*All names in this article have been changed.
Look, I’m not stupid. I don’t go to clubs expecting to find Mr. Right–in fact, guys are the only thing deterring me from clubbing more often. I’ve only gone twice, and both times happened solely because I just wanted to dance and hang out with friends. One of those times happened to be on a recent Saturday night, when some of my friends and I went to a club in DC. Now, I’m not into meeting guys at clubs, but I will give people a chance if they come up to talk to me, particularly if they happen to have French accents
and I’m drunk. So when a guy with a French accent came up and started talking to me, I decided it would be fun to talk to him for a bit. After all, he seemed nice enough, and I found out that he was here from France because he was touring as a fire-twirler for Cirque de Soliel, and as I mentioned, he had a French accent. Cool, right? I mean, he wasn’t exactly attractive and he was definitely kind of weird, but if nothing else, I wanted to talk to him because I’m always on the prowl for free tickets. But that’s all we did. We chatted about life, he provided some verification that he was indeed a fire-twirler for Cirque de Soliel, and we parted our merry ways. The entire interaction took less than 20 minutes.
Keep that in mind.
When I said I was leaving, he asked for my number. I knew that nothing was going to come of it, but I gave it to him anyway because he seemed nice and interesting enough. Yeah. Never doing THAT again. You see, the next morning, I woke up to this:
Ummm yeah. No. This was enough to set off my Creep Radar.
(I would like to take a minute to point how much effort it must have taken him to send those pictures of flowers. I mean, he must have had to go through Google Images, find two pictures of flowers, save them to his computer, email those pictures, open the email in his phone, download the pictures to his phone camera gallery, and THEN send them. I’m just saying.)
I figured that if I simply didn’t respond to his texts, he would stop texting me. But boyyyy was I mistaken.
*Insert a phone call at 5:45, of which I did not pick up, and a voicemail*
Ugh. Why can’t you just send a dick pic like a normal person?
Clearly, ignoring him was no longer effective, so I figured I had to bite the bullet and say something.
(By the way, I would like to add that his broken, jarbled English was just making this whole conversation so much creepier.)
OH. MY GOD. You know, at first I thought this was a cultural thing, but it can’t be. There is absolutely no way that this shit works in any country, in any culture, on any girl, ever.
Ok. I tried to be nice. You can’t say that I didn’t try to be nice. I didn’t want to do this, but I had to pull out the big guns. I really hate when it gets to this point…..
Note how he doesn’t say ANYTHING about the fact that my *pregnant* self was sipping on a Long Island Iced Tea during our half-hour encounter. Also, should I be offended that he didn’t seem surprised that I was pregnant? Did he just call me fat?
Ok now this next part was a little mean, but when even my patented pregnancy trick doesn’t work, which is a trick that I reserve strictly for the dumbest, creepiest,most oblivious, shit-for-brains whackjobs, I officially am at the END OF MY ROPE.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you don’t meet guys at a club. That was a good hour ago and he hasn’t texted yet, so *fingers crossed* I am hoping this is where it ends. In the meantime, if I end up in some back alley burned to death, you know who did it. Motherfucking fire-twirling Alex Circus.
Featured Image via Pexels