You know, I felt like it would be hypocritical to not go out with a guy who is divorced, considering that my parents got divorced when I was seven.  Granted, this particular douche bag didn’t actually disclose his marital status (FUCK YOU, OK CUPID) so I totally default to the fact that this particular situation was 100% not my fault.  I met SSDbag downtown on a random Saturday night when, yes, something in my brain was telling me…”shit ain’t right, girl,” but I ignored this feeling.  We went out, four times, and I liked him.  He is 6’4, blonde, from New York state and just a super manly man…which I LOVE.  Sorry, but you can’t help what you’re naturally attracted to.  Fact.  But yeah…speaking of facts…he turned out to be a GIGANTIC ASSHOLE.  Long story short, we had four dates and then he went to Vegas for my 30th birthday weekend.  Sure, he tried to get me to go, but when I declined, he then FORGOT about my 30th birthday and then didn’t call me for a week.  What-the-fuck-ever, I totally forgot about you and your balding blonde head.

The kicker here is when he tried to re-connect, post-30th birthday, and said the reason he didn’t call/text me is cause he was in “the Vegas zone,” which is, apparently, when you’re just so stuck in your gambling high that you can’t even deal.  “Well how much did you win?” I asked.  His response? “I lost like $2,000.”  WHAT A FUCKING LOSER.  I don’t date losers, guys. If you forget my 30th birthday, you better have  a GOOD FUCKING EXCUSE.  E.G. You won some SERIOUS MONEY.  Like baller status, ok?  Douche!

Long story short, I was over him faster than John Mayer was over Taylor Swift.  Good luck being alone forever (in a gross LA suburb, mind you).