I had the worst date in my life this year, and it only lasted 15 minutes.

Now before I delve into the crap pile that is what I will from now on refer to as the “Boiler Room Incident,” I should maybe explain just how bad this date was in comparison

My previous worst date ever occurred last spring, right when the sun was finally peeking out from the clouds. I had met the guy at the library (Rebecca’s Personal Rules of Dating #1: Never date a customer). He was charming and very good-looking. After several phone conversations, we agreed to go out for dinner later that week.

It was 15 minutes until he was to pick me up and I was looking goooooood. Anyone who knows me knows that the fact that I was ready with time to spare might just qualify me for sainthood (1st miracle. adidas zx flux pas cher The other two miracles are attached to the front of me). As I impatiently waited for him to arrive, my phone beckoned me with the dulcet and uncomfortably intoxicating sounds of Caleb Followill’s voice as he tells me he could use somebody, and I pick up to listen to a pathetic excuse why my date will be 45 minutes late. He’d been “hanging out with the guys” and lost track of time. Also, his friend was having a bad day and my date decided to bring him along to make sure he didn’t do himself any harm. mu legend power leveling In light of this, I agreed. I didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of being responsible for some guy’s life just because I didn’t want to share the booth at T.G.I. Friday’s.

It turns out that this friend’s ‘bad day’ consisted of losing $5 to Video Poker and getting into a fight with his girlfriend, something that occurred at least once a day. What exactly my date thought might happen to his friend is a mystery to this day. Also, I don’t care.

ANYWAY, they show up in front of my house an hour late, and my date is wearing old, torn jeans (also acidwashed, which almost offends me more than anything else that night) and a dirty white t-shirt. Again, I think I need to remind you, dear reader, exactly how good I was looking. Very.

We get in the car and about a block into our drive, the guys start discussing the merits of The Acropolis. The hopeful and delusional little girl in me still wishes that they meant the timeless piece of classical Greek architecture, instead of the skeevy nudey bar in Milwaukee, famous for its breakfasts. After about 5 minutes of listening to this and plastering an immensely fake smile on my face when they tried to bring me into the conversation, I felt a sinking fear settle in the pit of my bowels. People lie when they use the phrase “pit of my stomach,” that pit is elsewhere, friend. I looked my date straight in the eye and firmly asked, “We’re not going to the Acropolis, are we?”

He calmly looked me back in the eye with a look of slight shock, “Well, yeah…”

Then he laughed. Douche.

On the way to the restaurant, not strip club, we took the back roads. Along the way, my date’s friend pointed out key landmarks from his life growing up in the area. My favorite was when he jutted his pointed finger in my face and showed us the spot where an old girlfriend crashed her car and died.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “she was wasted.”


The rest of the evening went downhill from there, both in mood and in interesting moments. But what really made that evening the worst date of my life is that I continued to date the guy off and on for 3 months after.

(If you think this is bad, come back tomorrow for Part 2 – Rebecca’s NEW Worst Date of her Life. It’s good.


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