My phone is like David At The Dentist. My phone isn’t sure if it exists or if it’s a sketch of what it’s supposed to be. My phone might think it’s a drawing of an Ikea. My phone is going through some things privately right now.

Using the new iPhone software is like watching a commercial of someone else using an iPhone

— mark s. (@mark_s_z) September 19, 2013

by C. D. Hermelin

I moved to New York City, and I needed to make money. I wasn’t having luck getting a job. It’s a common tale.

My solution was to grab my typewriter that I bought at a yard sale for 10 dollars and bring it to a park. I’d write stories for people, on the spot — I wouldn’t set a price. People could pay me whatever they wanted. I knew that I had the gift of writing creatively, very quickly, and my anachronistic typewriter (and explanatory sign) would be enough to catch the eye of passersby. Someone might want something specific; they might just want a story straight from my imagination. I was prepared for either situation.

I started at Washington Square Park. My cousin joined, which was particularly nice, since it started raining and he held an umbrella over my head. Barely anyone stopped, but there was a grand piano player and dancers to contend with. So I tried the 5th and 59th street entrance to Central Park, and was lost among the Statues of Liberty, the bubble guys, the magicians, the stand-up comic, the free hugs guy, the jugglers. At the Hans Christian Andersen memorial statue, I was writing post-card size stories for grade schoolers, mostly in the vein of Pokémon and Disney. I didn’t make a lot of money — only enough money to grab a slice of pizza on the way home.

When I set up at the High Line, I had lines of people asking for stories. At seven to 10 minutes per a story, I had to tell people to leave and come back. It surprised me when they would do just that. I never had writer’s block, although sometimes I would stare off into space for the right word, and people watching would say, “Look! He’s thinking!” Writing is usually a lonely, solitary act. On the High Line with my typewriter, all the joy of creating narrative was infused with a performer’s high — people held their one-page flash fictions and read them and laughed and repeated lines and translated into their own languages, right in front of me. Perhaps other writers would have their nerves wracked by instant feedback on rough drafts, but all I could do was smile.

Each time I went, I’d walk home, my typewriter case full of singles, my fingers ink-stained. Lots of people were worried about copycats — what if I saw someone “stealing” my idea? I tried to soothe them. If every subway guitarist had fights about who came up with the idea to play an acoustic cover of John Lennon’s “Imagine,” the underground would be a violent place. More violent than it already is. Others, perhaps drawn by the sounds of the typewriter, would stop and just talk to me, watch me compose a story for someone else. Then they’d shake their head and tell me that the idea and the execution were “genius.”

Of course, the Internet could be counted on to take me down a peg.

I woke up one day not long after I started “Roving Typist” to a flurry of emails, Facebook posts, text messages and missed calls. A picture of me typewriting had made it to the front page of Reddit. For those who don’t know, being on the front page of Reddit is hallowed ground — the notoriety of being on the front page can launch careers, start dance crazes, inspire Hollywood. In other words, ending up on the front page of Reddit meant a decent chunk of the million-plus people who log on daily saw my picture.

Posted under the headline “Spotted on the Highline” was me.

It’s a pretty good picture, I thought. Although my shoes are beat up and missing their laces, my hands are frozen in a bizarre position, and that day was too hot for clothes that photograph well, I look deep in thought. Unfortunately, the two cute girls I was writing a story for are cropped out.

And so was my sign.

My sign said: “One-of-a-kind, unique Stories While You Wait. Sliding Scale — Donate What You Can!”

Without the sign, without the context, I definitely look like someone who is a bit insane. That’s how I thought of it, before I clicked to look at the hundreds of replies; I figured people were probably wondering why I would bring my typewriter to a park. And when I started reading the comments, I saw most people had already decided that I would bring my typewriter to the park because I’m a “fucking hipster.” Someone with the user handle “S2011” summed up the thoughts of the hive mind in 7 words: “Get the fuck out of my city.”

Illmatic707 chimed in: I have never wanted to fist fight someone so badly in my entire life.

Leoatneca replied: Bet 90% of his high school did to. It’s because of these guys that bullying is so hard to stop.

There were hundreds more. A few people were my staunch defenders, asking the more trenchant commenters why they cared so much. Others started to wax nostalgic about their own typewriters. But the overwhelming negativity towards me, and the “hipster scum” I represented, was enough to make me get up from my computer, my heart racing, my hands shaking with adrenaline.

As a member of the first generation to freely and gladly share my pictures, videos and thoughts online, I’d always — until now, anyway — adopted a “What’s the worst that could happen?” attitude, mixed with an “Everyone else is doing it!” mentality towards my online presence. Many of the best things in my life couldn’t have happened without sharing these pieces of myself online — meeting favorite authors at bars thanks to Twitter, getting another chance at a lost crush thanks to Facebook. And yet, I still felt thrown when I was presented with an image of myself that I couldn’t control. Yes, I know that I am pretty much always being watched (especially at a beautiful tourist attraction in New York City, doing something partly designed to attract attention) but that didn’t prepare for me for the reality of seeing myself taken out of context.

I did worry, when I started typewriting, that my stories would make it online somehow, and they would be ripped to shreds by literary, high-minded commenters. In this unrealistic dream world, I was going to defend their quick composition, their status as literary souvenirs of the city, the difficulty in writing a story while the person who is paying you looks over your shoulder, and another two or three people ask you questions while kids are asking if they can “just press one key.”

Of course I sat back down. Of course I read every single comment. I did not ready myself mentally for a barrage of hipster-hating Internet commenters critiquing me for everything: my pale skin, my outfit, my hair, my typing style, my glasses. An entire sub-thread was devoted to whether or not I had shaved legs. It was not the first time I had been labeled a “hipster.” I often wear tight jeans, big plastic-frame glasses, shirts bought at thrift stores. I listen to Vampire Weekend, understand and laugh at the references in “Portlandia.” I own and listen to vintage vinyl. The label never bothered me on its own. But with each successive violent response to the picture of me, I realized that hipsters weren’t considered a comically benign undercurrent of society. Instead, it seemed like Redditors saw hipsters and their ilk as a disease, and I was up on display as an example of depraved behavior.

The most positive comments were the ones where I was compared to famous people — ”Doctor Who”’s David Tennant was one, the heart-of-gold porn star James Deen was another. I took the bait, eventually, and commented myself. I explained that it was me, that I was not just bringing my typewriter to the High Line for the hell of it — it’s pretty heavy, for one, and for two, I don’t really like writing outside. I explained that I was writing stories for people. In my explanation of my cause, it became just that — a “cause.” I knew, from the smiles on people’s faces when they saw me out typing, that I was out in the world as a positive, day-brightening entity. Bashing me was like hating on an ice cream truck.

Luckily, people agreed with me. After I posted, the message board thread’s climate changed immediately. Not unlike real life, people were complimentary and kind. Many people deleted their mean comments — one person was so embarrassed for threatening to smash my typewriter that he apologized to me, and then went through and started trying to make other haters apologize.

My favorite exchange was between “I_thrive_on_apathy” and “dlins”:

i_thrive_on_apathy: What the fuck is he going to do with that typed page? Scan it?

Dlins: you do realize things have value even if they’re not digitized, right?

i_thrive_on_apathy: Huh?

The reaction, then, had nothing to do with hipsters. It was a hatred of people that need to stand out for standing-out’s sake. That realization was at once positive and negative — people didn’t hate me because I was a hipster, they hated me because I looked like I was nakedly desperate for attention, and had gone about that attention-grabbing by glomming on to marginalized trends.

It only took about 12 hours from when I saw the thread and commented for people to stop commenting almost completely. The post quickly disappeared from the front page. To tell the truth, I was disappointed. I thought something might come of it — a real job, maybe. What better proof is there for me to show that I have that go-getter’s attitude? Instead, my moment of Internet notoriety disappeared.

I thought.

Reddit’s community has never seen an image they couldn’t write all over using white Impact font and re-post, and only a few days afterwards, someone had appropriated the picture of me and wrote, “You’re not a real hipster until you’ve taken a typewriter to the park” in giant white letters in the unused space above and below my body. Another torrent of meanness followed on that thread, although many Redditors with good memories came to my defense.

Now that the meme was created, with content ready-made, it was taken from Reddit and re-posted all over the Internet. It was “pinned” over 30,000 times on Pinterest, the folks at 9gag shared it on their various personal Facebook pages nearly 9,000 times. I was awarded the “Look at Me!” award for October 2012 from “diehipster dot com.” Well-meaning friends took screenshots of Tumblr, Instagram, and Twitter anytime they saw the picture posted or mentioned. I had gone from Reddit curiosity to “Internet meme.” My ex-girlfriend texted to ask if I was okay. My parents finally saw it. My dad didn’t know why I had dressed “funny.” My mom was understandably worried for me, flashing back to the times I was bullied in high school. I knew it made her feel powerless, just like it used to feel when I came home early from school because someone threatened to pull a knife on me. Now, it was dozens of someones — faceless and impossible to control.

At lunch with a friend who was trying to get her web series off the ground, she asked me how I was dealing. “Okay,” I said, “I think it would bother me more if people weren’t so complimentary in real life.” Thinking about her own troubles in creating something viral, she remarked, “It’s too bad you can’t figure out a way to exploit this somehow.” Other than sometimes posting my Twitter handle on pages where I saw the picture, I couldn’t do much. Part of me wanted to ignore it all, dismiss it like a pop-up blocker dismisses fake contest possibilities. Still, for every hateful comment online, there was a real person who picked up a short story and promised to buy a novel, if/when I wrote one.

But the vain part of me wanted to make sure the entire world knew that I wasn’t asking for attention because of some base urge to be noticed and photographed. Instead, I wanted people to know that I was nice, approachable, and able to write pretty good short stories really quickly. And that my wardrobe was more a function of my budget than hipster assimilation.

Even after that deluge, nothing happened — the Internet has both a long memory and the attention of a goldfish. I had been cast aside for a far cuter hipster puppy. I knew that the Internet is also a content recycling machine, but that each time the picture showed up now was more like the last couple kernels of popcorn popping after the microwave is turned off.

I was surprised when my ex-girlfriend called me to talk about the meme. “Would you mind if I wrote an article about this for xoJane?” The website she referred to had a series of essays they dubbed “It Happened To Me” that they sprinkled in amongst feminist-leaning news and features. “I want to talk about how all of this makes me feel. You, all over the Internet, right after you dumped me.”

We had only been broken up for about a month and a half after having been together for two years. I knew that she was still hurting, and I still felt — still feel — guilty for hurting her. I thought that perhaps it was going to be good to excise some demons.

I asked how much they paid (very little) and if she would let me read a draft before she sent it to her editor. She said yes. I was surprised to realize that people in my life were being affected by this negligible level of Internet celebrity. In the meantime, I had started a real person job at a leasing office, and my MFA program in creative writing at the New School. I didn’t have time to go out and type. Some people in the program recognized me from the Internet. Once or twice, someone stopped and asked if I was “that typewriter guy.” I felt secure in the knowledge that whatever my ex wrote, I would be fine.

Even though she didn’t end up showing it to me before it was published, her article — “It Happened to Me: I Got Dumped By A Meme” — wasn’t mean-spirited. In fact, it was sweet — she barely talked about our time together, and when she did, it was fond. The article instead focused on the fact that even though she had unfriended and blocked me on every social media outlet she could find, I was still around, posted to her Facebook page, dragged through the mud on forums. She ended the piece:

“I hope this meme fades as quickly as it appeared. For my sake, and for The Ex, I hope that the Internet’s hive mind soon finds another hipster target to jab. Finally, I hope that my next boyfriend is Amish, because it seems way easier to avoid those guys online.”

Unfortunately, her article ended up casting me in the same light that the picture did — she never explained that I was busking with my typewriter, and the comments section blew up all over again. Because I had broken up with her, the army of xoJane commenters were especially nasty. JaneJaneJane wrote, “He looks like a dong and there are 1,000 more jagbags like him that you’d have to weed through in NYC before you find a cool, real-deal fella. Not to make light of your heartbreak, but consider yourself lucky. Seriously. What an assdweller.”

The top-rated comment, by someone who called themselves “Rutabaga,” went, “Sounds like you dodged a bullet to me. My first thought seeing that picture is that he looks absolutely insufferable.” My ex accidentally posted my personal Twitter, which has links to my website, writing and LinkedIn account. All were fodder for ridicule. She called to apologize, and I ranted back to her, mad that she hadn’t sent me the article so I could have at least been painted in a completely true light. Again, I went down into the comment rabbit hole, but the climate didn’t change like before. My intended typewriter mission didn’t matter to this crew — what mattered was I broke the author’s heart. I wasn’t going to change minds, so I closed the tab, and I tried not to think about it.

The day after the first, un-memeified picture was posted to Reddit, I went out with my typewriter, very nervous. I tweeted on my “@rovingtypist” Twitter account that Redditors should stop by, say hello, talk about the post if they wanted. Someone responded immediately, told me that I should watch out for bullies — the message itself was more creepy than he probably meant it to be. I was nervous for nothing; a few Redditors came out, took pictures with me, grabbed a story. I was mostly finished for the evening when Carla showed up — Carla was the Brazilian tourist who took the picture of me and put it up onto Reddit. She was sweet and apologetic for the outpouring of hate, as bewildered by it as I was. She took a story as well, although I can’t remember what it was about. I messaged her when I first saw the picture posted with the meme text, letting her know that her picture had been appropriated. “I’m not concerned about it,” she said.

Hers was the position to take, and one I should have adopted earlier.

For all the hateful words that were lobbed at me, it barely ever bubbled over from the world of online forums and websites. I received zero angry emails, only a few mean tweets. My Facebook was never broken into and vandalized — my typewriter remains unsmashed, no one has ever threatened violence towards me in real life. Instead, there are these pockets of the web that are small and ignorable, filled with hate for a picture of me, for this idea of a hipster — for the audacity of bringing a typewriter to a park.

A few months later, when Christy Wampole wrote an essay for the New York Times bemoaning hipsters and their devotion to irony, I couldn’t help but feel empathy for all those tossed onto the web as pitiful avatars of hipsterdom. Wampole had inadvertently joined the ranks of Internet commenters who make vast, sweeping judgments based on careless observation. It was a strange experience to watch the Internet’s vitriol encapsulated as a call to action — a call for dismissal, really — from the New York Times. When I hear someone labeled as a “hipster,” I make sure to have the opposite response. I take a second look. What Wampole, and a whirlwind of Internet commenters don’t understand is, usually, the hipster label is a compliment, a devotion to a self-evident truth.

Originally, it felt silly labeling my venture a “cause” while I defended myself to an anonymous horde — but now it feels anything but. The experience of being labeled and then cast aside made me realize that what many people call “hipsterism” or, what they perceive as a slavish devotion to irony, are often in fact just forms of extreme, radical sincerity. I think of Brooklyn-based “hipster” brand Mast Brothers Chocolate, which uses an old-fashioned schooner to retrieve their cacao beans, because the energy is cleaner, because they think that’s how it should be done. I think of the legions of Etsy-type handmade artist shops, of people who couldn’t make money in their profession, so found a way to make money with their art.

While I hung up my typewriter keys and stationery for the winter (typing inside is fairly loud — how did they focus on anything back in the 60s?), this summer I’ve started going back out once a week. People are as complimentary and delighted as ever. No one has mentioned the meme to me yet, although it still lives its own life; BuzzFeed used it a few months ago in a series of pictures that promised to make you “black out with rage.” I try not to click when I see that someone, somewhere, has found it again. I prefer to let these little cesspools of cyberspace fester and then stagnate, forgotten as they should be, secure in the knowledge that I am doing something that matters to me.

C.D. Hermelin is a 26-year-old writer living in Brooklyn. He is on Twitter.

★★★★★ The trees and the bamboo shone white; white flared off the gate arm in the garage driveway and off the tops of the bollards. Warm sun and chilly air poised in balance. The sycamore leaves were beginning to turn brown. Along the edge of the sidewalk were line segments made of the fallen ones, mixed with litter and bright yellow leaves blown in from an unseen linden somewhere nearby. Noises carried piercingly: the grinding of balcony repair, an insistently backing up piece of heavy equipment, the whine of tires on the elevated highway. The lawn by the river, still unceded to the public by the developers, was dense and velvety. Old people in wheelchairs sat on the embankment, gazing west over the river.

“By midnight, Andrew Sullivan, the 50-year-old political reporter and New York night life newbie, had already ripped off his white dress shirt in favor of the black tank top underneath and tugged at Mr. Maisani’s elbow, asking him for some Jägermeister.”

I grew up with a deep resentment of classic rock, mostly on the philosophy that it was a terrible thing that my generation was still being force-fed the music of its parents when we should have been busy celebrating the songs of our own. It is one of the cruel ironies of life that I have finally made peace with the genre now that a generation of kids young enough to be my offspring are totally embracing it for their own ends, but life is full of cruel ironies, and I guess they keep getting crueler until you finally die and it all goes away. Anyway, enjoy. [Via]

Perhaps you remember the very excellent “Weekend At Kermie’s: The Muppets’ Strange Life After Death,” published here back in summer of 2011. That has led to a very exciting new Kindle Serial: Make Art Make Money: Lessons from Jim Henson on Fueling Your Creative Career. And here is a big excerpt over on Longreads today.

“tiresome,” “eye-rollingly awful,” “preening,” “self-absorbed,” “dolorous,” “solipsistic,” “narcissistic,” “ridiculous,” “irritating,” “pretentious,” “cloying,” “baffling,” “portentous,” “insufferable,” “flimsy,” “not remotely funny or compelling,” “claustrophobic,” “totally annoying”
 — I kind of thought Norman Rush’s Subtle Bodies was pretty good, but I guess I was wrong.

Dear Polly,

When is it too soon for an ultimatum? What is a good sign to leave something that’s showing complications?

Although it is early, I have been seeing this guy for around 5 weeks. He lives down the road from me (1 block) but we ironically met online.

He is a 21-year-old bachelor, a major player who has never had a real relationship, not to mention he has been with more girls than my fingers and toes, doubled. He is a guy living with guys who has moved out of home less than 12 months ago. He is extremely passionate about his job, to the point it gives him anxiety. He knows he has to settle his bachelor ways down if he wants to do well and gain a respectful name in the industry he is in. He is Italian and very good looking and by all means has everything going for him.

Myself, 21, I moved away from a small town on the other side of the country to a major city just under 12 months ago. I have travelled to Europe and done countless things on my own. I have grown and my career and life is just beginning to blossom and I am at the point that I am ready to find someone to at least enjoy spending time and being young with. Commitment maybe on the cards but not until I am comfortable and it’s at least reciprocated.

He and I first off exchanged numbers on the online dating website, then began talking — at the time I was seeing other people, nothing serious but I felt the need to meet new guys and explore my surroundings. He stuck around and even if it was a text a week, I would still hear from him. We got to the point where we decided we should meet, I suggested we have a coffee and he admitted he was socially shy and that the thought of having a coffee on a first meeting scared him. I reassured him and said I had done it a million times before. Leading up closer to our meeting, we exchanged photos of us and he called me gorgeous, etc. The D day came and I never heard from him. I mean, not even a blow off text. I didn’t hear from him until Monday the following afternoon when his “phone apparently screwed up.” Although I knew it was a lie, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and asked did he want to meet that night. He accepted and came over.

I reaffirmed to him that if he were to come over, he wouldn’t be “getting lucky.” He said he didn’t have that in mind. He was just happy to get to know someone new. We talked and got to know each other. He was quiet and wouldn’t look at me and I thought he wasn’t interested until he locked eyes with me and we kissed. He told me about him wanting to settle and have a relationship, that he wasn’t one to kiss and tell and he wasn’t the most perfect of guys. None of which bothered me as I know plenty of imperfect men. We hit it off really well. I received a message from him the following day, “I felt I got extremely lucky albeit you saying I wouldn’t get lucky when I came over.”

We met up at my house two days later and the same thing followed. I would say that the sexual tension was building up from there.

The following week we had sex. That became a regular pattern, hanging at my place. I felt like a convenient booty call. He did say he felt lucky because I was like the girl next door. The following week, I house-sat for my friend and we were supposed to see a movie but his work got in the way. Later in the week, his family was another excuse. All apologies were lengthy text messages, but I couldn’t help but feel a little skeptical. Then he came over after dinner with his family the last night I was house-sitting and stayed the night. We slept, talked and cuddled all night and he left midday the next day.

Then he became inconsistent with his texts, saying he has been busy with work etc. We caught up last Wednesday and went for a walk to the park, where we talked and cuddled. Having not been physical for three weeks, there was a lot of sexual tension and with his housemate waiting for him in the car out front, we sneaked into his house for a thrilling quickie (my first time at his house). After that we made plans to see a movie Sunday night.

Sunday comes, and I had not heard from him for almost 3 days. He texts me at 6 p.m., telling me he had been out with his brothers, out of cell reach and that he was with his parents but might be able to come over later. I advised him I wouldn’t be available and maybe another time.

He texts me the following day, asking to catch up, I had a free night after dinner with a friend and he came over. I decided to pop my sexy night wear on and give him a little surprise as I was in high spirits after a bottle of wine at dinner. We have sex, we kiss, talk, spoon. After a couple of hours he leaves. He cuddles me and kisses me saying I’ll text you sometime in the week.

By then, I was fed up…

I messaged him this:

First text:

Hey. How was your day?

Last night was so much fun and I am genuinely enjoying getting to know and spending time with (and being cheeky with) you. I was wondering though if we could possibly try something different outside my four walls next time we hang out? What do you think?
Sent at 4pm

Second text:

I just want to make it clear, I am not asking for a date; it would just be nice to have a drink or a coffee with you because right now I just feel like a booty call for whenever it is convenient for you. I want to make it clear that this is not what I am after and before I begin to really care about you, I think I should save myself the heartache and maybe let you find a girl who is just more suited for what you’re after right now.
Sent at 8:16pm

Third text:

I am sorry. I just wanted to express how I feel as I would much rather not get hurt and I would rather be open and honest with you.
9:50pm

I have heard nothing. Now all the signs are pretty clear he’s playing me big time, but did I do the right thing in giving him an ultimatum?

Sincerely,

Square Pegs, Round Holes

Dear SPRH,

The term “ultimatum” doesn’t really apply here, but you certainly did the right thing in asking “Can we see each other during the day, in public, or are you a vampire?”

Moving forward, though, you have a very specific sort of a problem. Your problem is that you’re a very attractive woman with an easy-going nature and a great phone for tapping out very long texts. This combination of factors is going to bring you a whole hell of a lot of agony if you’re not careful.

Before we delve into how you’re going to avoid said agony, listen to me very closely: We’re going to talk about some of your missteps, but that doesn’t mean you should feel bad about them. Almost every woman alive has made the exact same mistakes fifty million times. You shrugged off his initial blow-off. (Cue giant memory reel.) You encouraged him to meet you at your place instead of out in the world somewhere. (Cue larger, X-rated reel.) You proceeded to meet him in private repeatedly, never insisting that you two hang out in public like someone he actually takes seriously or gives a shit about. (Cue firing of old familiar insecurity synapses.) And then, horror of horrors, you asked for more from him, but via text! And you kept explaining yourself, via text! (Cue sound of nails being hammered into coffin.)

Dudettes of the universe, listen to me. Never ever fucking explain anything, ever. Cue up “Hush Now, Don’t Explain” as sung by Billie Holiday. Make that your goddamn jam for life, people.

But, Round Hole, you’re doing the universe of Dudettes a giant service by submitting to us your actual texts for close critical examination. Right now I want to zoom in on a particularly interesting passage in Ill-fated Text #2:

“I just want to make it clear, I am not asking for a date.”

Q: What is wrong with this statement? A: THIS STATEMENT IS FALSE. Unless by “Let’s try something different outside my four walls” you actually meant wrestle wild boars or make mud pies in your back yard, what you’re asking for is, in fact, a date. You want a date.

So what happens when you ask for a date but then you back up and claim that’s not what you’re asking for? 1. You sound crazy. 2. You sound like a liar. 3. You sound like someone who doesn’t know how to stand up for what she wants. 4. You sound like someone who settles for less than what she really wants, then gets crazy and lies when settling for less starts to fail you. 5. You sound like someone he could very easily take advantage of, in private, indefinitely. Easy in every sense of the word, but not in an exciting sort of a way. (Not that he matters, mind you, because he’s not your guy. He is yesterday’s bad news.)

Now, keep in mind, I’m not saying you did something outrageously fucked that none of the rest of us single women and former single women haven’t done so many times it makes our feet itch just contemplating it. No! You did something very, very normal. Everyone has a stint as little miss “It’s not like I want a boyfriend or anything” and “Dating? What’s that? That sounds silly, tee hee!” When you make the words coming out of your mouth sound cool and casual like a Liz Phair song? OK, fine, a Ke$ha song? You pay.

Instead, tell people exactly what you want. Here’s my revision to text #1: “Last night was fun. Let’s go have dinner on Wednesday. Are you free?” Message received. Outcome in this case? No different. But — bonus! — you don’t have to feel like a sea slug on the bottom of the ocean floor over it, because you didn’t sound needy or liary or crazy, and you didn’t leave the tiniest door open for someone to slide their piece-of-shit Square Peg back into your Round Hole again.

You know what “I’m not asking for a date” does, though? It encourages neighbor guy to PUNISH you for requesting a date by avoiding you for a few days or weeks, but it also guarantees that the next time Dipshit gets horny, he’s back at your door (after he’s done having fun somewhere else with people he doesn’t mind seeing during daylight hours) (like, um, his actual girlfriend?). Don’t think for a second that this thing is over in his mind. Once you make it clear that your Round Hole is open for business 24–7, you’ll never shake off the nervous pussy hounds of the world.

You’re in danger of being used over and over, and feeling like you’re nuts and the problem is you. You, of all people in the world, must pay very close attention to how much a guy actually likes you. Yes, I know you long for sex just as much as any guy. We all do. But do you truly want to be giving it up, then sending needy texts and then claiming you don’t want anything, JUST PLEASE TEXT ME BACK ALREADY? Do you really want to feel like the hot slut down the block who’s never met his friends?

Even if you take the attitude of “I’m in control of this. I don’t care what guys think, I want sex and I’ll get it whenever I want it”? You’ve still got to assume that guys think you’re a piece of ass. Which absolutely wouldn’t matter if their perspective hadn’t been used to make women feel like second-class sub-human half-persons for several centuries running. But these things do not occur in a cultural vacuum. If you’re treating him like a piece, and he’s treating you like a piece, and you tell your friends, “He’s kind of a snore, but great in the sack “ and he tells his friends, “She bores me, but she sucks a mean cock,” well, in theory, that should work just fine. On the planet Earth, in the country United States, though, you’re the one with a problem. He overhears you objectifying him? He feels proud. You overhear him talking about how you polish the family jewels like a pro? You want to kick his teeth out AND you feel like a dirty little Hoover who doesn’t even deserve a real-live boyfriend. Sorry, but you do feel that way and you know it, and if you didn’t you’d be some kind of an alien life form who doesn’t feel real feelings.

OK, fine. If you NEVER EVER feel demeaned by such talk, and you REALLY TRULY DO NOT WANT A BOYFRIEND OR A DATE, then that’s a whole different story. Clearly, I have no personal beef with promiscuous women. The world is packed full of proud current and former sluts. We keep the wheels of modern industry turning, as a matter of fact. (Can we please reclaim just that one word, slut? Please? Don’t make me give it up.) Because sluts’ dreams really do come true. Believe it. To loosely paraphrase a wise man from “Deadwood,” those who seek to denigrate us suck cock by choice.

Nonetheless, if you want a boyfriend, or just a date? Never, ever pretend not to. There’s no shame in asking, flat out, to be treated like a human being and not a secret, hidden stash of late-night ass. (And no shame in BEING a secret, hidden stash of late-night ass, if that’s your dream. Many of us dreamed that dream in time gone by. Hopes weren’t the only thing that were high, either, me mateys!)

So here’s what you have to do, Round Hole:

1. Resolve to never, ever meet someone for the first time at your place, OR to spend time with a guy who asks to meet you at your place instead of out in public. It’s not even SAFE to meet some creep at your place for the first time. Go out on at least three dates in public without sleeping with him. Get to know him. Listen to what he says about himself. Pay attention to how closely he listens to you when you talk. If he’s in the least bit distracted, make it 4 dates. On the fourth date, please ask yourself, “Is this guy even interesting? Is it worth my time to sleep with him and get all attached to him, when I’ll have to listen to him speak like this, on and on and on about shit I actually don’t consider all that interesting?” These are questions that plague his brain within seconds of meeting you. The least you could do is ask yourself the same questions eventually.

Now, I’m not saying that every woman alive should wait for date #3 to sleep with a guy. But those of us who have trouble waiting? And then we wonder why guys treat us with vague indifference, like we’re a half-eaten bag of chips that fell in their lap and they weren’t even sure if they were hungry in the first place? We need to cut the “I’m too awesome not to do whatever the fuck I want!” routine and start protecting ourselves from ourselves a little.

This especially applies to you women who like to drink a lot, play pool, watch random bullshit on TV, shoot the shit, play videogames for hours on end, tease, insult, hit the bong, go with the flow, etc. You’re in as much danger as Round Hole here, because men are going to want to have you around for both the good hang AND the bonus sex. BUT: That doesn’t mean they actually love who you really are deep down inside. Know what I mean? I think you do. Let this be your mantra: THREE DATES. Three really good dates. If you want to fuck around occasionally, fine, but you’ve been warned.

2. Resolve to never send more than two short texts in a row without a response, and never, ever send long Big Important Question texts. (This is to protect your emotional state, not his.)

While we’re at it…

3. Do not seek answers. If you know the guy is super flinchy, why bother? You can simply ask for what you want. Don’t ask how he feels. He’s either going to step up and show you how he feels, or he’s going to skank around looking for round holes elsewhere. You don’t need to add extra-demeaning rejection and IGNORE on top of the ignore you’re already getting. Protect yourself. Don’t hang yourself out to dry. That’s you being mean to you. You’re worth more than that.

4. Don’t explain yourself in elaborate detail. God, if I could take back my long, long emails about everything my heart ever desired! Oof. Half the time, all I needed was to say, “Do you want to get together Friday? Because this is starting to seem half-hearted, and I’m not all that interested in half-hearted, half-assed dalliances at the moment. I have other candidates waiting for your spot.” Ok, that last part could, in some cases, be a lie, but it’s a lie that says, “Of course I’m in demand, dummy.” So it’s worth it.

And you know what? Other candidates ARE waiting for his spot. Maybe those other candidates don’t know it yet, but they will, once you reinstate your online profile and you start to make it crystal clear that you are not interested in any screwing around, half-assed, round hole routine. Instead, stick with having coffee.

But put on your skeptic’s cap. It’s not just about “Is this guy a player?” It’s about “Does this guy actually like to listen to ME when my mouth is moving? Does he want to know all about ME? Is he anxious to know if I’m dating anyone else? Does he want to do things together during the day? Does he find me singularly interesting and special?”

And even if he does like you, don’t dive right in immediately. Spend time together. See how you feel. Maybe you want to jump his bones, but does he really seem like a good guy? Does he have any friends? Does he like to talk about emotions at all? Is he someone your friends would like?

Enough with the vampires. You don’t need ultimatums, you need hard and fast rules for yourself, to keep from getting entangled with bullshitters. The world is filled with them. You should hold out for better. And when you don’t, you should at least know better. Because once you walk down the path to Booty Call, you can’t just text your way into a different category.

So that happened. It sometimes does. But now let’s try this a different way.

Polly

Are you in a relationship that grew out of a booty call and you wonder if he or she was ever really in love to begin with? Then write to Polly already.

Heather Havrilesky (aka Polly Esther) is The Awl’s existential advice columnist. She’s also a regular contributor to The New York Times Magazine, and is the author of the memoir Disaster Preparedness (Riverhead 2011). She blogs here about scratchy pants, personality disorders, and aged cheeses.

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