Dating / Lilith

He put a cat in a coma

Dear diary,

I met this boy–let’s call him Mason–on Bumble. I’ll admit, I should’ve seen the red flags from the beginning. We exchanged numbers after he invited me to drinks and the light back and forth conversation that ensued somehow ended with him claiming to be a “better looking Richard Gere.” Why I didn’t scrap the whole thing after that, I don’t know.

– The date –

Scene: A bar of his choosing. Velvet couches, men with loosened ties who have come straight from work, and soft music. I didn’t recognize him at first, which was a bad sign.

“Hey, I’m Mason,” he said, not offering his hand. “Do you want a drink?”

I pointed to a beer that looked nice and sat down on the velvet couch as he went to the bar to fetch us some drinks. He came back holding a canned beer and a beer in a nice glass… He handed me the canned beer.

“They make this beer in my hometown, so I thought you might want to try it,” he said, sitting down heavily next to me.

Slightly annoyed that he hadn’t gotten me the drink I asked for, but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, I took a sip. It tasted like Natty Light.

“Yeah, it tastes like shit and only costs a dollar in my town,” he said. “So what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a web editor,” I said back. The beer was terrible.

He scoffed. “Oh, so glorified WordPress?”

I stare at him over the rim of my canned beer. The air around us grew tense and uncomfortable, which wasn’t helped when he asked me if I had any pets.

“A cat,” I said, to which he responded, “Ew, I hate cats. I once put a cat in a coma.”

A COMA???? AM I ON A DATE WITH A SOCIOPATH? I pointedly edged away from him on the couch.

Turns out, the cat had diabetes and he didn’t give it its insulin shots because he “didn’t want to have to touch the cat,” so the cat went into a coma. I excused myself to use the restroom. As I stood up, I hesitated for a moment, then turned around to look down at him smirking on the velvet couch.

“Please have something pleasant to say to me when I get back,” I said to him.

He didn’t.

The rest of the date proved him to not only be cat-coma sociopath, but also a racist, an asshole, and an elitist who expressed deep personal offense when I told him I wasn’t ~on the list~ at Smithpoint, the doucheist bar in DC.

The date ended with me asking him if he was this condescending to all the girls he took on dates, to which he responded “girls love the dates I take them on.” The uber couldn’t come fast enough.

(Mason texted me the next day: “I had so much fun, let’s do it again!” I did not respond. Goodbye Mason.)



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