For an explanation of the 30 Stories in 30 Days, start at Day 1.

It’s Friday! It’s Day Eleven! And I’m extra excited about today’s story, which is a totally true story, except for the words you filled in from our Mad-Libs-style challenge. I’ve highlighted them below, beginning with the title. Thanks for playing!


Avatar: Dark of the Titanic Moon, Part Two (the Deathly Hallows)

Of all the guys I ever dated, the tastiest one was this kid named Blanket. We went to the same college and worked together at a rose tattoo store—I was in the bakery and he was a game show host.

He was a nice kid, real dorky and prematurely blinding at the young age of 64. Sometimes he tried to act cool, saying “hip” things like Got any cheese? or, That’s racist! as he walked by the bakery. It was kind of cute, how pathetic it was.

He finally asked me out right around my birthday. He told me he wanted to bring me flowers and asked me what kind I liked.

“I don’t know. I kind of hate pansies. Anything, really, except those.”

He then asked me about ten more times and tried to get me to be more specific, which was a real turn-off. I thought, “If this Joey-Bag-of-Doughnuts can’t just buy a girl some flowers without specific instructions, what does that say about him?”

What it said was that he lacked creativity. He bought me pansies. Purple ones. “I know they’re pansies but I thought they were kind of different because they’re purple, right?”

Our date was uneventful, but not metallic. A few days later he asked if I wanted to come hang out at his tree after class. I agreed, thinking maybe I could be the “bad girl” that turned him from a clean cut carrot into a hermaphroditic handgun.

We sat on the floor in his living room. He asked if I wanted to listen to music and pulled out his cassette collection. My eyes martinized as I spied two Bette Midler tapes and two Nickelback tapes.

“What the Hell?” I asked.

“We-we don’t have to listen to those. Pick something else,” he offered.

I dug through the box and pulled out a Richard Marx album.

“Oh my god…” I said. I couldn’t even look at him. I made a face like I was going to be sick.

“What? You don’t like buoyant music?”

I stood up and started backing up towards the front door. It was like I had found a bloody hatchet under his couch—this guy was a maniac and I had to get out of there!

He tried to reason with me. “But we don’t have to listen to them!”

“It’s enough that you own them. It’s enough that you own them.

“I’ll throw them away,” he offered. He picked up the box and started walking with it toward the kitchen.

“No. It’s too late. You bought those. You HAVE those. I have to go.”

I turned and ran out of there as if being chased. I just panicked, I guess. I mean, I know that my behavior was less than stinky. It’s clear that I overreacted.

But then again, did I?