Black metal dating
After my strained conversation with another one of ended, the guy chuckled awkwardly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if all the girls hate men now.” You have no idea, buddy.
But no, actually most of my “dates” did nothing to inflame any latent feelings of misandry.
“I was really hoping I wouldn’t bump into somebody from Grand Rapids,” he said, his smile twisting into a pained frown. Early on, I started to sense that my jaw was swelling from so much yammering, and whatever was coming out of my mouth was either stupid, or as indiscernible as a bleating sheep-woman.
Before I realized how stupid this all was, and that I should probably consider just being myself, I landed on a quick one-liner I could use to silence the haters. It was the slightly less lame, rough equivalent of, “I like all kinds of music, except country.” Despite my careful approach to seeming cool, I was occasionally found out. “I’ve only been here three weeks,” he said proudly.
There was the guy who, when I goofily asked if he was a “hardcore metal fan,” responded, “Well, if you’re asking if I’m a fan of hardcore metal, then no.” And there was the fellow who, after we agreed that Pallbearer was pretty sick, cracked a smile with a slight eye-roll when I explained that I “just wasn’t that into the sub-genre thing.” Sigh. New York was OK, so far, he reasoned, but he did miss his Southern California tacos.
I let out a forced chuckle, and probably some spittle.
“Let me give you a hug,” he said, as we departed ways.