Buy Drinks Not Cookbooks

Today my bestie is hosting a linkup over on her bliggity bloggity and since it's about one of my favorite damn topics, I'm in like Flynn.

Dating.
Hooooboy, here we go.

So, I've always been sort of what you would call a "relationship person". Actually, right now is the longest I've been absolutely single ever in life, I think. I'm the girl all of my friends use the "maybe you should, like, just be single..." line on after every breakup and then I get annoyed and instantly offended but really I know it's true.

Looking back now, I'm a damn idiot for jumping into all of those shitty relationships, typically for the wrong reasons. The reason being comfort, or at least that's what the little therapist inside of my head tells me it was. Either way, that shit's whack and it took me 25 years to realize that being single aint so bad after all. But that's not the point of this post. This post is about dating disasters and I've got enough to fill this blog with posts for at least two weeks.

I have this really, really awkward habit of dating people with the same names. The name Nick, for instance, I've dated three. Freaking three. The name Casey? Two of them. These two names, I straight take off and bolt at the mention of them these days. Seriously though, don't come near me if your name is Nick or Casey unless you have every intention of legally changing your name and never speaking of that name you were given at birth again.

Anyways, back on track here. So, Nick number three was the second craziest of the Nicks. We wont even scratch the surface on Nick number two because, well, homie is fit for a god damn straight jacket. Nick number three liked to take me out to hibachi dinners and foot the bill on getting your girl nice and wastey pants. Clearly I'm ok with such activities because, well, I'm a damn lush and anytime I have the opportunity to get nice and hammered on someone else's tab I'm going to do it.

I should also note that my reasoning for even approaching Nick number three was to piss off Nick number two because they were buddies and I knew Nick number three had no concept of bro code and I could easily pull such piss off-ery off. Worked like a charm, by the way. #winning

Things were actually going pretty well with Nick number three, despite my questionable intentions. We were showing up around our mutual friends together, we were going to the dog park together, we were getting hammered together. Shit was fine and dandy.

And then he bought me a cookbook. A cookbook with recipes to bake Christmas cookies and shit.
What in the actual fuq, bro? Get outta here with that and don't even look me in the eyes right now.

Soon after the cookbook came the conversation where he cornered me into the "exclusive" talk. Aka not the talk I ever wanted to have with Nick number three. I mean, let's not forget why I started this little escapade in the first place. So I'm squirming, trying my hardest to change the subject, insisting we go do some day drinking because I was way too damn sober for this kid to try and wife my shit up. Just no.

This was all 21 year old Whitney was really interested in committing to. 

Only problem was, Nick number three wasn't having it. He wanted to slap that title on me like he slapped that cookbook on my counter the week prior. I had nowhere to run so I just had to come out with it and let homeslice know that I was just having fun and didn't actually want anything serious to do with him.

He didn't like that, to say the least.

Before I know it, Nick number three is storming out of my house like a toddler throwing a fit because his mom wouldn't let him play with the marbles in the glass bowl on the coffee table. He ended up going straight home to do what any other normal, level headed person would do. He deleted me from Facebook. Haaaa. haha. Way to stick it to me, dude. That cut me deep, real real deep.

Except not at all.

So then he ends up going out and getting hammered and starts texting me some nonsense I didn't like. This is the part of my story where drunk Whitney showed her crazy just a little bit. Drunk Whitney decides to convince her roommate to drive her to Nick number three's apartment so she can drop off the infamous Christmas cookie cookbook at his door with a note that read "on to the next one".

My bad. Not my proudest moment, but I was 21 at the time and it just seemed like a real top notch idea.


Moral of this story, buy drinks not cookbooks.