When I chat up a guy at a bar, I can’t help but think that it’s almost unfair.

I’m not talking “he doesn’t stand a chance” unfair.

More like “I should probably come with a warning sign.”

If I decide that I like you, congratulations. You’re about to become the next man to be institutionalized by my irrational bouts of emotion, jealousy, and self-consciousness. If I don’t, congratulations. You’ll probably make my blog.

Predictably, the weekend brought on a fresh victim. He seemed nice enough – we had a lot in common, and I enjoyed the interaction. Which is far more than I can say for some of my past suitors.

After a half hour, I was getting pretty tired and was confident that he’d ask me out, so I decided to call it a night. He offered to walk me home, but it was only a couple of blocks, so I told him I’d really rather just walk myself.

Which he apparently took as a cue to follow me anyway.

As we walked,  he took a few moments to gaze at me without saying anything. That embarrassing, lovestruck kind of gaze that you think you want when you’re reading a Nicholas Sparks novel, but quickly realize is too fucking creepy in real life. I mean, seriously. Most of the characters in those books could be arrested for harassment.

“Is everything okay?” I asked him mid-gaze.

“You’re just… so pretty,” he replied.

I blushed a little, thanked him, and made a mental note to wear longer shorts next time.

“I mean, you’re just so pretty,” he continued unprompted. “So pretty. I think it’s something about your eyes. You’re just so pretty.”

Not to be discouraged by the painstakingly long stretch of total and complete silence, he continued. He must eventually have sensed his moves weren’t working, because he changed strategies from “you’re so pretty” to “where have you been all my life.” Clearly the superior option.

Thanks for the compliment, I thought. I think I get it. You are, after all, repeating it like a fucking parrot. Plus the way you’re talking makes me think that either: a) maybe I am too pretty for you, b) you must not have had your penis touched in years, or c) all of the above.

After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at my place, where I promptly dismissed him. Which he took as his cue to come in for a glass of water. Determined to stay, he staked himself out on my couch and made some excuses as to why he couldn’t get home.

Though I protested at first, I was just too tired to argue.

“If you have to stay, you can sleep on the couch,” I told him. “I’m going into my bedroom and locking the door. You can let yourself out in the morning.”

At around 7:30am, I got a knock on my door. Clearly the appropriate time to sweep a hung over woman off her feet.

“I think I’m going to head out,” he said.

“Okay,” I replied.

“Do you want to go get some coffee or breakfast?” he asked. Admittedly, this was a sweet offer and something I always wish more men would do. But somehow, talking about how pretty I am at 8am over coffee just didn’t sound too appealing.

“No,” I said. “I have to be somewhere at 11, so I am going to keep sleeping.”

Please go away. I’d really like to enjoy a peaceful morning of blogging about you.

“Do you mind if I lay here with you?” he persisted.

No! I’d love to cuddle with you. Can’t you tell by the way that I changed into sagging, ripped pajamas instead of a neglige? Or the way that I locked you out of my bedroom? Or the way that I  told you to go the fuck away already?

“I do kind of mind. I’d really just like to sleep. It was nice meeting you,” I said, starting to care less whether I sounded like a bitch.

“Okay. Well I am going to call you and ask you on a date. I really hope that you say yes,” he said.

Thanks for removing any and all suspense from the equation. Girls really love that.

And so señor desperation went on his way. I regret to admit that he will remain in both text message and facebook limbo forever. Let’s all take a moment of silence for his loss.

I always say that it’s hard to find an attractive, employed, charming man. But that just isn’t true. The tricky part is finding one you actually like, who likes you back.

Laying in my bed that morning, all I could think was how badly I wanted this guy to leave. I had no desire to cuddle, kiss, go to breakfast, anything. Then I thought about the only man I wanted there at that moment. The one who made me want to hit the snooze button (and not so I could sleep). The one who made me feel comfortable, and desired, and (dare I say?) a little bit happy. I missed having that chemistry with someone, so I asked if he wanted to hang out later.

He came over, and I was excited to see him. But something was different. He was different. He didn’t touch me like he used to, or look at me like he used to. He didn’t seem happy to be there, and I could tell that from his side, this was over. And when he let go, the chemistry went with him.

For the first time, he left without staying over. And without so much as a kiss goodnight.

So now, here I am. Being wanted by someone I don’t like. Wanting someone who doesn’t like me. Wondering when the two situations will finally converge into something great.

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