Stranger in a Strange Dating Scene

“I’d thought you’d be taller.”

“I’m not really looking for a floogian right now.”

“Do I look like I date Terrans?”

“YOU DARE PROPOSITION ME, EARTHLING!?”

“✡︎□︎◆︎🕯︎❒︎♏︎ ◻︎♋︎⍓︎♓︎■︎♑︎ ♐︎□︎❒︎ ⧫︎♒︎♓︎⬧︎ ⬧︎♏︎⬧︎⬧︎♓︎□︎■︎📪︎ ❒︎♓︎♑︎♒︎⧫︎✍︎”

“Sorry, but…you’re just not my type.”

Well, what can I say? To be honest, I’m not even mad. I mean, yeah, I’m a bit irked, but anyone would be to find you’re the most undesirable mate in the known universe. The worst part is that I was hopeful, dare I say, excited even to embark on a cosmic journey of intergalactic love. When the government approved interspecies relationships, I was all for it; I think I even cried. Yep, it was supposed to be, “So long earthly wenches! I’m gonna find my very own Stargirl!”, a real, “Take that Brittany!” moment. But alas, it would appear that I didn’t leave much behind at all. Brittany is still here; all that’s changed is now she’s green, has four eyes, and eats twice as much food (my poor wallet).

Y’know what else I can’t stand? It’s these stupid mixers and socials. I was never one for them, but these alien ones are even worse. They’re either way too rowdy or completely dead, with no in-between, and don’t even get me started on the prices! I can’t even beg–

“More coffee, sir?”

“No thanks, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay, but I’m here if you need anything, handsome!”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks.”

Where was I…? Oh yeah! I can’t even begin to tell you about the whole “speed dating” thing. At least on Earth, it was like, y’know, you were both kinda desperate. After all, who would ever voluntarily do speed dating? Well, apparently, it’s common for other races, on account of its “efficiency” and whatnot. All that means is the chicks you meet act all high and mighty like they’re better than you, y’know. I swear alien girls got their noses turned up so high that if it rained, they’d drown!

“Hi! Just checking up on ya.”

“Huh, oh yeah–I’m good.”

“Sure? A big, strong guy like you should eat more.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“What about dessert, hm? On the house!”

“No–actually, can I get the check?”

“Oh…Okay, I’ll um–I’ll get that for you.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Uuggh. To be honest, I blame my mom. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good mom, but sometimes I wish she were harder on me, y’know? I mean, even now she goes on, and on, and ON about how her son’s so great, her son’s so smart, her son’s oh SO HaNDsoMe! Yeah, gag me with a spoon, am I right? Sure, Mom, if I’m such a dreamboat, then why ain’t no one buying tickets hmm? Ever since I was a kid, she’d throw the whole “Oh, you’re perfect just the way you are!” spiel in my face. Not gonna lie, even to a kid, that’s pretty patronizing.

It’s honestly no wonder the girls don’t give me the time of day. I don’t have a single piece of manliness to my name, and yeah, I KINDA blame my mom. Again, I love the lady, but if there were an Olympics for setting your kid up for failure, they’d test her for doping before every race!

First off, who names a kid “Kieth”? I can tell you even Culvarians squinch their noses at “Kieth”. Secondly, I’m a firm believer that, especially if there’s no man in the house, you shouldn’t baby a kid, especially a son, y’know? Lastly, for all the moms out there, don’t stop your kid from growing up. Like, I swear, you wanna talk about overprotective!? I mean, you should’ve seen how she cried when I moved off-planet, she was inconsolable! I swear, and she wonders why I don’t call! Especially not every second of every day, like she wants–

“Here ya go!”

“Jeez, what now!”

“Oh,...sorry um–the…check”

“Oh yeah, thanks.”

“Rough go of it, huh?”

“Ha! You don’t know the half of it.”

“Haha! Chin up, okay? The right one will come along, someday.”

“Story of my life.”

“ Oh! Almost forgot, BRB!”

Yep, there it is, the dreaded sympathy. Y’know, I think that’s the absolute worst part. Worse than the loneliness. Worse than the rejection. Worse than the anxiety. I tell ya’ if I had a credit for every time I heard the whole, “Oh, don’t worry, she’ll come along!” routine, I could buy my own starship! Besides, People only say that to make themselves feel better anyway.

Honestly, I wonder what I’m even doing sometimes, like, what’s the point, y’know? It seems like just yesterday I was all bright-eyed and star shine. Moving all the way out to Phobos, getting into college, snagging a pretty sweet internship, etc, etc. All that was left was a girl on my arm, but Of CoURse! I once again dropped the ball.

OH, WOE IS ME! Maybe I should call it quits; throw in the towel. I could grow a beard, move out to Io, be some reclusive moon farmer, eat canned beans for every meal, and reminisce on what might’ve been…

“Still here! Hope I didn’t keep ya waitin’ too long!”

“Yep, still here.”

“SURPRISE! Martian Marzipan! On the house, as promised!

“LuCkY mE!”

“Well, have a good one! Come back anytime!”

“Will do.”

Anyway, I guess I’m just not meant for love. No happy endings riding off into the sunset. I’m not the hero of this story; hell, I’m not even the villain. I’m just another background character.

I don’t save the day. I don’t get the girl. I’m not special. Even my land cruiser, supposedly a marvel of human engineering, is just an old Corolla hatchback with a Maglev© anti-gravity kit slapped on by some backwater Calroosian mechanic. Well, such is the life of th–huh? What’s this?

“Call me! – xxx-xxxx ”

W-wow. That’s…that’s. THAT’S JUST GREAT! Some sleazy loan shark must’ve cut a deal with the restaurant to hand out his stupid business cards! UUGGH! WHY ME! At least let me mope in PEACE!...

…I’m gonna die alone.

…Yep, all alone.

…The loneliest man in the universe.

Lucky me.