Posted: March 26th, 2010 | Author: Dating For LOLs | Filed under: Online Mishaps | No Comments »
One of the great things about Facebook, for me personally, has been the ability to reconnect with old school friends. The chance to see if my predictions of where people would end up are anything close to the reality.
I’ve gotta be honest. Nothing gives me a greater thrill than glancing over the profile of a girl who spurned me all those years ago and being able to think to myself…thank God I avoided that.
You bet I’m a man to hold grudges. When I look back on high school romance, the term “a joke” springs to mind. Especially in my case. But it was a joke that meant something in my blazer and tie. So if the cutie from my class didn’t respond to the suggestion that I actually quite fancied her a bit, then I’m definitely going to remember.
It’s petty and childish, I know. I dare not even wonder what the same girl would think of my own profile if she saw it now. You know, with the thousand plus photos of drunken shame, unmissable Stella red eye and countless shenanigans where I nearly always look awful. Facebook has opened up all new doors of voyeurism in to the lives of people we’d barely call acquaintances if we landed on the same god damn dancefloor.
Not only do I enjoy peering in to the love lives of the ones that got away, but I also love to Facebook stalk those who weren’t so lucky. The amount of times I’ve found myself flicking through my ex’s latest tagged photos surely can’t be healthy. I even go digging through status updates. The slightest hint of dissension in a new relationship, I want to hear about it. The briefest lapse in sensibility, the smallest sign that she’s still thinking about me…I want to read about it. Not because I genuinely care, but because I’m a nosy bastard who likes to pry. Does that make me a bit of an arsehole? Probably.
Anyway, my Facebook creeping backfired on me quite spectacularly the other day. I’d been sniffing over a former lover’s wall for no reason in particular when the pizza guy turned up. I dropped my laptop in the living room, probably not assuming that my housemates would be in any rush to use it.
By the time I’d come back, I had no reason to be suspicious. The laptop was where I’d found it, but there was a nasty looking smirk on my friend’s face. I’m used to getting Facebook raped. There’s nothing cooler than logging on to your mate’s computer and leaving a dirty great status update for the rest of the ‘Book to laugh at, right? The trouble is, people know to assume that Facebook Rape has taken place.
When my friend had stolen the laptop, he’d done the unthinkable. There was no status update. No dodgy wall posting and not even the slightest hint that anybody else had jacked my page.
So when my ex texted me a few hours later asking why I’d poked her, I could have let the ground swallow me whole. I swear to God, there is nothing worse than subtle Facebook rape.
It’s the kind where the recipient doesn’t even know that it’s happened, but somebody out there…somebody you really don’t want to show weakness to…is left wondering why the hell they’ve been dragged in to your fun and games.
I could just imagine her questions. “Does he want me back?”, “Has he realized how much of an arsehole he was to me?” …”Does he think a single poke is enough to get me back in the sack?”
I’m telling you, people. Subtle Facebook rape is definitely the way to go if you’re looking for what I’d call the beetroot effect. The oh my god, you didn’t.
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Posted: March 19th, 2010 | Author: Dating For LOLs | Filed under: First Date Drama, Speed Dating | 1 Comment »
There’s something about speed dating that scares the living shit out of me.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m about as speedy at relaying my interest to a girl as I am at getting served in a Henneseys on Paddy’s Night. By the time I’ve mustered the courage to say hello, I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. A bit like last night when having waited at the bar for close to 40 minutes, I managed to order the wrong Ale and piss off half the people in my round.
But the idea of meeting a girl, eyeballing her across a small table and trying to spike a conversation out of thin air, it puts the fright of fear in me. I haven’t felt that level of suspense since Year 10 Parents Evening, which is the closest I can come to describing the atmosphere at one of these speed dating halls. Sit there, head bowed, nod until the interrogation is over.
It would be too obvious to point out that men are at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to attending a night of speed dating. While the women are fortunate enough to be permanently homed at their tables, we get to flock between them like lambs to the slaughter. You know, I spent the first fifteen minutes hovering sheepishly with my attention fixed firmly on my Nokia.
Maybe subconsciously I felt the need to show that “Hey listen, lady, I’m about one text message away from having something more important on.”
Either way, there’s only so long you can get away with mashing buttons on your 5800 before the battery pulls a fast one. Rise to the occasion, I thought. Eye of the motherfucking tiger here I come.
I spotted a cute brunette who I’d overheard explaining to another guy how she felt quite uncomfortable and that it was her first time speed dating. Perfect. An opportunity to play the self-deprecating reassuring act. I eventually got to talk to her and she was very charming, down to earth and endearing. So why the bloody hell would I want to be shafted after three minutes and directed towards a table where sat the kind’ve girl who lists “bubbly” as the first quality on her dating profile and struggles for an honest second.
The problem with speed dating – and I did get to grips with it eventually – is that such a short window makes it almost impossible to dig deep enough to know whether you’re making a genuine connection, or simply marrying together two awkward situations to avoid one awkward silence.
Of course, there’s the idea that you write down the names of the people you’d like to speak to again. You could call the whole speed dating game one commercialised ice breaker. Because that’s all it really is. An umbrella term to get us Londoners doing the one thing we so openly neglect. It’s the effort of acknowledging the existence of a stranger.
I remember reading an article in a freebie newspaper some time back. It outlined the top ten tips for making a splash in the speed dating pond. Some of the questions just blew my mind.
What do you consider your best attributes?
Are you serious? I dare anybody to try that line and retrieve even the slightest whiff of success. Asking somebody to list their qualities is a double jeopardy move. On one hand, she’s twitching under the table trying to find the words to balance sounding confident with being a massive egotistical prick. Likewise, you’re striking up the aura of a relationship councillor rather than a genuine guy who should be able to see those best attributes for himself.
Another classic mind boggler I saw listed in the top five: “If your friends compared you to an animal, which animal would it be?”
Really? She’s sitting there wondering whether she’s copped the dude with the sea lion fetish or the bloke who can’t date a girl in possession of a personality that clashes with his seven cats. I can’t imagine a single answer that’s going to even remotely redeem such a mindless interrogation in the name of compatibility. I’d expect Cilla Black to pop up from under the table and ask me what I’ve got in store for number three while the other poor girl visually tries to depict herself in a zoo.
I’m not completely against the speed dating process. After meeting some of the characters on display at my first event, the three minute window was a godsend. Saved by the bell, rescued in the 90th minute…call it what you want. There are some personalities that you simply can’t escape quick enough. If you’re going to pluck up the courage to spill your beans to as many strangers that’ll listen, at least have the decency to smile and laugh. If there’s anything I learnt about my love life, it’s that I’m a one trick pony when it comes to bathroom breaking myself out of an awkward silence.
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