I am suffering from dating fatigue. The symptoms include:

* apathy

* resistance to applying mascara

* uncharacteristic attraction to sweats and sneakers

* neglect of body hair maintenance

* lack of enthusiasm


* general malaise.


1:36: I am waiting on a highly tattooed, 5’4″ eligible single male Texan dog walker. I am over-tired and under caffienated and I wish I had waxed my arms.


I am hungry. I glance at the waitress, who has an owl with piercing eyes tattooed across her throat. She barrels towards me, her coke bottle glasses streaked with cooking grease. I order a green tea.


1:38: I read the menu. Line by line.

I wonder what the real life implications of being discovered by my date, face down in a pound of French fries smothered in cheese would be.


I would do it, too, if Cafe Brasil served chocolate milkshakes.


1:39: I start a list of things I need to do on my yellow legal pad. It’s a list only I can understand. It says things like: Lollipop. Wish. Mad Cow. Dallas. Des Moines. San Francisco. Ari Footage. Learn Zoom. Morning Song. Green Dress.

I hope I remember what it all means tomorrow morning.


What’s the statute of limitations on a late date? How do you decide you’ve been stood up?

In high school, or maybe it was college, we’d stare down the clock when the teacher was late. Waiting, hoping, praying that the clock would hit that magic, mutually agreed upon moment where we’d call the class canceled and escape into the afternoon.

We would pack up to leave, stealthy and silent, before some teacher could pry open that small window of time, slide into the room between moments, and start talking.


1:45: The nachos look good, too.


The waitress with the owl eyes swings by my table with more hot water for my tea.

“I think I’m being stood up,” I say.

“That happens a lot here.”

“In Dalas, or in this restaurant?”

“Both, I think.”

“It’s okay. I’d rather spend my afternoon with you.


1:50: Fuck it. I’m ordering.

“I’m suffering from extreme dating fatigue. What do you recommend?”

“The spinach quesadilla’s good.”


“He’s an asshole.”


He said he wasn’t a douche bag, but maybe he doesn’t know himself very well.


2 p.m.: I pull a piece of the quesadilla from its source. The cheese is hot and fluid. It stretches across the plate before dissolving under the weight of its own fragility.


I eat a lot of cheese when I’m in Texas.

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