Don't call me "Sweetheart"

When I was in college at the good old U of A (that's Arizona, bitches) I frequented the Coffee Xchange on Speedway and Campbell on evenings when I had to complete a last minute cram session the night before an exam. BFF Ali and I would lug our pristine-condition books, laptops, notebooks, pot and adderal (don't ask, this was one of many "seemed like a great idea at the time" moments) and set up shop in a corner while we drank lots of coffee, furiously typed out notes and snuck out to the car to take a hit off the batty.

Clearly this is the perfect setting for romantic encounters. And being that we are at the U of A, which possesses a disturbingly high percentage of really really good looking people compared to the general population of America, you are bound to run into and meet someone who tickles your fancy. Even at 2 am at a coffee shop.

One magical evening, hopped up on coffee, adderal and pot, I caught the eye of a very handsome, tall, dark-haired man. Being the brazen little hussy that I am at 22 years old I find a way to strike up conversation with him and bagged myself a date. Score! Not bad for a late evening study session on a Monday night.

Perhaps I should have been concerned by the fact that he was a 31 year old man studying alone at 2 am in a coffee shop picking up young girls. Perhaps I should have been concerned by the fact that he took his job as a server at Flemings very seriously (He was a "foodie". Alledgedly.). Perhaps I should have been concerned by the fact that I was meeting him at Centennial Hall for a performance of "Hairspray" for our date. No, none of this registered at all. It was only when I met up with him and arrived five minutes late and was chastised for my lack of punctuality (I couldn't find parking, fucker) I had this feeling at the pit of my stomach that quietly whispered "This is not a good idea. Run away now."

They say you should always listen to your gut instinct and I'm shamed to say that I ignored it. Determined to display some some semblance of good manners, I stayed. And watched three hours of "Hairspray". And endured the ridiculous comments he would make about the music. And worst of all, listened to him call me "sweetie" and "sweetheart".

When you have to physically restrain yourself and resist the overpowering urge to punch your date for calling you "sweetheart" even I knew that I needed to get rid of this fool. I practically bolted from my seat the moment the curtains went down - I couldn't get outside fast enough and away from this douche. Stopping short of running away, I forced myself to turn to him and say my goodbyes and thanks you's like the classy and polite little lady my mama raised.

This was not to be.

"So what shall we do now? Grab dinner? Perhaps a drink?"

FUCK. What now? If I had to spend one more minute with this guy I was not going to be held responsible if my fist somehow "accidentally" connected with his stupid smug face. And then a flash of brilliance! It was a Thursday night! That could only mean one thing...

"Well, I have a standing date with 20 of my friends to meet up at Bisonwiches for dollar pints on Thursday nights. And you're welcome to join us, if you like." Anyone with the ability to pick up a hint would understand this was a polite way of telling him to fuck off, but unfortunately he didn't seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer and actually joined us. FML.

The following ensued:
- Ignored him for the following two hours while I mingled with an assortment of about 23 friends
- Flirted with that cute guy Todd who I've had my eye on for a few months
- Made horrible date buy me several beers
- Made a date with Todd
- Ignored him some more
- Got horrible date to drive myself, bff and Todd back to bff's house.

As I FINALLY got to say my goodbye's, I feigned exhaustion and the claim that I was going to get myself home from there. Horrible date, who I am now realizing may be the slowest person alive, says:

"You know, that's not exactly how I envisioned our first date to go. On our next date I'd really like some one on one time."

With a smile plastered to my face and a stiff nod as I back-pat/hugged him goodbye, all I could think in my mind was: "Hell to the mother fucking NO you are not getting a second date."

I spent the following weeks ignoring his calls and sending him straight to voicemail. Every time I saw his name pop up on caller ID my skin crawled as I had flashbacks of him whispering "Sweetie" to me in the dark of Centennial Hall. But being that we live in Tucson and that I'm a creature of habit who frequents the same spots over and over again it was only a matter of time before I ran into him.

Back to the original scene of the crime. BFF sees him and says: "Isn't that horrible date over there?". SHIT! I contemplate trying to sneak away undetected but then I figured, fuck it. I'm not going to let him make me feel awkward about it. HE can feel awkward about it if he wants to. Screw him! (Did I mention I am not only a brazen 22 year old hussy, but an overly confident arrogant bastard as well?) And so I saunter by, give him a big smile and say "HI!" and walk past his table to mine.

Yes, I know I am an asshole. But dammit, don't call me "sweetheart".