Welcome to the next addition of Hannah's dating life in New York. Grab your favorite beverage (I will be choosing red wine) and enjoy some medicore dating stories at my expense. You're welcome. 

Guy who turned up drunk (also I’m pretty sure he turned up on drugs).

I won’t even justify this as a proper date needing a full description. All you need to know about this date are some memorable quotes and you’ll get the picture.

Me: “I like your shoes, fun lightning bolts” (which honestly, is not a sentence I ever imagined saying to start with. Conversation started poor and continued poor. You can judge me. I judge me)
Him: “Oh if you like that you should see this”
Him: *rolls up his sleeve to show me a tattoo of a fish. A fish. Nothing to do with shoes or lightning

Him: “If you meet my mum you are going to want to marry me, just to be close to my mum”
Me: “OK I don’t really know what to say to that”

Me: “Are you drunk?”
Him: “Yeah I’m drunk, but at least I didn’t eat drugs before I came”
Me internally: “Pretty sure you did do drugs before you came”

Him: “Man I just gotta say, it makes me so excited to see your name come up on my phone, you have no idea how much. Like to see that little “Hannah” pop up is so great”
Me: “Thanks”

Him: “That waitress’s ass is so flat it could be a pizza box”
Me internally: “FML”

Him: “Your bangs are so tight. I want to take a picture of your face to show other girls how to do bangs right”
Me: “You are not taking a picture of my face”

Him: “Man I would really love to kiss you right now”
Me: “You are not going to kiss me”

Him: (literally an hour and 15 mins after the date began, just long enough to finish my drink and burger) “OK, yeah it’s cool if you wanna go home. You know why, cause I know we are going to hang again, so it’s OK if you wanna go home now. We are going to hang again aren’t we? Yeah, cool”

We never hung again. Obviously.

Roy.

Let me paint a little scene: Thanksgiving night, 11:30pm, I’m tucked up in bed in a food coma, about to go to sleep, and I receive a text message from an unknown number.

“Hey Hannah is this your cell?”

“Um yeah it is, who is this” (who dis)

“I’m Roy. I saw you on tinder and was very intrigued. Saw your IG tag, then your website (very talented). You’re def someone I’d like to take out and get to know”

*Sends two pictures of himself*

“Hope you don’t mind my reaching out like this. Figured my chances were better on here than the app”

After telling him it felt a bit intrusive to be contacted this way, him saying he meant no harm and could we get drinks, and me not responding, I head to bed, thinking this sitcho is wrapped up and never again shall I hear from Roy.

Fast forward to the next morning, when my Instagram tells me he has started following me.

*I pick up the phone to text Renee, “That guy started following me on Instagram”

*accidently text it to him cause I’m Hannah and that’s just the type of bind I’d get myself into

Roy responds with a very innocent, “That guy? Wait, do you mean me?” before launching into a barrage of texts decrying how I wasn’t being very open and why be on a dating app if I wasn’t open to being contacted and how he read me as so much more open than this (open is his favourite word btw), but if I was still up for it, he’d be happy to meet for coffee, all of which I will spare you the intimate detail, mostly because I don’t have three hours to transcribe his texts into this blog. I politely ignore his texts because #modernwoman who can make her own choices. Four hours later my phone buzzes again with his number.

“Hey Hannah, it’s Roy – not sure if you got my text earlier about meeting up for coffee? Just not sure it went through?”

The moral here? It’s not, never add your Instagram to your dating profile, and your website to your Instagram, and your phone number to your website, as you might think. It’s obviously, never date a guy called Roy.

The skater photographer with the hot uncle

Let’s start this one by acknowledging from the beginning that this should be a lesson in never going on a date with a guy after midnight. And also that a person’s worst picture in their tinder profile will be the most true to life. Always. No exceptions whatsoever. After a few days of texting I agreed to meet up with skater photographer guy on the weekend, pending how late both of our drinks went. My drinks wrapped up around 12:30 and I was back home deciding that I didn’t really want to head back out for another drink when he text to say he was heading to a bar literally around the corner from my place if I wanted to meet him there (well he didn’t say it was literally around the corner from my house, he didn’t know where I lived – just a happy coincidence for me). I should not have trusted this as a sign from the universe that one more drink wouldn’t hurt seeing as it was so close. He managed a total of six strikes against him in only an hour, possibly a record? Strike one when he turned up 20 mins late, strike two when he got out of the cab with his uncle (despite the fact he was definitely a rugged grey fox type of a uncle. Is rugged grey fox even a type of man? It is now), strike three when he was already v drunk, strike four when he looked like a worse version of his most unattractive tinder pic, strike five when he had half his friendship group inside the bar, and strike six when he asked me to hold his drink so his friend could punch his dick through a cushion. Yeah you read that right. I considered going home with the hot uncle, decided against it, downed skater photographer’s drink and mine, hugged everyone goodbye and went home to bed where I should have been the whole time.

The “genuine” artist

I guess upon reflection, anyone who feels the need to self-describe as genuine within the first day or two of texting probably has a high chance of not being so. Despite this hindsight, the artist was quite fun to date. Dating an artist worked a lot like you’d expect – plenty of odd hours, a bit of watching him paint, a bit of being watched and drawn by him, an eclectic apartment, great sex, and quite a few conversations about the universe. I admit, and my friends will attest, that through all this artist fare there was some genuine genuineness. The geuinine genuineness abruptly ended when he text me – on my birthday. without saying happy birthday (no “happy birthday” is honestly my idea of a real life nightmare) – to say he wanted to chat because he wasn’t sure what he wanted, then took off to a mediation retreat upstate (bonus points if you rolled your eyes at the word combination of “mediation retreat upstate”) and I never heard from him again. He still watches all my Instagram stories though, because you know, v genuine.

The one who grew mushrooms.

Not much to say here, except that this little jaunt ended too soon for me to try the home-grown mushrooms. Which is actually really the greatest tragedy of this whole blog post if you think about it, and maybe the most disappointing thing to happen in 2017 so far.