If you don't like someone, don't let him give you a hickie

So, I have an Asian Marine from Minnesota stalking me.

And *SPOILER ALERT* it has something to do with the title of this post. Unfortunately.

This is one of those stories that I kind of wanted to carry with me to the grave, but I figure that part of moving to a new town and becoming the best possible version of me includes telling embarrassing stories about my private life on the Internet for anyone with opposable thumbs (do you even need those to use a computer actually?) to be able to access. And so...

I have an Asian Marine from Minnesota stalking me. I met him in the usual way I meet the super awesome guys I always attract: I entered a room with a sign taped to my forehead that read "If you're unsure about yourself and not that cool, come talk to me! I'll make you feel GREAT about yourself!" You see, I'd forgotten to take the sign down, because I'd forgotten that part of moving to a new town and becoming the best version of myself ALSO included not pretending to like people just because I don't know how to hurt their feelings. So I walked into this bar (I wish I had a good joke to finish this off with) with my application because I was there to meet the manager, and this little feminine voice piped up on my right with a squeaky "hey there!" I turned to see a less masculine version of the cartoon boyfriend in Lilo and Stitch. He was even wearing the necklace and everything. Well, he was actually a lot less tan. And a lot less...muscle-y... and had the strict tasteless Marine haircut... and not a cute face... so I'm not sure why I made that comparison at all, but it's apparently the best I can come up with. He was all smiles and happy wine times (it was a wine bar, really rad actually, called 3rd Corner Bistro) and he started picking the lint off the shoulder of my jacket when he heard I was meeting the manager. This was embarrassing for many reasons, one of which was that my brother-in-law was sitting in the car outside and later asked me why the man in the restaurant kept petting me. I went through with my meeting the manager and all, and Lilo's sister's boyfriend's look-alike kept butting in and making unwanted jokes with the guy like they were best friends. I quickly realized that he was "that guy." You know him, the guy who hangs out at the same bar everyday and pretends that that qualifies him to not only be super tight with the staff, but also to pretend that he's ONE of them? I call them all Harpers for personal reasons, but they are essentially professional bar-flies. I tried to escape unscathed, but his cartoon hand shot out and he grabbed me and said all cool-like that since I was new he should get my number and gimme a hand if I ever needed someone to guide me around. I genuinely couldn't think of anything to say, but it honestly seemed like there was a 50/50 chance he was gay, and there was this cougar sitting at the end of the bar smiling smugly at me-- all I knew was that I needed to get out of there, so I gave him those goddamn ten digits of my freedom. I then said "K bye Mike" as I ran out the door and he said "It's Matt." So that was cool.

My phone later informed me that "Matt Wine" (I'm really clever) had texted me. And then again, a few days later. Please withhold your judgement when I say that after a certain amount of text-harassment on his part, I eventually agreed to meet up with him. In my defense, I was living on a couch in my sister's living room and wanted to pretend to have some semblance of a social life. In your defense... I'm retarded. I met up with him for drinks at 3rd Corner, which was actually difficult from the start because I stood there for ten minutes looking for the 40-pound Hawaiian-looking surfer boy/girl I remembered, and it turns out he was actually the grown man with a serious military-do' whose back was facing (backing?) me the whole time. THAT threw me off. Why did I remember him as such a puff of dandelion seeds?

A-HA! Because he spoke with a lisp, wore a rather lovely woman stone around his neck, said his favorite movie hands-down was Hitch, and raved about Taylor Swift enough to make me sweat out of extreme situational discomfort. We drank some wine, which helped to make the awkward silences more buzzy and tannin-y and then he asked if I wanted to see the "highlight level" that night. Which is military code for a full moon's reflection on the ocean, and also for "Hey do you wanna makeout with me." I was only semi-interested in the first meaning, and mostly MEH about the second one, but I have this inherent problem where I am NEVER the one to end an evening. True story. I will NEVER be the one to leave a party until all the booze is gone and people are competing for soft surfaces on which to PTFO. I think that means Pass The Fuck Out, by the way. I'm pretty sure, but if not, sorry, I was just trying it out. Anyway, I won't even go to bed in my own HOUSE until everyone else is going to bed too. It's like this weird disorder I have where I don't wanna miss out on anything. So I agreed to extend our date (that word leaves a poop taste in my mouth) to a walk on Moonlight Beach in true wanna-be romantic fashion.

As for the moon's reflection on the water: that was nice. As for the oh-okay-suddenly-he's-busting-a-make-out-move-on-me part... ya, not so much. I can definitely say that it took having a random Sally-voiced, country-diva-loving goober trying to make out with the greater portion of my head and neck to realize that one of my biggest flaws is, well, everything I just wrote. I am pretty sure that they teach you this way back in kindergarten-- DON'T MAKE-OUT WITH PEOPLE YOU DON'T LIKE. I must've been sick that day, or else I was too busy being the weird girl chewing up all the community pencils (sadly true) because it's taken me THIS long to realize that you don't have to be interested in people just because they're interested in you. Maybe I'm just...special... but there I was at age 24.9 having this WHOOSH moment. So I dismissed myself from the party and went home, feeling a surge of empowerment and self-recognition that I hadn't felt maybe ever. It filled me with optimism as I quietly unlocked the door to my sister's house, pulled out my green sheet to throw on my couch/bed, and went in to the bathroom to brush my teeth. It was the turning of an epic leaf in my life, a symbolic journey to-- OH HOLY JESUS, was that a fucking HICKIE ON MY NECK?!!! God had interrupted my moment of enlightenment to boast about the purple fingerpaint of irony smudged all over my albino-white throat.

The good news is, it was my first week starting my new job as manager of a restaurant where the uniform is a crew-neck T-shirt. No no, wait... yeah no that was the worst news EVER. As fate would have it, I DID trade in the sign formerly taped to my forehead. I traded it in for a leopard-print scarf tied fiercely tight around the middle of my neck in 85-degree weather and for weird looks from all my new co-workers as I periodically yanked the fabric tighter and tried to ignore the fact that the sweat on my face was making my eyebrows glitter.

I have since been dodging all contact with my now-stalker-status Matt Wine, and am determined to join the ranks of those wise individuals who know just when to call it a night.

**(single white female) would like to apologize to her brother Sam for any side effects he may experience after reading this post, including (but not limited to) extreme projectile vomiting.