Fatal datal flaws
Whether or not we speak its truth out loud, we all have a list, long or short, of things we're incapable of forgiving. Fatal flaws. Rippling red pennants of lessons-already-learned. And we're particularly heavy-handed when it comes to dating.
Anyone interested in the contents of my pants is subject to a zero-tolerance policy. Any offence merits an automatic conviction, lasting for all eternity, a term to be served as hi-bye friends, if that. Whiskey is the only known, albeit volatile and temporary, Kryptonite for this class of galactic repulsion. Consider it a weekend pass.
The list isn't about high expectations, it's about compatibility. A turn-off is a turn-off. A red flag ignored doesn't go away, it's an I-told-you-so waiting to happen, in which case, your only consolation is that you can beat yourself over the head with it later.
Everyone's list is different, so there can be no cheat sheet. The list is the final word - dating gospel even more powerful than your best friend's opinion - and it gets longer with every failed relationship, every one-night-stand, every birthday candle extinguished, and with every unfertilized egg flushed down the pipes of my Montreal apartment.
Divulging details of your list (like I'm about to do) is not recommended, as you risk offending everyone around you. Your itemized fatal flaws could, potentially, mirror a friend's lover's list of attributes, or worse, those of their spouse. Or, just make you sound like a pretentious, self-important jerk-o.
So, before reading on, please consider my disclaimer: I don't think I'm the cat's ass (as we say in Canada), or the dog's bollocks (as I've heard is said in England). There are simply some characteristics and behaviours I can't accommodate into my lifestyle, things that may seem minor to you, but actually represent tips of icebergs larger than those melting in the poles right now for me. If you're offended by my inflexibility (you should see my complete list), then I think you'll agree, we shouldn't date.
I'd rather drink Pine Sol than make you breakfast, if you fit the following description, and I'm pretty sure once you sober up you'll feel the same:
You are an animal-hating homophobe with no desire to read or travel anywhere without a wet-bar. You complain that immigrants are ruining the fabric of the nation, and your favourite food is "fast". You think Africa is a country and Mexican is a language.
People are poor because they're lazy, you declare, as you drive to the corner store two blocks from your house, in your fully-equipped yellow SUV so you can blare prime time TV en route while you run out to grab another carton of smokes and a couple 40 oz. big boys of Maximum Ice. You put off this grocery shopping because the drugs you snorted last night gave you a wicked headache, but you're pretty sure that by tomorrow you'll be back at the gym getting pumped doing your usual routine: bench presses and vanity curls.
Intentionally purchased one-size-too-small, your shirt shows your eraser-hard nipples like exclamation points beneath the logo emblazoned on your top-heavy figure. When you're near, I can taste $80-cologne in the air. I know how much it costs, because you tell me. You spritz your balls because "the ladies love it".
If you were ever ready to stop doing body shots off college girls in beerkinis, and ask me to marry you, you'd buy me a gold ring with a huge sparkling diamond, just like your coworkers told you to, proving that you never really listened to anything I said.
No reason to worry about that, though. We'd never get to that point, because everything I am, my entire living, breathing being, is fer-EFFEN-sure on your list, too.