wickedki

[wickedki]

Love is Priceless…But Apparently, the Uber Was $47.83

There’s something deeply ironic about checking my bank account the morning after a date—hungover, hungry, and still in a full face of makeup—and realizing I’ve dropped another $100 trying to meet someone who thinks “lol” is an acceptable response to vulnerability.

This year alone—this calendar year—I’ve spent over $2,000 on Ubers. Not for commuting to work. Not for airport runs. Not even for emergencies. Just dates. Just drinks. Just going out to meet men who think split checks are sexy and who inevitably say “I’m just not ready for anything serious right now” after trauma-dumping their childhood over whiskey sours I paid for.

Let me say that again: two thousand dollars.

Do you know what two grand could get me? A security deposit. First and last month’s rent. A cute studio in a neighborhood where you don’t need pepper spray and a prayer to walk home.

And yet, here I am—sitting in my childhood bedroom, saving for rent, while my dating life is being funded like I’m running a social experiment sponsored by Uber, Tito’s, and Emotional Unavailability Inc.

I’ve taken Ubers in the rain, in stilettos, across the city at midnight because some guy “forgot he didn’t have parking.” I’ve taken them after dates that ended with a kiss, a ghost, or a polite “have a good night” that translated to “I will never speak to you again.” One time, I Ubered to a date who didn’t even show up. He forgot we made plans. I paid to be stood up.

And I’ve done it all with a swipe of my card and a desperate belief that maybe this one will be worth it.

But the math is not mathing anymore.

When I tell people I can’t afford rent, I mean it. Not in the “I have to cut back on oat milk” way. I mean literally. I am financially investing in disappointment. Every Friday night, I trade my money for one-way rides to bars filled with men who make me question if I even like dating—or if I just like dressing up for the chance to feel something.

And the kicker? I’ve never even been in love. Not really. Just thousands of dollars into hoping I might be. If not love, then maybe connection. And if not connection… then at least a guy who doesn’t say, “You looked different in your pics.”

So now I find myself scrolling Zillow like it’s a dating app. I compare square footage the same way I used to compare jawlines. I fantasize about hardwood floors and laundry in-unit the way I used to fantasize about Sunday morning bagels with someone’s golden retriever.

Because right now, what I want more than a good first date…is a place of my own.

And sure, love may be priceless—but next time I find myself Ubering across town for another date with a man who lists crypto as a personality trait, I have to ask myself:

Is it worth the ride?

Because love may not cost a thing, but dating sure as hell does.

[wickedki]

Red Flags and Red Dresses

Some nights, your gut whispers. Other nights, it screams in full Broadway ballad: Don’t go.

But when my coworkers invited me out for after-work drinks and I told them I was thinking of ghosting a date instead, they encouraged me to give the guy a chance. A little modern dating faith, they said. I should’ve gone with them. At least they were mostly house-trained.

So there I was--in a red sundress, kitten heels, and a cardigan so cute it could've gotten me a drink on charm alone--perched at the bar of a cozy little place I actually liked. I chatted with the bartender long enough for him to probably wonder if I’d invented this date just to justify sipping an espresso martini solo.

He’s just running late, I told myself.

Just 10 minutes away, he texted.

Don’t go anywhere, he begged…after an hour.

He finally showed up, and while I try to be open-minded about height, there’s a difference between being 5'3" and claiming you’re 5'8" on your profile. That’s not optimism--that’s fraud. Especially when you're chronically late.

He was touchy. Way too touchy. Complimenting my appearance like I was a shiny object at a pawn shop. And then--because this is my life and not a well-adjusted Netflix rom-com--he leaned in and said he hoped I wasn’t “as liberal as I looked.”

What does a liberal look like, exactly? Apparently, a blue-eyed, blonde in a cardigan drinking a cocktail.

And from there, it got...weirder.

Conversation turned to his favorite celebrities: Kanye, P. Diddy--like, aggressively so. As if he were trying to make me uncomfortable. Between ramblings, he kept disappearing to the bathroom. Like, frequently. I started to wonder: tiny bladder? Or blow problem?

Then--then!--he returned with his Hinge app fully open. Mid-convo. Messaging other women. Right in front of me.

When he saw me glance at his screen, he didn’t apologize. He got defensive. “Of course I’m still talking to people,” he snapped. As if I’d demanded exclusivity over a single overpriced cocktail. Newsflash: I was still talking to people too, but not during the damn date.

To top it off, he locked his phone, revealing a full-screen, busty photo of Sydney Sweeney and had the gall to say, “You looked blonder in your profile.”

I started scanning for the bartender like a hostage looking for a window of escape. When I finally asked for the check, my date ordered another round--for both of us. I firmly said I was done. The bartender, clearly not tuned into the code of ‘help me,’ made another drink anyway.

Then came the suggestion I’ll never forget.

“You should go use the bathroom,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll watch your drink.”

Now, maybe to him that was a casual comment. But to a woman who has been roofied, there was nothing casual about it. My body stiffened. My nerves lit up like fire alarms.

I refused.

We got the check. He insisted I pay--since my drink was more expensive than his. I threw down cash and prepared to leave. I wanted air. I wanted a shower. I wanted my mother.

But instead, I got one last insult: “So, where do you live? Can I come over?”

I told him no--something about living with my parents, something about not feeling a spark. He didn’t hear me. Or maybe he just didn’t care. As we left the bar, he went in for a kiss. I turned my cheek.

So he kissed my cheek.

Sloppy. Uninvited. Like a wet dog in heat. I pulled away, muttered something I hoped sounded final, and practically sprinted to my car.

Once inside, I exhaled the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I cried. Not because of him. But because I felt violated. I felt small. And for the first time in a long time, I felt truly hopeless about dating

And yet, now, with a little distance and a lot of wine, I can laugh. Sort of.

Because if this was the worst date of my life--and dear reader, it might just be--it also reminded me what I don’t deserve. What I won’t tolerate. And what kind of energy I’ll never entertain again.

I used to think red flags were just part of dating.

But now?

I know when to put on my red dress and walk away. (Most of the time.) 

[wickedki]

Espresso Yourself...Then Run

Modern romance is a lot like modern art---some of it is wildly confusing, most of it is overpriced, and occasionally you stand there wondering, is this a joke I’m not in on?

I matched with a guy on a dating app---because of course I did. The algorithm whispered, “This one might not be terrible,” and when the bar is that low, I decided to listen.

After a few decent exchanges (read: he used punctuation and didn’t open with “u up?”), I suggested we meet. He agreed, told me to pick the place, and I chose one of my favorite cozy Italian spots with a solid bar and even better lighting. Familiar turf. A safe space. A place where the bartender knows my go-to cocktail and the bathroom mirror is kind to your makeup after a good cry.

I got there early---because showing up late in heels is a war I’ve already lost before---and ordered an espresso martini to steady my nerves. I was in a miniskirt, my hair perfectly curled like the goddess I sometimes remember I am, and my expectations were cautiously optimistic.

And then...he walked in.

He looked different. Not catfish-level different...more like “I just rolled out of a barstool and into this date” different. His photos had clearly been taken in the Before Times. The pre-whatever-happened-to-his-dental-situation times. Which I only noticed once he opened his mouth to greet me and---surprise!---no front teeth.

Now, I’m not one to be superficial. Really, I’m not. But when you spend an hour on your hair and contour like your future husband might walk in, a toothless grin can shake you.

Still, I stayed. Because I’m kind. Because I’m curious. Because my espresso martini was already halfway gone.

He ordered a beer. Then another. And another. I nursed my cocktail while he launched into a detailed tirade about his coworker. Something about how much money he made, how everyone around him was an idiot, how no one appreciated his genius.

I don’t think I spoke for forty-five minutes.

At one point---buzzed and clinging to optimism---I tried to make light of the dental mystery. “So...do you play hockey?” I asked, hoping maybe this was a rugged, athletic thing. Maybe he lost them in a bar fight over the Stanley Cup?

He didn’t laugh. He also didn’t play hockey.

Eventually, the date ended. He paid for my drink---small miracles. And as I got into my car, I did something I should have done before the miniskirt, before the martini, before the menu.

I looked him up.

And just like that, any ounce of guilt I felt for judging his lack of enamel vanished. His Facebook was a hate parade. Anti-women posts, sexist rants, and comments so offensive they could get you canceled in any timeline.

I sent a polite “thanks for the drink” and blocked him before he could say another word.

And as I sat there in my car, hair still fabulous, dignity slightly bruised, "I couldn’t help but wonder…" (I love. you, Carrie Bradshaw!)

When did dating become a battle between red flags and blind optimism?

Sometimes, it’s dodged in a dimly lit bar over a bitter espresso martini and a missing tooth.

Either way, I’m learning.

And next time...I’m Googling first.

[wickedki]

The way I did not see the plot twist of you sobering up and leaving to go to the bar with your friends coming?! That was so good and so relatable and I am here for all the stories.

Haha, yes! That was the part of my brain trying to find some semblance of logic thinking: "I should really wait until the daylight to see if I like this guy before I do anything rash."

I'm thrilled you're excited about the stories and look forward to sharing more! :)

[wickedki]

Espresso Yourself...Then Run

Modern romance is a lot like modern art---some of it is wildly confusing, most of it is overpriced, and occasionally you stand there wondering, is this a joke I’m not in on?

I matched with a guy on a dating app---because of course I did. The algorithm whispered, “This one might not be terrible,” and when the bar is that low, I decided to listen.

After a few decent exchanges (read: he used punctuation and didn’t open with “u up?”), I suggested we meet. He agreed, told me to pick the place, and I chose one of my favorite cozy Italian spots with a solid bar and even better lighting. Familiar turf. A safe space. A place where the bartender knows my go-to cocktail and the bathroom mirror is kind to your makeup after a good cry.

I got there early---because showing up late in heels is a war I’ve already lost before---and ordered an espresso martini to steady my nerves. I was in a miniskirt, my hair perfectly curled like the goddess I sometimes remember I am, and my expectations were cautiously optimistic.

And then...he walked in.

He looked different. Not catfish-level different...more like “I just rolled out of a barstool and into this date” different. His photos had clearly been taken in the Before Times. The pre-whatever-happened-to-his-dental-situation times. Which I only noticed once he opened his mouth to greet me and---surprise!---no front teeth.

Now, I’m not one to be superficial. Really, I’m not. But when you spend an hour on your hair and contour like your future husband might walk in, a toothless grin can shake you.

Still, I stayed. Because I’m kind. Because I’m curious. Because my espresso martini was already halfway gone.

He ordered a beer. Then another. And another. I nursed my cocktail while he launched into a detailed tirade about his coworker. Something about how much money he made, how everyone around him was an idiot, how no one appreciated his genius.

I don’t think I spoke for forty-five minutes.

At one point---buzzed and clinging to optimism---I tried to make light of the dental mystery. “So...do you play hockey?” I asked, hoping maybe this was a rugged, athletic thing. Maybe he lost them in a bar fight over the Stanley Cup?

He didn’t laugh. He also didn’t play hockey.

Eventually, the date ended. He paid for my drink---small miracles. And as I got into my car, I did something I should have done before the miniskirt, before the martini, before the menu.

I looked him up.

And just like that, any ounce of guilt I felt for judging his lack of enamel vanished. His Facebook was a hate parade. Anti-women posts, sexist rants, and comments so offensive they could get you canceled in any timeline.

I sent a polite “thanks for the drink” and blocked him before he could say another word.

And as I sat there in my car, hair still fabulous, dignity slightly bruised, "I couldn’t help but wonder…" (I love. you, Carrie Bradshaw!)

When did dating become a battle between red flags and blind optimism?

Sometimes, it’s dodged in a dimly lit bar over a bitter espresso martini and a missing tooth.

Either way, I’m learning.

And next time...I’m Googling first.

[wickedki]

Ba da ba ba ba...Am I loving this?

There’s a certain magic to romance in the city---the kind that doesn’t come wrapped in candlelight or white tablecloths, but in a 10-piece nugget under fluorescent lighting.

Today I thought about South Station and it stirred a memory I hadn’t thought about in months. One of those “meet-cute-by-way-of-mutual-friend” scenarios. Rare. Met-in-the-wild. Slightly chaotic---my kind of vibe.

It was a Friday night, the kind where the buzz hits just right and the city hums with possibility. He was your classic Southie specimen: short (and coming from a 5-foot-tall girl, that’s saying something), baby-faced finance bro with the kind of blue eyes that get away with too much. Somehow, we clicked. A few drinks turned into giggles, compliments that danced a little too close to sincere, and before I knew it, we were running hand-in-hand through South Station like teenagers who just ditched curfew.

Cue the pit stop at McDonald’s.

And there we were: me in heels, him in some poorly chosen sneakers, holding hands and ordering a 10-piece like it was the last meal before the world ended. It was ridiculous. And romantic. Not in the “flowers on the doorstep” way---but in the “I feel weightless and twenty-five and anything could happen” kind of way. I laughed like I hadn’t in months. I forgot the rules, the apps, the endless ‘what are you looking for’ conversations.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the comfort of being seen by someone in the middle of a train station filled with people. Maybe I just wanted to believe in something that night.

But then I did what any self-proclaimed cool girl would do. I sobered up, took my McNugget-scented jacket, and left. Played it chill. Mysterious. Off I went into the night, as if I wasn’t already writing a rom-com montage in my head.

And at the next bar with my friends, nugget sauce still on my fingers and mascara slightly smudged, I wondered…

Is this what romance has become? Hand-holding and late-night McDonald’s in South Station after a few too many drinks at a sticky dive bar?

Or maybe---just maybe---it’s always been this. Messy, spontaneous, and strangely perfect in the imperfection.

Because maybe love isn’t in the grand gestures or the filtered moments we post about later. Perhaps it’s in the nuggets. The hand-holding. The rare, reckless laughter of two strangers-turned-somethings, running through a train station like they still believe in magic.

And maybe...I still do.

Maybe not with him, but I know it’s out there. 

[wickedki]

Ba da ba ba ba...Am I loving this?

There’s a certain magic to romance in the city---the kind that doesn’t come wrapped in candlelight or white tablecloths, but in a 10-piece nugget under fluorescent lighting.

Today I thought about South Station and it stirred a memory I hadn’t thought about in months. One of those “meet-cute-by-way-of-mutual-friend” scenarios. Rare. Met-in-the-wild. Slightly chaotic---my kind of vibe.

It was a Friday night, the kind where the buzz hits just right and the city hums with possibility. He was your classic Southie specimen: short (and coming from a 5-foot-tall girl, that’s saying something), baby-faced finance bro with the kind of blue eyes that get away with too much. Somehow, we clicked. A few drinks turned into giggles, compliments that danced a little too close to sincere, and before I knew it, we were running hand-in-hand through South Station like teenagers who just ditched curfew.

Cue the pit stop at McDonald’s.

And there we were: me in heels, him in some poorly chosen sneakers, holding hands and ordering a 10-piece like it was the last meal before the world ended. It was ridiculous. And romantic. Not in the “flowers on the doorstep” way---but in the “I feel weightless and twenty-five and anything could happen” kind of way. I laughed like I hadn’t in months. I forgot the rules, the apps, the endless ‘what are you looking for’ conversations.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the comfort of being seen by someone in the middle of a train station filled with people. Maybe I just wanted to believe in something that night.

But then I did what any self-proclaimed cool girl would do. I sobered up, took my McNugget-scented jacket, and left. Played it chill. Mysterious. Off I went into the night, as if I wasn’t already writing a rom-com montage in my head.

And at the next bar with my friends, nugget sauce still on my fingers and mascara slightly smudged, I wondered…

Is this what romance has become? Hand-holding and late-night McDonald’s in South Station after a few too many drinks at a sticky dive bar?

Or maybe---just maybe---it’s always been this. Messy, spontaneous, and strangely perfect in the imperfection.

Because maybe love isn’t in the grand gestures or the filtered moments we post about later. Perhaps it’s in the nuggets. The hand-holding. The rare, reckless laughter of two strangers-turned-somethings, running through a train station like they still believe in magic.

And maybe...I still do.

Maybe not with him, but I know it’s out there.