Telling me I look like Celine Dion. [Are you trying to say my head looks too big for my body in this dress? A preferable Canadian would be any one of the Kids in the Hall in drag.]

Putting a mozzarella ball wrapped with prosciutto in my glass of wine. [First of all, I’m a vegetarian. So how about peeling off the prosciutto first—enticingly, with your tongue, of course—_then_ dropping it in my wine?]

Asking me to perform fellatio on you, prefaced with “I’m really in love with my girlfriend, but—” [“Fellatio”? Come on, that word just ruined it. A more romantic way of saying this would be “I’m really in love with my girlfriend, but would you care to perform oral sex on me?”]

Sneaking into my bedroom during a house party and writing “I WANT TO LOVE” in the dirt of my window with your fingertips. [This is sweet in a tragic sort of way, but I don’t want people knocking on my door and asking for Morrissey anymore. In lieu of actually cleaning my window, I edited it so that it now reads “I WANT TO LOVE FAJITAS.” Next time, how about writing “Would you care to perform oral sex on me?”]

Asking me to move in with you for two weeks, holed up in your bedroom, where we will throw empty beer cans at people who pass by on the sidewalk below. [This one may have been successful, but I assure you, it will not work again. If you wanted me to take you back sometime in the future, they should have been full beer cans and not just half-full ones with cigarette butts floating in them. I won’t fall for that again. My tastes have matured.]

Telling me you have fantasies about Angelina Jolie and Charlize Theron gettin’ it on. [We all have these fantasies. It’s like telling me you have regular bowel movements. Show me you have some imagination. Tell me the fantasies you have about toothbrushes gettin’ it on with trailer hitches.]

Referring to me as “the Yellow Rose of Texas.” [I am not blond, Texan, or jaundiced, and that coat was not yellow, it was camel. Maybe you could refer to me as “the Deathly White Opium Poppy of Northern California.” That has a nice ring to it.]

Telling me you used to be a roadie for the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies, calling me the hottest girl in town, and then eating my microwave burrito at the bar while I’m playing pool. [Hey, I’m trying to put on some weight after the Celine Dion comparison. Why don’t you just put the burrito in my glass of wine? That’ll get my attention, but I’ll still get to eat the damned thing.]