my shoulder who knows all the tricks to avoiding heartbreak.

“Shut up and read this poem!” says the other bitch.

You Being In Love (excerpt)

solemnly
myselves
ask “life, the question how do i drink dream smile

and how do i prefer this face to another and
why do i weep eat sleep-what does the whole intend”
they wonder. oh and they cry “to be, being, that i am alive
this absurd fraction in its lowest terms
with everything cancelled
but shadows
-what does it all come down to? love? Love
if you like and i like, for the reason that i
hate people and lean out of this window is love, love
and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason
that i do not fall into this street is love.”

Ok Stupid

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My roommates think I should write a book about online dating. There’s no way that’s ever happening because I’d have to go back into the danger zone; I’d have to turn around and walk straight back into the fiery Hell that is Bokay Poopid. I’ve only tried it out for about 5 months in total—over the course of the last year and a half. I disabled it multiple times—either right after deciding to date/semi-date someone or right after receiving a disgusting “last straw” message (see Dating on an Island). To write an actual novel, I’d have to go on MANY more dates and I think I’d also have to try it out in other cities and on other websites for that matter. Ha!

Although I’ve decided that another blog is the only attention I will ever give this subject, I have to let you in on the possible book titles that were thrown around:

Ok Stupid

Online Dating: The Weird, The Ugly, and The Weird AND Ugly

My Online Dating Experience: A Story of Humor and Disgust

I have to copyright these because you never know—maybe I’ll fall back into the dark, deep pit again one day. But for now, let me just fill you in on a few memorable events that have occurred between the blog I wrote a year ago and now.

  1. Harmless lunch at my favorite Thai place? Yes, until my date tells me that he couldn’t decide whether to put straight or bi on his profile. “But I decided I do prefer girls. For example, I’m very attracted to you.” Oh, cool. When I said no thanks to that bedazzling gentleman caller, he offered his roommate’s online username. I passed on that as well.
  2. Received a message that said, “You seem like you have brains, which is great because I’m somewhat of a zombie when it comes to women. Brainssss nom nom nom!” Could’ve been cute and acceptable, especially since I dig The Walking Dead, a lot. But the thing was, he looked like a zombie. One of those rotting, half-eaten, reallllllmessedup zombies. I think he actually wanted to eat me—nonsexual; straight-up Hannibal Lecter style.
  3. “Dated” a guy for a bit who literally lived off of chicken fingers. He hated all vegetables, ALL ethnic foods of any kind, and he had a very serious ginger allergy. I fucking LIVE for vegetables, ethnic foods, and ginger. We could never go anywhere but Chili’s and I realized we’d never last long. Relationships are built on dinners, duh. We were food enemies. I also thought on multiple occasions that I was going to kill him. He’d told me that his ex kissed him once, after she’d just eaten ginger pork. He broke out into hives and had to epi-pen the hell out of himself. I grate ginger into a lot of meals that I cook. He’d come over, I’d forget, start kissing him, realize that I might be killing him, and start freaking out. Like I said, this was a solid failure of a fling. If you can’t take me to a sushi joint OR kiss me after I’VE been to a sushi joint, you don’t deserve to be in my life. He also once told me that we had a lot of charisma. He meant chemistry. He was real pretty. Plus, he accidentally took my roommate’s DVD and now, months later, keeps saying he’ll bring it by but never does. I did, however, get a text the other day that simply said, “Shower :)”… I replied, “Ok, cool. So about that DVD…” and then, a day later, he said his phone was “being weird”… Like I said, he was real pretty.
  4. One guy had real promise. He took me to a fantastic seafood restaurant on the water, he was educated, funny, AND beautiful. Something has to be wrong, right? Well, he kept dropping hints/making jokes that he was a stripper. When pressed, he said he had no job—that he’d saved enough money from bartending to now just live in the richest part of town and finish school. Right. On closer examination, he did look an awful lot like the guys in Magic Mike.
  5. After I’d deleted my profile, one guy googled me and found this blog, commenting on a few posts and asking me out. Hi Randy!
  6. Last, but certainly not least, I met up with a guy named Tidus. I knew this name sounded a little too much like The Little Mermaid’s dad. Turns out, it was his “stage name.” He was working extra hard to be discharged from the Navy so he could go make it big in L.A. First of all, do you think it’s admirable to lie to your employer about your mental state just so you can be a captain’s golf caddy for a few months before you’re quietly let go, years before your signed contract? There’s only one word for that: pathetic. Secondly, yes, he can sing (of course he brought his guitar), but there is no way he will ever “make it big” with an attitude/ridiculous name like that. Plus, he was about 5 feet tall, with shoes, on a slight incline. Even if you reach Beiber status, I will never buy your CD, ALBERT! Oh man, what if he does make it big…and sues me for this blog? Changing the real name now. Is that enough? I can’t change Tidus, because of the whole Little Mermaid joke, that was classic. This is tough.

If you’re ever bored out of your mind, desperate and lonely, live on a manless land (Iceland or Hawaii, everywhere else has men, go find them!) and even just a creepy, erotic message would make you feel better, go online.

If you ever want to take this book idea and run with it (although I’m sure there are a ton just like it…let me check Amazon real quick…yup, a ton), go online.

But if you have the slightest chance of meeting someone halfway decent—without the aid of awkward multiple choice question tests, analyzing photos, checking for grammar/spelling mistakes before you even know their middle name—just don’t go online.

Ok, Stupid?

Dates for Dorks

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First of all, these date ideas ARE stolen from another blog. Can’t take credit for this awesomeness. But I did want to reblog and add my own comments. I need to find someone who is willing to do some of this crazy nonsense.

1. Go on a search for as many good climbing trees as possible, climb as high as you both can in all of them, compile photo evidence.

Ok so this one, not so interested. Simply because I am a terrible tree-climber. Ever since I was little really (which is when you’re supposed to be into this kind of thing and good at it too) I’ve looked at trees and thought, “Yeah, fuck that.” I’d rather sit underneath them. Or eat whatever fruit they provide. Or ignore them all together.

2. Go to a major chain bookstore and leave notes to future readers in copies of your favorite books.

This one is BADASS. Why haven’t I done this already, on my own?? English major, nerd status, need to do this asap. Maybe it seems creepy if you slip notes into books, by yourself. When you have an accomplice in something like this, it automatically becomes poetic and cute. Here’s the question though: what do you write in the notes? I mean, they’re your favorite books so I guess you’re like, congratulating the buyer? Or building up their anticipation? “I hope you love these words as much as I did and do. –Just another reader” Cheesy? Don’t care.

3. Have her dress up as a ghost and you dress up us pacman. Walk around downtown holding hands, and whenever anyone sees you two, pretend to be embarrassed, and run off screaming “wocka wocka wocka.”

I’d rather dress up as Ms. Pacman, but this is pretty sweet. And hilarious. Maybe for Halloween? Any other day might be a little strange. I also don’t want him to run away from me. What would I do? Awkwardly wait for him to come back, and then start the whole charade over? That’s odd.

4. Create photo evidence suggesting that you went on an adventure that didn’t really happen.

Why can’t we just go on the adventure? But I guess it’d be cool if it was an unattainable adventure. Maybe involving dinosaurs?

5. Dress up as superheroes and stop at least one petty crime i.e. jaywalking, littering…

As long as people don’t get pissed at us and kick our ass or something. Because I can kind of see that happening. “Halt! Pick up that cigarette butt! You there!” *Stab* Death.

6. Build forts out of furniture and blankets and wage war with paper airplanes.

Yes, please. But then can we sign a peace treaty, combine our forts into a kingdom, and live happily ever after? J

7. Try and visit as many people as you can in one night and turn as many things inside their apartment upside down as you can without them noticing.

Oh man, I would hate if this happened to me. But damn, it is hilarious when it happens to someone else! How do you turn some things upside down though? I need to experiment with this, I don’t think I fully understand.

8. Go to the airport, get the cheapest, soonest departing flight to anywhere when you show up, and stay there for a weekend.

Yes, yes, yes. I’ve always wanted to do this.

9. Write a piece of fiction together. Outside at a cafe. Ask strangers when you get stuck.

Creative writing major, so of course this got to me. But I don’t imagine my significant other being a very good writer. I’m just saying, most people don’t like writing. Plus, I’d probably hate all of their ideas. I’d definitely hate all the strangers’ ideas. Writing snob? Yeah.

10. Dress to the nines, pretend to be married, and test drive very expensive vehicles at an auto dealership.

Does this work? I think I’d need to look older. Or he would. I still get confused for a middle school student at the school I teach at. Fail. But hey, I love dressing up.

11. Do the lamest tourist thing in your area that you have both secretly wanted to do forever. Have an unabashed good time!

I think I’ve already done all the lame tourist things in Hawaii. Well, except maybe the Segway tour. I’m down for that.

12. In the middle of the night, drive to the beach, so you arrive just as the sun is rising. Have a breakfast picnic, and then fall asleep together. Bring a sun umbrella.

So this is perfect for the place I live…an island. Now it’s going on my Hawaii Bucket List.

13. Drive somewhere unknown and have dinner in a city you’ve never been to. With fake names.

Ooh la la. I want my name to be Alex. I’ve always wanted that to be my name. Now for a cool last name… For some reason, everything I’m thinking sounds like a stripper name. Well.

14. Go to a minor league baseball game under the stars. Tell each other stories about how bad you are at athletics. Randomly cheer for both teams. Eat lots of cracker jacks.

This is perfect since I suck at all sports and I don’t understand baseball at all (what is an inning?). He would ruin this if he got too into the game though. I want a hot dog too. And a beer.

15. Go around the city with sidewalk chalk and draw hearts with equations inside on random things.

Equations? What do I look like, a math teacher? Let’s cut that part out and just draw on sidewalks. And play hopscotch.

16. Walk around a city and perform short silent plays in front of security cameras.

This is kind of funny. I’ve done this drunk multiple times I believe. Except I guess they weren’t so much plays as they were…drunken dances.

17. With camera and pair of boots, make photo-log of a day in the life of the invisible man.

This is dumb. That is all.

18. Walk around the city all night and find a place to eat breakfast at dawn.

This sounds awesome. Do we have to walk around ALL night though? I mean, there can be some sitting and laying down, right?

19. Go to a restaurant and convince the cook to create something completely new for you.

This would be legendary, even if the dish sucked. Even if the chef hated us and spit in it. I’d eat every bite.

20. Rent a movie you’ve never seen before. Set on mute and improvise dialogue.

I WANT TO DO THIS SO BAD. It’d be better to do this to a romantic comedy, right? I don’t really want to be murdered by my date, even if he’s just doing the dialogue of the killer. Creepy.

 

So there you have it. Twenty pretty random dates. If you get bored, try one out and let me know how it goes! I’m definitely going to try to cross some of these off the list soon. If I find a date. Who doesn’t think these are absurd. Hmm…