By totally good, I mean totally acceptable: there was no screaming, no creeping, no fighting, no awkward sexual advances, no bailing, no misinterpreted commentary that sent her into a hysterical tears, no awfully awkward silences, no confusion about who’d pay for the bill — thank god, I’ve had plenty of those, and while they make good stories, the shame that follows is not worth the feat— that being said, everything went totally wrong.

I showed up to pick her up seven minutes late, which is early for me. I wore nice clothing, I didn’t smell, and, even though I only met her when I was basically hanging out at Blackout Hotel, I wasn’t stupid for asking her out: she was good looking. I by nature did my facebook exam before officially asking her to sushi, but Facebook pictures, of course, can be more misleading than all else.

Despite all that, there were a few turning points which let me know she wasn’t right for me.

Sake Clash Part I

“Cold or hot sake?” the waitress asked.

“Cold,” she said, before I could utter my esteemed preference of hot.

How can you not love hot sake? It’s basically hot tea that gets you smashed.

Sake Clash Part II

Even worse than that, after we finished the cold sake, the waitress came my way, lifting the empty bottle up. “Oh,” she said, “one more bottle?”

I muttered in agreement with the recommendation, but I didn’t want to force this move upon us, so I looked upon my table counterpart for her preference.

“No, we’re okay,” she said. After one bottle. The bottle the size of a Nyquil bottle. It wasn’t about the driving. I was the one driving.

Shows

Coinciding in your favorite shows is one of the few ways the millennial children can still connect with one another, if not using the Instagram like. But when you have the interaction that follows, you know your likelihood of pulling off the 60's happy family with two little blond boys, a dog named Spike, as well as a lawn that’s perpetually sunlit, isn’t quite inviting you in. (I don’t know how I could ever produce blond sons, I’m Jewish and black haired, but the point remains.)

she: Do you like Homeland?

me: No, what about Breaking Bad?

she: I never watched it! But what about The Wire?

me: Never saw it. I do like Mad Men, though. Do you?

she: I couldn’t get in to it. Do you like Game of Thrones?

me: No, looks stupid.

Sip Sopporo…

These modern shows I could handle, everyone’s got their favorites. What I could not swallow, however, was the next Q/A.

me: You got to love Seinfeld, though, or Curb? I asked, seriously begging here, begging, for something we can share.

she: Actually never watched them.

Bleh.

Quickly Satiable Appetite

I refrained from ordering the gargantuan amount I typically order, because I didn't want her to think of me as the freakish sushi fiend that I am didn't want to fall into a food coma. But when she got full off of what’s usually half of my first serving, I knew something was askew. “No, I promise, you have it,” she repeated, referring to the leftover hand roll she didn't want. I mean, no problem, I ate that hand roll up, and it was fucking delicious, but, again, It feels weird when you’re stuffing your face and another person just watches you eat.

No scars

My friend once told me he could only get along with girls who can keep therapists engaged for hours at a time. If I remember correctly, he said, “I like girls who like, have serious, strange issues. Ones that lost their virginity in their early teens, or might cut themselves for pleasure.”

While I don’t find myself masochist as my friend might be, you do need to have some sort of damage or drug abuse or struggle in you to make you appealing. I tend to get along better with those who have, and there is, no doubt about it, a lot more to talk about with those who do have them. My date, though, lived at home her whole life. During college, she commuted from her house.

What I am essentially saying here: I am complaining about how there was nothing wrong with her, she was all right, which means, for me, she was wrong.