So! I saw these WitOut top five lists and I wanted in. But! I can’t bring myself to type words of praise for people or generally anything at all. Therefore! I’m going to talk some shit out of school. Kissing and telling your way through stand-up isn’t the only way to comedy, but if you do the Google for “comedy and dating” there’s like a lot of stuff. With all the exaggerations and downright falsehoods that pepper a stand-up routine, it might be easy to take for granted that all — or at least many — of the nightmare ex-girlfriends and idiot ex-boyfriends we hear about on stage are based on real people. Real people, who probably don’t like to be the butt of jokes. But too bad! Because that’s what you get when you date a comic, unless you date that rare performer who doesn’t talk about their personal life, opting instead to talk about the mathematics of pizza or fantasize about sex with eagles. Anyway here are five slabs of love roadkill I left in my wake this year. Maybe you’ll recognize one or two.

5. The Artist – Me and this Droopy Dog looking motherfucker went on a handful of dates and then he tried to U-Turn me into the Friend Zone. Which is completely against the rules of Friend Zone. You have a window of time after meeting a person to detour them into the Friend Zone, but you cannot retroactively be like “I un-fuck you” and then go backwards in life and have friend beers at JB’s like it’s no thing. It is a thing! Artists are clueless about rules and you can’t say boo to them. These guys are like the male equivalent of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. They lure you in with their creative spirit and passion and their “aesthetic” or whatever, and then they spring you with their bland everyday doucheyness and you remember that they’re just people and not glittering wood-gnomes like Rupert Everett in that Shakespeare movie.

4. The Premature Commitment-Phobe – This guy! I met him at the after-hours club, which, okay, yellow flag, but I was there too. Anyway we spent a couple nights that week watching movies he got off Pirate Bay, and we had an inside joke where one of us would say “Winter’s Bone” to the other and the other would say “Winter’s Bone” back, the joke being that he didn’t enjoy the movie Winter’s Bone so much. It was very low-tech. But then, a week after we’d met, we were back at the after-hours, and he had taken an Ecstasy pill, because that’s still a thing somehow, and he decided that 2:45 in the morning on Ecstasy was a good time to talk about, in his words, The Status of Our Relationship. 2:45 in the morning on Ecstasy, by the way, is a terrible time to have an adult conversation about anything beyond, “Could you be a lamb and get me some Vick’s Vapo-Rub at the CVS? I’m rolling my face off.” But nonetheless we had The Talk. And it turns out we didn’t have a whole lot to talk about, having only gone out on two teenage stoner dates in a week, but since he was having a such a violent mouth seizure of commitment-phobia anyway, he said, “You make me feel butterflies, but I don’t want to feel things, because I’m cold and dead inside.” So much Emo and Club Drugs! It was like being on a date with a Hot Topic store. So I said, “Later corpse, I’m not a necrophiliac.” I mean, I said that onstage after I had written a bit about it. In that moment I think I asked if we could still do it, because it was getting late and I didn’t want to take a chance on somebody else’s beer goggles. The point is, The Premature Commitment-Phobe is like a Tyrannosaurus Rex. He can detect movement, so if you do anything at all he is going to flip out and chew you up right out your Jurrasic Park outhouse, with his words of Emo.

3. The New Age Full-Body Hugger – Just to start off with a “duh,” there are many different ways to touch people and not touch people based on feelings. For example, if I am your casual acquaintance, I do not kiss you full on the mouth and press my body from knees-to-shoulders against yours when I am saying hello to you at a bar. That is not a friend touch. That is a something else touch. The New Age Full-Body Hugger is someone I’ve known casually for some years, and who surprised me with his very forward body-hug/lip-lock maneuver at a bar this one time. And me being just barely human, my body experienced a response to that touch. So I got his phone number and I did the practical thing: I sexted him. And don’t you know this motherfucker *emailed* me a full three days later, in the most passive toothless pop-psychology terms you’ve heard since “show on the doll,” that I had misunderstood his intentions. The New Age Full-Body Hugger, cousin to The Artist, is too ethereal and free spirit-y to be taken to task. He just doesn’t have your, like, hangups? And if you started taking yoga maybe you’d be like, a more centered person? And less likely to jump to weird “Western” conclusions just because someone was harmlessly trying to align chakras with you? You can never be mad at this guy, because he couches his aggression in warm fuzzy babble. But seriously fuck him and his collection of pewter dragons. I don’t know how they do things in French Canadia, but in America you shake your friend’s hand.

2. The Hooker – This guy and I didn’t get to a first date either, but it still made for a good story. We exchanged numbers at a piano bar, and when I got home I Googled his phone number and the top result was his escort profile on, complete with nudie pics. Then I was like, I’ll still date him because in the end at least I’ll get some free hooker, but then he asked me how old I was and I said 30 and he didn’t talk to me anymore. But I got the catch phrase “Your taint is on the internet next to your phone number!” from that, and I can’t wait to put that one a boutique line of t-shirts and outerwear. It’s gonna be the next “Git’r Done!”

1. The Successful Ex
 – What’s the opposite of Schadenfreude? Like when someone’s accomplishments make you miserable? There’s no kick in the stomach like the knowledge that your ex is flourishing while you flail your way from one boozy venue to the next, trashing all the weirdos you dated after he dumped your ass like a sack of unemployed potatoes. Still, it could be worse. You could be dating another stand-up comic, for example, and that’s just Russian Roulette with all the bullets in.