I Went To Formal With Patrick Bateman


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I Quite Literally Went To Formal With Patrick Bateman

Plenty of girls think that they have “literally” been on the worst date ever. Trust me, you haven’t. I have. The day I got fired from my last job, I mentally compared it to that night. Was today worse than Winter Formal 2014? Nope? Okay, then it wasn’t that bad, because formal was really bad.

Back up to a week before, I meet some player at a Christmas party and don’t remember leaving. Apparently I had asked him to formal. Go me, go drunk me. Yeah, well Boy-I-Barely-Know gets “sick” T-minus six hours to the event. Rude, right? I know. I was pissed. See you think the story ends there. The boy canceled on me and I was miserable, the end. No. It gets so much worse.

Rolling with the punches and happy to have my sisters, I just get ready and rely on someone else to find me a date. I was living in my sorority house that year and it was really never hard to get a date when more than 50 girls are trying to set you up with their one friend.

I just picked the wrong friend. Don’t get me wrong, I still love her to death, but damn did I pick the wrong friend to set me up.

One hour before the pregame, he says he’ll go. He’s her boyfriend’s friend. Good. So I don’t have to babysit him all night, he’ll have friends there. Good. He’s out of college with a job. Great, he has money for all of my drinks. Upon very necessary Facebook stalking, he’s really cute. Perfect. This is going to be a great night. Or so I thought.

These goons walk in half an hour late to an hour long pregame. Strike one. But he’s hotter in person so, it’s okay. They brought Fireball and RumChata, good boys, they know what a girl likes. Then he starts talking. The first thing he says to me is a quote from “American Psycho” and explains that it’s his favorite movie and I should really see it. The scene where Christian Bale kills the prostitute is his favorite.

Looking back, this was a huge red flag. But there was Fireball in my hand so I noticed nothing.

We get on the bus to the event. We start talking, because as far as I know he’s still a catch. He’s older, dark hair, dark eyes and according to my friend, comes from money. MRS. Degree here I come.

He starts to talk about his family. He comes from a family of six siblings, his father is some kind of doctor and his mom stayed at home. So did my mom. Cool, we have something to talk about.

“I love my mom for staying home, but I personally could never do that,” I tell him. I’m a feminist. I’m not sitting at home in the kitchen to birth children and make sandwiches. That is not what I’m here for.

“Well you must not love your mother enough to understand,” he says. Straight face. Not kidding.

He goes on to explain that his mother is his ideal woman. She is exactly the kind of woman he needs to marry. His mom. This conversation continues. I move it back to having six siblings. That’s a lot of kids to push out, you know? There has to be something normal to talk about there, right?

“Yeah we don’t always get along, being trust fund kids we’re kind of competitive,” he explains.

“How so?” I ask. I’m not saying I’m a gold digger but boys who casually drop that they have a trust fund are attractive.

“Well this one time, I stabbed my brother with a pair of safety scissors.”

What new hell have I entered? Is this actually the bus to hell? Not the event? Where are we? The River Styx?

The conversation dies out quickly after that. I think I talked about my golden retriever because there was no way for him to make that weird. I avoid him for the rest of the event, he hits on my roommate heavily, we get back on the bus to go home.

My friends are all planning to go back to his apartment afterwards, so I have to be nice. It would be rude not to go. We make our plans to go back to his apartment off campus. Three couples end up going.

Somehow after he droned on about how he rolls his own cigarettes like our Founding Fathers did, the final blow to this guy being the worst date in existence is thrown into the ring.

“Hey, tell them how you got this scar!” My friend, who set me up with this psycho, says, laughing.

“Oh well my brother called shotgun, but I sat there instead. So he stabbed me with a pen straight through the cheek.” He laughs. He laughs about it. He and his brother have stabbed each other. Both brothers have literally used normal items to physically hurt each other.

Fast forward ten minutes. People are getting tired. My friend, who has remained mostly silent and secretly as miserable as me through the entire night, meet my eyes. It is time to leave. We cannot handle any more of this madness. We grab our coats and leave.

That is the worst date to any formal event ever. Some people talk about the date that puked on them. I have an actual sociopath. I win. There is no medal of honor for this, but there should be.


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