Kiki looks into escape artists

At 24, Tinder wasn’t around yet, but MySpace served its purpose by introducing us to people we might never have met otherwise—acting as a crude dating app before dating apps were even a thing.

John “slid into my DMs” (as we’d say now) and started messaging me. He was incredibly attractive and had two different colored eyes. He also had sparrow tattoos, which in hindsight was a sure sign things were going to go south, but I was young thought they were the coolest. After exchanging several messages, we realized we lived in the same city. Since MySpace didn’t have location services back then, finding someone in the same area code was never a guarantee.

We decided to meet in person at a local bar. Because I didn’t have a cell phone yet, location sharing with friends wasn’t an option; just taking my life into my own hands and hoping for the best.

When I arrived, John was just as good-looking as his photos, but he was a talker. For two and a half hours straight, he droned on and on. I honestly couldn’t tell you what he talked about because it was years ago and I’m certain I dissociated several times while he spoke. Occasionally, he’d realize he was dominating the conversation and try to ask me a question, but the moment I started to answer, it reminded him of something else about himself; so he’d interrupt and go right back to talking.

By hour three, I was done. I excused myself to the restroom. I was too young to know it was okay to just leave a date someone a date plus we were sitting too close to the exit for me to sneak past him unnoticed.

I had only one option: I literally climbed out of the bathroom window. As I’m telling this story, I realize I must have spent a significant portion of my 20s climbing out of windows into back alleys.**

It was a tight squeeze, but it was still better than the alternative of walking back to that table.

** shout out to the alleged drug dealer who taught me to jump out windows though

Kiki looks into casual

When I like someone, everyone else seems boring. Trying to date and be casual with TeamThirtyThree (yes, he’s back in the picture) is proving much harder than expected. It’s not because I’m in love with him—I don’t think—or because it’s that serious. But in comparison, everyone else I try to talk to just comes up short.

It’s not their fault. I’m sure that if I had met them outside the context of TeamThirtyThree, they would have been perfectly fine. But with him in the viewfinder, everyone else just seems to lack texture.

I don’t like their voice. Their stories seem lame. And I have yet to meet someone as funny as him. I just can’t be bothered.

My logical side knows that this isn’t actually true—not everyone is boring or has a stupid voice—but right now, as I try to balance casual dating (something I’m clearly not very good at), TeamThirtyThree’s qualities seem to outweigh everyone else’s.

And more importantly, I don’t feel like being whimsical with other people.

Maybe that’s just what happens when I open the door, even just a little, and let someone in. It crowds the doorway for anyone else.

TeamThirtyThree has raised the bar without even trying. And now everyone else is unfairly measured against a standard I won’t let them reach.

Kiki looks into dating a …

These ridiculous stories are not new. My love life has always been messy and full of absurd situations, so I’ll be sprinkling them throughout this absolute stream-of-consciousness of a blog. Mostly as evidence that I have been, historically speaking, clueless.

One sunny afternoon when I was 23, I stood in my living room in complete disbelief as my then-boyfriend and his friend casually lit up a crack pipe right there on my coffee table like they were pouring out Mountain Dew to drink.

You and I are thinking the same thing: how the hell did I end up here? How am I dating a crack addict?

Who, looking back now with the gift of 20/20 hindsight, may have also been a drug dealer. But to understand how I got there, we have to rewind a few months.

I met Ben the way most people met in the early 2000s: out in the wild. Probably at a club. Which, in hindsight, may have been my first clue, but at the time that was just how dating worked. Most of the people I had gone out with were also from a club meet, and none of them had turned out to be drug dealers. That I knew of.

So we started dating. Nice dinners. Sunday drives. Normal couple things. At 23, this was one of my first longer-term relationships, so I didn’t really have a strong reference for what people were supposed to do when they spent time together. As far as I could tell, everything seemed perfectly normal.

At that time, I also didn’t think much of the late-night runs to the 7-Eleven near his house. We’d grab Gatorades and then sit in the car talking. It felt intimate, like our little nighttime ritual. I also didn’t think it was strange that he always backed into the parking space. Always.

I’d sit in the car while he ran inside, and somehow he would see ‘friends’ every single time we were there. He’d chat with them for a bit, then as those ‘friends’ left, more friends would appear. It was like a rotating cast of acquaintances.

Sometimes our conversations would get interrupted because he spotted someone he knew and had to jump out to say hello. I just assumed he was way more social than I was. Reader I can not emphasize this enough I was oblivious even as you are adding up the pieces faster than I did.

But as the sun streamed into my living room that afternoon months later, and the clear glass pipe filled with smoke, those pieces suddenly started cycling in my brain.

The late-night runs, the endless parade of ‘friends.’ Oh.Oh no. I may have inadvertently been going on runs with Ben and let’s politely call those ‘friends’ the clientele

It also explained the one time we had to sneak out a window at a party. To this day I’m not entirely sure why that didn’t set off alarm bells in my head. Naivety, probably. Or blind trust. Maybe a little of both.

And the parking thing? Not just a quirky habit. It’s faster to get away if you need to.

Kiki looks into her own choices

“It’s the hope that kills you.” — Marian Keyes

In more than twenty years of dating, I have never been chosen. Wanted, yes. Lusted over, definitely. Maybe even loved once. But never chosen.

There was always something else: an ex, a new distraction, alcohol, drugs, unfinished business. And I was left circling the edges, the almost, the maybe. Convenience. Set aside when something shinier appeared. Being picked up only when it suits someone else is a different kind of abandonment. A quiet repeated discarding. I was the charging port- the place someone plugged into when they needed to be seen, loved, or to escape the shittiest parts of their lives for that moment. Only to be disconnected when they felt restored. My significance to them only measured by my usefulness.

It has taken me a long time to understand why I kept staring at closed doors. It wasn’t confusion or blindness. Probably a little bit of stupidity but mostly a lot of hope. Hope that one day I would be seen too. Hope that this time I would be chosen.

But at this point I am tired of waiting for footsteps that never come.

Kiki looks into comebacks

The swiftness with which men can almost sense when one may be trying someone new needs to be studied. Is there some kind of bat signal that alerts them the moment one may be emotionally detaching? Because how, how? In the middle of attempting midnight moving on with someone else did TeamThirtyThree know to text me to see if I was free.

Many a weekend and weekday have passed where he could have reached out but he remained silent. Instead he chose the exact moment before I hit the send button on a text to another person to come tapa tap tapping through my phone.

And he is not alone in this knowledge or timing for that matter. Recently my ex, whom I have not heard from in months, decided he too would like to reach out to see if I’m still stupid. I can not say that I’m not. It’s strange how easy it would have been to fall into old habits, but TeamThirtyThree rewired my brain and I cannot accept someone who is not openly excited about me any longer. When I saw my ex’s name on my phone I was more annoyed than elated or flattered- that would have never happened had it been a few months earlier. And even though I picked up, my heart was no longer in it. The heart flutters, the excitement, the nerves they were all gone replaced instead with just this strange indifference. In the halting conversation where we tried to find things to say to each other I realized I was over him like really over him.

Now on the other side of this break up with my ex I know I am angry at myself in so many ways – for what I put up with what I allowed, but as I am wrangling with those feelings I am also at odds with how I feel about TeamThirtyThree who was a safe place with an end date. Was his late night comeback just another version of the half in half out he taught me not to accept. Another disappointment in the making? Maybe because as Brandy once said “almost doesn’t count.”

Kiki looks into first impressions

You never get a second chance to make a first impression or however the saying goes; but, dating apps and the dates that follow really are a series of first impressions. The people texting may end up being duds in person, and duds in texting may end up being the one, because on dating apps there is the online impression and the in person one, both of which are really just first impressions of the same person.

I have had a series of unfortunate events in the first impression department with as many first dates as I have been on. Below is just a smattering of that.

First up was the man who, when I walked in, had such a blue backlight that I did not recognize him, and he did not stand up or approach me. So we sat staring, me confused about whether that was my date and him seemingly nonchalant. When I called to see if that was him, he did not pick up the phone, so we stared for a good seven minutes before I walked up to him and asked, “Do we know each other?” to which he replied, “Not really.” Anyway, that actually was my date.

Then there was the man who was a great texter, so funny. He seemed very worldly and well traveled and had such great stories. Our first date would have gone better had he not had a curfew earlier than my four year old niece. It turns out he was on probation. And all those stories: books and movies he had read or seen.

The date that never showed up but texted later to see how I was. Now, did I ask him if he fist fought his mom based on some inclination I had? Yes. But if he was so offended, maybe he should have said something so I did not drive forty four minutes on a Sunday for a date that he knew he was not going to come to.

I have had a total of three dates who lied miserably about their height, all hovering around 5’8″ or 5’9″ on the profile and 5’2″ or 5’3″ in real life. One man believed his own lie so much so that when I called him out he insisted he really was 5’9″. He said this all while looking almost directly in my eyes. For reference, I am 5 feet.

There was of course the man who used pictures from his glory days and then showed up not at all in his glory days.

One man spoke incessantly about his ex. I finally asked if, were she to call, would he leave this date immediately. He did not say no to this question.

There was the man who took me to a baseball game and kept explaining the game to me while emphasizing that the pitcher was the position he had played. For some reason it bothered him when I asked if the pitcher we were watching was better than him since he was on the field while we were in the stands.

Numerous dates whether in person or on line have felt the need to discuss their sexual proclivities or make the most offensive references out the gate, some using emojis as if that would somehow make it less vile; but there is just something about having to solve a Pictionary style sentence of sexual innuendo that just makes it worse.

And of course the date who made reservations, texted me the reservations, but at the last minute decided to cancel and told me word for word, “Do not bother going to the restaurant I will not be there and I cancelled the reservation I made.” I am not one to leave things alone or be told what to do, so I showed up anyway. He had taken someone else.

Although none of these men were ‘the one’ they definitely were someone.

Kiki looks into age gaps

The truth hurts one time, a lie hurts 7,000 times. ~ Khloe Kardashian

Trying to be in any type of healthy connection after a toxic relationship is not for the weak. Doing it after two back to back toxic situations is nearly impossible. I didn’t even realize just how traumatized I was until I met TeamThirtyThree.

Once I began to see how unhealthy the behavior had been between my ex and me, I allowed myself to go out, date, meet new people, and build up the little self-worth that remained. I quite literally stumbled on TeamThirtyThree during a girl’s night out when a lot of alcohol and extracurriculars were involved. He seemed gentle even in our first run in, and funny. He made me giggle and let me be silly. That was the best part. Surprisingly, that first night, with all my antics, he just played along: never judging. In almost eight years of relationshits, my silliness had been lost; the whimsical, soft part of my personality had been buried, replaced instead with deeply jaded views.

From our first date, TeamThirtyThree listened to my stories seemingly excited to hear them and, in later meet-ups, referenced what applied to the conversation at hand. What a novelty it was for me that someone cared enough to remember the things I had said. Any tomfoolery coming out of my mouth rolled off him; he just played along. Nonsensical invitations were accepted without questioning why I would use silly evites or memes to set up a date; he just RSVPd and showed up. One time, I asked him if he would try a popular TikTok dance trend with me, and he did so without hesitation. I would have never dared ask either of my two past partners, for fear of being mocked. There was a safety in TeamThirtyThree that didn’t exist with the others. He brought out a joy and softness I had forgotten was there. He allowed me to be loving toward him- something that had only been met with rejection from my ex.

It wasn’t all roses, though. My past relationships didn’t allow me to trust him, and I made several comments about him lying—enough that he eventually asked me to stop because of how unsettling it was. It turned out TeamThirtyThree truly couldn’t lie; it simply wasn’t in him. In another instance, we were texting about plans, and I was convinced he would stop replying and not follow through. I was so certain of this outcome that when he did show up, I cried. It felt surreal that a person could make plans, commit, and follow through. That was when I realized how imbalanced my last relationships had left me.

Because I am continuing this blog, it does mean TeamThirtyThree left, but I knew it was going to end, and that was the other part. From the beginning, he was very clear with his intentions, showing me all the information I needed to make a decision about how I wanted to proceed. Imagine that: a casual fling being the healthiest most honest communication I experienced in almost eight years. Right now, sitting with my feelings, I regret the choice I made, and part of me wishes I’d never met him because it’s just another disappointment in a long string of those; but it also shone a light on what I had come to accept and expect as normal. It showed me how I had changed myself and shrunk to fit someone else’s needs. I expected so little that effort seemed magical enough to send me to tears. If anything, TeamThirtyThree returned me to myself. As I am wrestling with the sadness, I am also acknowledging that there is no way I can ever return to the place I was, where I gave up all the parts of myself and my happiness so someone else could find theirs.

Kiki looks into dating… that’s it just trying to date

Dating as a broken person is daunting. Not only are the dates often ridiculous, but I have less patience than I used to. I’m tired in a way that doesn’t show on dating profiles, and that exhaustion makes everything feel like tiny paper cuts on my soul: painful for such innocuous marks.

Recently, I went on a date with a man who turned out to have very, very different views from mine, though none of that came out until we were already face to face.

Don’s profile wasn’t sketchy. There were no obvious red flags or clues suggesting he’d turn out to be an absolute a-hole. Did he have of a “bro” vibe, sure; but, was he also from the East Coast, yes- which is why this didn’t quite line up. When we messaged on the app, things flowed easily enough that we exchanged numbers quickly and texted as if we had been good friends for a while and still nothing alarming came up.

There was one small thing we didn’t agree on, musical artists, but it seemed harmless at the time. Just one of those hmmmm differences I file away and move on from. I didn’t know then that it would end up meaning more.

The day of the date, we met for ice cream and decided to walk around the cute downtown area nearby. It should’ve been easy. Casual. Like I said above two old friends catching up seeing if there might be more. Instead, he decided this was the perfect moment to unload all of his strange relationship predilections. I told him it was too early for that kind of conversation, but he kept pushing. Each comment edged a little closer to subjects I’d asked to be avoided, until I finally had to change the conversation altogether.

At the time, I wondered if I was just annoyed at being out with someone new, someone who wasn’t my ex. This was one of my first dates since the “breakup,” for lack of a better word. Was this actually weird behavior, or , was I just projecting my sadness? It was hard to tell.

But as he kept talking and then mocking me I realized I wasn’t wrong at all. It was in fact intentional, inappropriate border line foul behavior. He was openly supportive of current policies supporting everything I abhor and he wouldn’t let it go. He just kept pushing. At one point we tipped into the absolute abhorrent and very much engaged in an actual shouting match about language, current events, and yes musical artists.

I think my anger and the urge to absolutely demolish a man with all the rage I’d bottled up during my relationship kept me rooted there, shouting back. The fact that we didn’t physically tussle was honestly surprising. But the moment I realized I was on the verge of a fist fight with a grown man, I snapped back to reality: I have a pace maker now and can’t be swinging but there was a time.

I shoved my chair back and stormed off. It would be another month before I considered going on a date.

Kiki looks into intermittent fasting

I intermittent fasted on a date once (not on purpose or anything), but because my date had “made it clear,” apparently, that we were only having drinks.

I matched with Hugh, and we exchanged sporadic messages in the app. I didn’t think it would lead anywhere and was preparing to move on. However, almost at the exact moment I was getting ready to delete the match, as though he had somehow caught wind of this ship-jumping, he asked me out and even planned the day and time. He also did a great job checking in leading up to the date to make sure we were still on. This may seem like an innocuous detail, but anyone dating now will tell you: if they don’t check in, at least day of, that date is not happening. That small gesture buoyed my hopes things would go well.

I arrived before him at a bustling restaurant, where a crowd hovered near the host stand waiting to be seated. I slipped into the bar section and noticed a couple gathering their things. I slid in after them, but the bartender shut it down immediately: that section was closing, he said. Then, as if on cue, another couple offered up their seats and with a menu still on the table! I scanned through the hefty pages until Hugh finally arrived. The restaurant was still churning, so the plates from the previous diners remained untouched. After deciding on my meal, I handed the menu to my date thinking we would at least get a snack. It was in that moment that he looked me straight in the eyes and said, very distinctly, “I thought I made it clear we were only meeting for drinks.”

That was in that instant I decided I would be leaving as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the Fates had other plans for me. When the server eventually came by to clear the plates, he offered us a bread basket. My date again declined, though he did order himself a drink. I stuck with water, already plotting my escape.

Because of the rush of customers, our drinks took forever to arrive. So there I sat, listening to a man’s life story with not even a crumb of bread to distract me from what had become my loud, growling stomach.

When the drinks finally appeared, Hugh sipped slowly and kept talking. I committed fully to what had now clearly become a water fast. At some point he paused, but I barely noticed. I was too busy watching plates pass by salivating at other people’s meals. When he finally asked me a few questions, I answered halfheartedly, my attention completely hijacked by the cakes circling through the room.

Once the drinks were gone, I ended the date, not because of anything he said, but because I was starting to worry I’d lose consciousness trying to make it to my car. Drive through after a bust of a date just hits different.

Kiki looks into dating while ethnically ambiguous

I am Greek, but my dating profile is cleared of any background, I figure they’ll learn soon enough any way; yet, somehow, within just a few messages, many men feel compelled to interrogate me about where I am “originally from,” what my “ethnicity” is, where my family is from, or, in one particularly surreal variation, “what skin tone is that.”

At times, the assumptions are almost comical. During one especially awkward text exchange, a man concluded that my clumsy typing meant I must be a second-language learner and generously offered to switch to my “native language.” To be fair, I was travel-swiping in New York, jet-lagged and typing faster than I was thinking.

Other interactions are far less amusing. One man opened the conversation by offering to meet me at the airport gate to travel “back to my home country.” That was his first message. The. First. Message. Nothing on my profile suggested I wasn’t Californian, yet he had already decided I didn’t belong. He either appointed himself my travel buddy or something a little more nefarious. I didn’t stick around to find out which.

What’s striking is that this behavior isn’t limited to dating apps. In person, strangers also feel entitled to speculate, confidently cycling through different ethnicities as though they’re guessing answers on a game show. The casual way people, usual those with no ethnicity assign identities to others is unsettling; especially when there’s no context, invitation, or relevance.

Over time, I’ve had to get creative with my responses. Once, a man decided that my hair texture alone revealed my background and used that assumption as his opening line. The conversation quickly turned into an impromptu lesson on basic genetics, complete with Mendel’s pea chart, material I assumed we had all encountered by ninth-grade biology, if not earlier.

These moments pile up. Individually, they may seem small, awkward, or even absurd. But they form a pattern: the quiet insistence that someone must explain themselves, justify their presence, or belong somewhere else. And that insistence often arrives unprompted, wrapped in curiosity, humor, or “just asking,” but it’s rarely as innocent as it seems.