1
Puppy Love Ends Up in the Pound
My very first boyfriend was in the seventh grade. His name was Troy Hoffman and being his girlfriend boosted my popularity for the whole month that we were a couple. Granted, we probably only exchanged a total of twenty words during that time. I don’t remember how we – two extremely shy pubescents – came upon the agreement that we liked each other. I have a sneaking suspicion that a third party was involved in coordinating our boyfriend-girlfriend arrangement. I do remember the breakup, however, which definitely involved a third party—his sister. Without mincing words, she told me that her brother no longer liked me and that he was dumping me. And just like that, my boyfriend and my instant popularity were gone.
- Caroline Kemper, Cosmopolitan Columnist
NOT IN PERSON. NOT by phone. Not even by email. Text.
Are you kidding me?
That is how I, Ashley Whitaker, was dumped by my boyfriend (AKA guy I was dating).
Don’t think it’s going to work out. Please take care.
That was it! No explanation. No apology.
I really liked him too—at least, I think I did. No, what am I saying? Yes, I did like him. And, I thought he liked me too.
Case in point: his last text to me – the one before the last text – seemed so promising.
“I’m really looking forward to seeing you tonight.”
It didn’t say “see you tonight” or even “looking forward to seeing you tonight”.
It said “really”. “I am really looking forward to seeing you tonight.”
I mean, really?
And our date in retrospect also seemed great. We had gone to dinner and then to the movies. At dinner, he held my hand across the table and laughed at all my corny jokes. While waiting in line for the movie, he put his arms around me. I remember thinking: This is good. We’re now at the stage where PDA is acceptable.
I remember coyly looking up at him, and when I did, he smiled back as if we were sharing a moment. My stomach actually had butterflies.
And then, it happened. I opened my mouth and impulsively spewed, “So, would you consider me your girlfriend?”
I never did get an answer—the ticket lady conveniently asked for our tickets right at that moment. I also never got another date or another “really looking forward to” text.
Oh, right. I guess that was my answer. No, he didn’t consider me his girlfriend. I need chocolate.
...
2
Death by Disco
A recent study revealed that millennials are changing the way youth socialize. Nightclubs are no longer the desired atmosphere to mingle and be entertained resulting in thousands of nightclubs shutting down in recent years. Instead, millennials are choosing to meet at friend’s houses, sporting events, or smaller venues or take part in recreational activities . . .
“HIS LOSS, I DIDN’T like him much anyway,” my ever-faithful friend and roommate Kaitlyn says to me while getting ready to hit the town. She is such a good friend—always there to remind me that any guy who blows me off is either secretly gay, a commitment-phobe, probably married, has major issues, or is just too insecure to date me.
Kaitlyn was valedictorian of our high school class and is currently working on her master’s degree. She’s extremely smart. I’d be a fool not to believe anything she says.
“All I know is I am ready to get out. It has been a long week.”
And, it had been. I’m an assistant at an advertising agency, which means I get to set up focus groups, research all things random, and write ad copy when no one else is around to complete the task. There are also the menial tasks like answering phones, making nice with our clients, and fetching coffee every so often. I don’t even drink coffee. But I don’t mind it for now; I’m in the process of working my way to the top.
Work this week was especially grueling. Our agency had a lot of deadlines, which meant there were a lot of overtime hours and coffees needed. Usually, my job provides me more down time, which allows me to catch up on my cyberstalking. This week, however, there was not much time for web perusing; even my research assignments were minimal. Compound that with the fact that Mr. Text Dumper is not much into social media, I was staying up in the wee hours of the night in search of closure via Internet.
“I almost became a coffee drinker,” I tell Kaitlyn who is in the process of trying on several outfits.
“Wow, you did have a bad week,” she responds with a hint of sarcasm.
“I did, but I am ready to put the week behind me. Cheers,” I say as I hand her a pre-outing beer. I had selected the perfect outfit and feel pleased with my makeup and hair. It did involve primping for almost two hours, but it was well worth the investment. I am on a mission to do everything in my power to forget about Mr. Text Dumper, which will most likely involve large amounts of flirting, alcohol, and dancing.
“Let’s do a lap before we commit to a location,” Kaitlyn says as we enter The Bayou, the new bar downtown. She is quoting our most cherished movie, Clueless. “The Lyft driver said this club has become quite a hit; I can see why.”
The Bayou is deceptively massive—probably ten times the size of most bars we typically frequent. Floor-to-ceiling windows adorn the backside of the dance floor providing picturesque views of the city. The dance floor monopolizes most of the main level, with an overlooking balcony sweeping the perimeters.
“Now, I know where all the cute guys are hiding,” Kaitlyn adds.
It is a smorgasbord of hotness—feeling like a kid in a candy store with the ratio of men-to-women in our favor, I am optimistic. Kaitlyn and I are in the minority, a refreshing and welcomed predicament. Upon entering, we’re immediately greeted by a group of males who appear to be part of a bachelor outing; their slurred speech and drunken shenanigans indicate that they had gotten a head start on the night. We politely excuse ourselves past them, careful not to encourage any unwanted attention.
My eyes are diverted to a tall, sandy-haired blond who is sitting with his friend at a hi-top. He is definitely my type—dressed in a blue-gray button-down shirt and drinking a Bud Lite, he has a casual vibe that I find appealing.
“Check out the guy near the booth over there,” I say subtly to Kaitlyn.
“Where?” Kaitlyn responds, overtly turning her head in every direction.
“At the hi-top near the dance floor, but don’t make it obvious that you’re looking.”
“Oh yeah, the guy in the striped shirt? He’s cute.”
“Yes, but stop staring at him,” I say in a feeble attempt to stop him from noticing our glances. “Can you try to be a little more discreet?”
“He just smiled at us,” Kaitlyn responds undeterred. “He has a smile dimple too; I know your weakness for guys with dimples.”
“Come on, let’s get a drink,” I say suddenly aware of my sobriety—not that I need to be drinking. Like a warm baby blanket, having a bottle in my hand gives me comfort. It is like a crutch, giving me a false sense of security as I attempt to blend in with the crowd.
Heading to the bar, we push our way past a group of girls facing the dance floor.