I Live-Tweeted My Terrible Date
By the time Marcy called me a dick loud enough to hear over the mayhem that is the inbound rush hour home commute, I knew we were going to have a night on our hands. By the time she recalculated, refocused, changed lanes and a few seconds later called me a “motherfucking dick,” her central Long Island accent slicing through my iPhone speakers, I knew it was going to be a long one.
By the time I hung up on her, I was pretty sure we were going to bed that night.
Untrained eyes would have said we were not getting off on the right foot. But Long Island girls are shifty that way. Bring them roses and walk them to the door, and they'll call you a pussy. They call you a dick and before long, they're sucking it.
So I was fairly certain how the night would turn out. We had gotten drinks a week before by this marina. We were the youngest ones there. We threw back Fireball and laughed at oldies with ear hair. Then we strolled the shadowy corridors, snuck onto a still-covered speedboat and dry-humped in the dark.
I disappeared for a week. Now, we were set to go out again. We were talking on the phone because she's 30.
“I'll pick you up. It's right by your house,” she said.
“Nah, I'll drive," I said.
“No, I wanna.”
“You wanna drive?”
“Yeah, I wanna drive.”
“OK, drive. I'll drink. Beware.”
“I'll come at 6:30.”
“Make it 8.”
“No, don't be a dick. 6:30. I'm already in the car.”
“I need a nap. Make it 8.”
“What is it with you an 8? That's too late.”
“That's when adults go to dinner.”
“No, you need to sleep? What are you?'
“I'm a particular type of adult.”
This conversation occurred at 5 pm, mind you.
“What about 7:45?” she asked. “Wait --”
“See you then.” I hung up.
She called back four times and I didn't answer. She called me a “motherfucking dick” on the voicemail. She showed up at 8.
All of this is to say that I was pretty sure where the night was heading. It was pretty clear that she was the kind of person who needed things to go her way, or at least to project the illusion of things happening as such. I was the type of unmovable rock that has cemented men's status as stubbornly glorified gorillas for the better part of centuries.
She was the Ferrari. I was a stop sign. I had final say, and soon we were about to collide.
Which set the night up for a wide range of max potential. We'd either work like hell or not work like hell. We'd either be magic or dust.
Since all my interest was piqued in the eventual outcome, I figured I'd live tweet the whole thing, in an attempt to not miss those little moments, the make or breaks of dates, the ones I always live but rarely remember.
What follows is the Thursday night transcript of my most recent battle of the sexes in this frankly beautifully fragmented dating world of ours.
About to go on a date with a girl who has already called me a dick and I've already hung up on ... Today. Thinking of live tweeting it. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 7, 2016
Sometimes, when I'm extremely confident, I try to dress as bummy (as is my natural state) as possible, talk about jizz as much as I can and slobber over myself like a goat… to see if I can still sweet talk my way into bed. It just spices things up.
Tonight I wear my go-to T-shirt – a Photoshopped homemade rag with Brand New's decade-old emo dream “Deja Entendu” album art on the front. And I color myself "The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot."
She picked a place with tablecloths. I put on a band t-shirt and jeans. Considering sandals. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 7, 2016
Everything is wrinkled. My belt doesn't match shit. My eyes are bloodshot. I need a haircut. She just texted "K." Def tweeting this thing — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 7, 2016
She's already yelled at me. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
She once spent $1,200 on a pair of heels. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
We start talking about me. My favorite topic. The Mets game is on behind her. Divisional matchup. I pick a spot just past her eyes to hold.
We ordered a bucket of clams. I ate the whole bucket. Slobbering sauce all over myself. "It's my favorite dish," she told the waiter. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
The Mets hit a home run.
Another home run!
She's yelling at me now. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
Excuse me, I say. I'm sorry. Give me a second.
Every time I tweet I tell her I'm texting my sister. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
We've devoured two baskets of bread and an entire bucket of clams. She's on her second glass of pinot. She tells me to get a beer. She wants to move off Long Island and into the city. I ask her if she has work tomorrow.
“Yes,” she says. “I have work every day.”
“So if I ask you tomorrow it'll be the same answer?”
“Yes. I'm a normal person.”
“What would be the next day I could ask you and your answer be no?”
“I'm off for Labor Day.”
“So September 4th or so?”
“Yeah,” she says. “When are you off?”
“I'm kind of always off.”
“What do you mean?”
I told her I write a secret blog about dating and won't tell her my pen name and she literally can't right now — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
“Why can't you tell me?” ... “Why can't I know?” … “This is seriously pissing me off right now.” ... "What do I have to do to get you to tell me?”
I never tell her.
I grab the last clam, rock my head back and slurp it up like a seal.
Soon...
My other girl just hit me up referencing last night convos — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
The Mets hit another home run.
I haven't looked at her in at least eight minutes. She's still talking. Something about her old boyfriend. Four years. Being single is weird, she says.
That's a nice watch, I say.
I like it, but it keeps ticking, she says. It ticks so loudly. It really aggravates me.
Take it off, I say. Throw it out.
No. I like it.
It aggravates you, but you keep it around just to drive yourself crazy?
I just convinced her her watch is a metaphor for all her failed relationships. "You're blowing my mind," she said. I'm in. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
I paid the whole damn bill. Now she wants to get a drink. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
Bouncer cards her. He gives me a fist pump and says, “You're good, bro.”
We start shooting the shit.
Work was literally so busy today. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
She's buying the beers now.
Bartender looking my way. Shit. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
The Mets win.
"I like your beard," she said. "I like your non-beard," I said. Pulling out all the classics tonight. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
More beers. Did the Mets win?
"You're good at standing," is a compliment I just gave her. She doesn't get how impressive it is, from my perspective. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
My place. Against all odds. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
She has a flower tattooed on her shoulder. I'm biting it. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
I awake from an extended slumber.
I have cuts around my lips and mouth. There is no more beer in the fridge. The room stinks. Excuse me while I try to piece this together. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
My jeans smell of cigarettes and a wine-stained bill for $77 is peeking itself out of the back pocket. Starting to remember a struggle. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
What the fuck. The bathroom mirror shows lacerations all over my face. Like I fucked an angry cat or the Joker. And I shelled out $77. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
Her watch is sprawled out on the floor next to me, ticking. Loudly. Tick Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
To recap: basic shoe addict tore the place up with me. Pictures fell off the walls. She's a hurricane. I just woke up. She left her watch. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
Twitter says I told her that watch was a metaphor for something. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
Either smashing the watch .... or calling her again. — Treez Alexander (@onetwotreez) July 8, 2016
I'm such a dick.
