Girls, if you have ever wondered what a boy is thinking on his date. Look no further, the following is a completely true, non-exaggerated excerpt that exactly reflects every date with blanket accuracy.

K. Well that was terrifying. Was it really necessary for her dad to clean his gun out the whole time? No. Absolutely not. Now when we get back to the car, should I open her door? Of course you should. But what if she’s one of those weird feminist types who thinks she’s entitled to opening her own door? I mess this up and the whole night’s just a waste. Imma go for it.

“Thanks J Rod”

“Yeah no doubt.”

All right. That didn’t go too poorly. She’ll probably still challenge me to an arm wrestle or something just to demonstrate how completely capable she is of opening her own doors.

Anyways, I get back inside the truck full that I should have cleaned yesterday, that’s still full of Slurpee cups from July, put on some chill music that she can’t not like and try to not hate myself for that car door ordeal. It’s about this time that I begin to regret my own choice in clothing. The process of elimination of what smells the least terrible, I begin to realize, won’t cut it. We’re about to get out of the car and she solves this problem for me by saying “I’ll let you get that”

I respond with a smooth “Swell.”

Swell? Are you kidding me? Did I just go back in time to my freaking 4th grade-light up sketchers wearing self? It’s done. The night is done. I might as well just take her home right now because there’s no way I’m salvaging this one.

So we’re at dinner and I let her know that she can, of course, have anything that she wants off the menu. And of course all she orders is a stupid side salad. Great. Now I’m going to have to order nothing but side salad so I don’t look like a savage, and force starvation upon myself.

I spend half of dinner thinking that her chair legs are trying to play footsies with me, and the brutal realization that its nothing but an inanimate object almost makes me just want to go home.

And I continue on with the night. Insecure and starving, I try to save this one by taking her to the home of 35 year old guys living off of three-day-old Nachos and warm

Powerade, none other than the Nickelcade; where an empty Dance Dance Revolution spot is harder to find than the illegitimate child of Where’s Waldo and Carmen San Diego. I realize the instant we walk in that this was a mistake.

First of all, the stench is terrible. I don’t know what I expected from out-of-shape men who break a sweat climbing onto the DDR podium, but it wasn’t this. I guess you just don’t really notice when you’re not with a girl, but surely it wasn’t this bad. Anyways, we get our fistful of damp nickels and head straight to Skee-Ball. Thinking I’m real good, I go for the 100 every time. And miss every time. With the 9 balls, I got the minimal 90. Some scumbag kid on the other lane just laughed at me, made me feel dumb, then proceeded to score like 5 times anything I could ever hope for. He probably lives here with his dad who’s over on the DDR machines.

After I blow my 30 tickets on Frooties, I finally can feel good about leaving this armpit of Sandy City Center. In the car, the only songs on the radio are the slowest, sexiest things I’ve ever heard. The kinds of songs meant for making love in the rain. I finally give up and just turn it off. I catch an audible sigh of relief out my date. To break the silence, I try to make conversation about literally anything.

“So you have way cute shoes.”

“Thanks.”

“Um…the Jazz are really bad.”

“Yeah Peyton Manning isn’t a very good shortstop.”

I’m about to reply, to say something about how literally everything she just said was inaccurate. But it’s just not worth it. In her defense though, Peyton Manning probably wouldn’t make a very good shortstop.

I’m beginning to realize, I don’t actually like this girl. At all. I drop her off, hug her because that’s what you’re supposed to do, go home and try to erase this horrible memory from my mind.