Like millions before me, I decided to use online dating after being single for several years. A few questions and a quick upload of my terribly cropped photos and a good “about me” was all I needed to find my dream girl. I went with something subtle yet silly. I didn’t want to come off as desperate so, “I may be ugly and poor but I always return texts promptly” seemed like a pretty accurate representation of all things me. Satisfied with my profile, I fell asleep, dreaming of all the babes that were sure to be in my future.
Several days passed before I was able to really understand the intricacies of communicating online with horny strangers, but my previous experience as a bartender helped me navigate my way through a sea of women with multiple cats, religious nuts and people who might steal your kidneys and leave you in a bathtub inside a motel off the 605. My thumb effortlessly glided right as I passed profile after profile until it happened. … There she was, drunk, on a Duffy boat with bright blue eyes and a romper … my next girlfriend.
We spoke for almost a day until deciding to meet in real life. Her name is Jessica and from her photos it would appear that binge drinking and expensive brunches are her hobbies. I picked a nice restaurant to meet at and the rest of the night would be in God’s hands. A few hours before our designated “meet and greet,” my nerves were getting the best of me. Lucky for me, I live in Southern California and have a computer so a smorgasbord of high quality cannabis products are just a few questions and clicks away from being delivered straight to my doorstep. I opted for the THClear 1,000 mg syrup to quell my anxiety and make me seem less like myself and more like Zach Morris.
I’ve got about a third of the bottle gone before the Uber arrives. The driver is a sweetheart named Millie and her van smells like vanilla and cigarettes. She’s very interested in learning about me as we make our way toward the restaurant, but I’m not wasting any of my good conversation on her so instead I pretend to be on my phone. One last sip of my syrup before we pull up to our destination, I thank her and let the van door slowly close.
My date arrives and I am definitely feeling the effects of that potent drink. My eyes feel heavier than usual as I stand up to give her a hug, she smiles and saya the one thing every guy fears: “I thought you were taller.” I’m average height (5-foot-9) so I didn’t know that I needed to be a point guard in the NBA to ride that ride. I shrug it off and think of different ways to make her feel inadequate about the size of her gigantic feet while she’s busy ordering the most expensive glass of champagne I have ever seen on a menu. It is in that moment I begin to actually feel the full effects of the syrup. My tongue feels too big for my mouth and a delightful tingly sensation creeps up my spine. Speaking seems like too much effort so for now Jessica can take over the conversation, which she does by telling me all about her spring break plans.
The food arrives just in time. We had decided to share a center cut filet and as they bring it out on a platter, I must have been too busy thinking about Jessica’s giant feet just inches from my own to hear the server say that the plate is hot. So, like a stoned idiot, I grab the plate with the confidence of a man in his thirties that had seen his fair share of dinnerware. The searing pain shoots up my fingertips and races through my veins. I make a noise that resembles a gang of cats fighting in an alley and excuse myself to the restroom. The cold tap water feels like heaven as I open up the bottle and sip another tablespoon of that glorious nectar once again to forge on.
Jess doesn’t know that I burned my fingertips off and I’d like to keep it that way. The meal is nearly over and I still haven’t gotten past the fact that despite my being several inches taller than her, Jessica seems to have feet about as big as mine. She’s talking about the lineup for Coachella and I’m wondering if burning my other hand might expedite the rest of this date. I’m 500 mgs into the cannabis syrup and dessert is up next.
My date excuses herself to the restroom and I pour another ounce into my glass of riesling. She returns to the table and notices the dark purple hue of the liquid in my glass. I tell her about the syrup, which launches her into a story about how much she doesn’t like “potheads.” I can’t believe my luck; somehow I’ve managed to find the exact opposite of myself in every way and I hate it. I pay for the dinner and thank Jess. We both lie and say it was fun but we have early bedtimes due to morning plans the next day.
I leave dinner to meet up with my friends at a bar about a mile away, where I talk shit about my date (a.k.a. Bigfoot). The THC syrup is also a great chaser for tequila shots it turns out, but I wouldn’t recommend it after consuming 36 ounces of medium rare meat with a jerk called Jessica.
It might be the potent mix of tequila and tetrahydrocannabinol pumping through my body, but I’m feeling great. Internet dating might not be the way for me to meet Mrs. VanBilliard but at least Jessica gave me the perfect night to over indulge on cannabis and overpriced grape juice.
All things considered, this was a great experience. I only spent a hundred dollars on dinner and I learned that Internet dating is for tall guys and girls with feet almost as big as their egos. I’d like to thank THClear for making me brave enough to get out on the dating scene and the state of California for making it possible to shop for cannabis products in my underwear.