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Sure, I’ve heard of serial daters before, but I’d never actually dated one until now.  Typically when I hear the word “serial,” I think of serial killers as serial killers are definitely the most well-known of the serials.  Regardless, there has to be a connection between the two because serial daters are nothing but serial heart killers.

While reading about serial daters on the internet—as if dating one for three months wasn’t quite enough research—I learned that they measure longevity of a relationship in terms of months instead of years.  What I thought was his cute way of acknowledging our month-iversary by saying, “We’ve been hanging out for three months!” was really his proclamation to the world that perhaps he should be crowned for actually making it with the same woman for so long.

The fact that he’s NEVER been in a long-term relationship before should have been my first red flag.  But, he had his Jerry Seinfieldesque reasons for ending it with all of the others before me, so I let it be funny instead of alarming.

I heard from a friend that he said I was the coolest girl he’d met.  And so maybe I was going to be the girl that doesn’t just care about money?  The girl that doesn’t mention Harvard too much?  The girl that doesn’t eat her peas one at a time?  Or, maybe I was going to be the girl that my serial dater could commit to being with indefinitely?

Sadly, no.  It turns out I am one of those girls.  I’m the one that’s too sensitive.  It only took one conversation where I kind of freaked out a little and it’s “The Scarlet Letter” all over again, except this time with an “S” instead of an “A.” (Note to reader:  If you happen to be friends him and you ask about me, don’t be surprised to hear, “Yeah, Leslie, man.  She was really cool, but she was just way too sensitive.”)

The rub of it all is that it changed on a dime.  A week ago we were sitting in his car after brunch staring into each other’s eyes and giggling for 45 minutes.

Everything was perfect, until it wasn’t.

And serial daters think that relationships should be perfect because they never stick around long enough to see that they’re not.  Their expectations exist somewhere in the exosphere where, ironically, particles are so far apart from one another that they typically don’t collide, a fact that I’m sure pleases a serial dater, who would never want anything of substance (such as their heart) to collide with someone else’s.  In the end, I suppose I could pat myself on the back that he actually stuck around for as long as he did, until I went and fucked it all up by being human.


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