Red Flags and Dead Ends

You know it’s bad when Halloween feels like a breather. When all the fake blood and plastic skeletons are less terrifying than what’s living rent-free in your memories.

Here’s the thing: nothing’s scarier than your own bad taste. Trust me. I’ve got the evidence in a notebook under my bed. A murder scene of ex-boyfriends, lined up, one by one, like the dead bodies in some true crime documentary.

I call it The Red Flag List. It’s what keeps me sane. I read it sometimes, late at night, with a glass of wine in one hand and regret in the other. Because, yeah, I’ve got skeletons in my closet—except they’re all still alive and walking around with Tinder profiles.

First up, Exhibit A: Scalpel Guy.

Yeah, you read that right. First date, Italian place. I’m thinking spaghetti, maybe some light conversation. What I get is him pulling out a goddamn scalpel from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers like some psycho magician. His opener? “Do you like the taste of blood?”

No. No, I do not.

I remember smiling. That polite smile you give when you’re calculating exit routes. The wine glass in my hand shakes just a little. I ask him what he means, hoping—praying—it’s a metaphor. But no. This guy leans in close, breath reeking of garlic bread, and whispers like it’s a secret, “I’ve always wondered what human blood tastes like. Sweet or salty?”

And the worst part? He looked disappointed when I said I wasn’t into it. Like, how dare you not share my serial killer fantasies, Karen?

Next, Exhibit B: Toilet Paper Guy.

This one. God. I bring him home after a couple drinks. He’s charming enough, a little too into his own reflection, but I figure, hey, maybe this one’s normal. Thirty minutes later, he’s still in the bathroom. I’m starting to wonder if he fell in, or if I’m about to have to call 911 because of some... incident. Finally, he comes out, all sheepish, and says, “You know, uh, you don’t have any toilet paper, right?”

Here’s the kicker: there was toilet paper. A brand new roll, in plain sight. He just didn’t bother to look. Or, I don’t know, check before he committed to spending his entire evening in there.

You know how people say “the devil’s in the details”? Well, the devil was sitting in my bathroom for half an hour, too lazy to wipe his own ass.

Exhibit C, though... this is where things get weird. And by weird, I mean weirder than usual.

Dog Guy. Yeah, you know where this is going.

Third date, things are actually going well. He’s sweet, kind of quiet. We’re at my place, sharing a bottle of wine. The night’s winding down, I’m thinking, okay, maybe this one’s not a future headline.

Then he drops it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I want to be your dog.”

I laugh. I think it’s a joke. He doesn’t. He’s dead serious. He even brought a leash. Yeah. A leash. And some kind of weird, organic dog food, because, apparently, he’s into “clean eating,” even in his dog phase.

I tell him, “I’m not into that,” which is way more polite than I should’ve been. But, no. He insists. He’s crawling on all fours now, barking. Barking, like a goddamn German Shepherd in heat. I don’t know whether to call animal control or just kick him out. But the thing is, I can’t stop laughing.

It’s the kind of laugh that’s more panic than humor, like maybe if you laugh enough, you can turn a nightmare into a comedy. Spoiler alert: you can’t.

He left, eventually. But not before trying to sniff my leg. Twice.

Alright, let’s move on to Exhibit D: Conspiracy Theorist Guy.

I knew he was going to be a problem the moment he asked if I’d been “vaccinated by the Illuminati.” First date, coffee shop. Normal, right? But five minutes in, he’s pulling out this crumpled map from his jacket pocket. It’s stained, looks like it’s been through hell—or a conspiracy Reddit thread.

He spreads it out on the table between us, knocking over my coffee, and starts tracing lines with his finger. “This,” he says, pointing to what looks like a drawing of a rabbit on meth, “is where the aliens landed.”

“The aliens?”

“Yeah, the real ones. Not the ones the government shows you.”

I nod, because what else do you do when someone tells you that NASA is actually a front for an interdimensional cult? I’m sitting there, sipping my latte, while he’s unraveling the universe like it’s a poorly wrapped Christmas gift. Chemtrails. Fluoride in the water. The pyramids are ancient batteries. At some point, he accuses me of being part of a sleeper cell planted by the CIA to monitor his activities.

All I could think was, If I was a CIA plant, do you think I’d be sitting here, wasting my time listening to your alien pyramid theories, Chad?

Next up, Exhibit E: Momma’s Boy.

Now, this one stung. He was gorgeous, the kind of guy who could sell cologne ads and make a fortune doing nothing but standing there, smoldering. First few dates were great. He was charming, thoughtful, brought flowers—actual flowers, not just a cheap grocery store bouquet.

But then, we hit the fourth date. That’s when things took a turn. He invites me to dinner. At his place. Cool, right? Except his place turns out to be his mom’s place. I figure, okay, maybe he’s saving up for something, or he’s going through a rough patch. I give him the benefit of the doubt. Until his mom opens the door and says, “Oh, you’re the new one!”

The new one.

Dinner’s awkward. She keeps staring at me, like I’m being evaluated for a promotion I didn’t know I applied for. He’s chatting away, oblivious, while I’m sitting there wondering if I’ve somehow stumbled into a Norman Bates situation. At one point, she offers to braid my hair. Braid. My. Hair.

He doesn’t see the problem. He’s totally okay with the fact that his mom literally cuts his food for him. He’s twenty-eight years old, but apparently, he can’t handle a steak knife without supervision.

I’m halfway out the door when his mom says, “We’ll make a nice wife out of you yet.”

We?

No. No, thank you.

Exhibit F: Incel Gamer Guy.

This one makes me shudder. He seemed nice at first—quiet, into video games, not a problem. I mean, I like a little Zelda myself, right? But then he starts talking about how women are "naturally inferior" and how Fortnite was a government mind-control experiment. And, you know, the usual red flags. Except he keeps going, like he’s trying to out-crazy himself. How women are ruining society. How dating is rigged and all women only want men with six-packs and Ferraris.

His rant reaches a crescendo when he starts telling me about his master plan to get back at all the women who’ve rejected him. “I’m going to become famous online,” he says, like this is a declaration of war. “That way, they’ll have to want me.”

I smiled, finished my drink, and left without a word. I’m not going to be the headline on some future true crime documentary about a guy who couldn’t handle a little rejection.

And finally, for now, Exhibit G: Tarot Guy.

This one, on paper, should’ve been great. Spiritual. Sensitive. Into self-improvement. But no. He shows up for the first date with his tarot deck in hand, flipping through cards like they’re going to reveal the meaning of life. He reads my cards right there in the middle of the restaurant, while I’m trying to enjoy my Caesar salad.

First card: The Tower. Apparently, this means I’m “about to face a catastrophic life event.” His words, not mine.

Second card: Death. And not in the cool, transformative way. More in the “your aura is dark and you need to cleanse it” way. Which, okay, maybe I’ve had a rough few years, but I don’t need this guy to tell me I’m doomed over appetizers.

By the time we get to the third card, he’s leaning in, whispering about how my chakras are out of balance and how he can “realign my energy” if I just give him a few hours and some essential oils.

Spoiler alert: I did not let him realign my energy.

The list goes on. And on. The Red Flag List is a mile long, a graveyard of bad decisions, and I’m the undertaker, cataloging each one like I’m preparing for some kind of psychological autopsy. There’s the guy who thought romance meant reenacting scenes from Twilight. The one who tried to convince me that ketchup was a legitimate vegetable. And let’s not forget Clown Fetish Guy—but I’ll save him for another time.

So yeah. Halloween’s cool and all. But nothing will ever be scarier than the parade of horrors I’ve dated.