I’m also the author of this story, so let’s just get out of the way that yes, I have a weird dating life.

I meet a guy via a dating website and we get along quite well. We have three dates that all go pretty well, and I start to like him, though I’m cautious about any further advances he makes. (Turns out later that was probably my instincts warning me up front somehow.)

Before long, [Guy] invites me to what he describes as “a metal music festival for furries” at a town just across the German border. I think it’s a fun date idea — we’re both metalheads, for starters, and though I’m not into furry stuff myself, he has a pretty neat tiger fursona and I’m curious to see it — so I agree to go.

We book a hotel on the Dutch side of the border and head there first to drop off our stuff. I find out [Guy] didn’t bring his costume — which is odd since he was talking about showing it to me for days — but I think nothing much of it.

On the way there, [Guy] has a CD playing by a band that I only slightly tolerate, and it repeats about five times during the ride. I’m slightly annoyed, but I’m not going to be the passenger DJ, so I’ll cope.

An hour and a half after we pass the border, we finally arrive at a tiny town, at a party venue that is no more than a converted barn. The “festival” only has one cover band playing and about fifty people in attendance. But sure, the vibes are so far so good.

We enter the venue, [Guy] introduces me to some of his friends… and then, he promptly disappears without a trace for the following hours.

I’m feeling quite lost and awkward as I don’t know anybody. I sulk for a while, but people are inviting me to socialise, and one even buys me a drink. So, I think, “Screw it. Let’s make the best of it while I’m here.” I have a couple of drinks, hang out with some people, admire the furry costumes, and enjoy the band.

People start inquiring who I’m with, and alarms start to go off.

The moment I mention his name and the fact that he disappeared on me, people go, “Oh, no, not him again,” and, “How in the h*** did a sweet thing like you end up with [Guy], of all people?” and, “Poor girl, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” and even, “Honey, don’t go on a date with this guy ever again. He’s trouble. Save yourself.”

I have no clue how to get out. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and as friendly as all the people are, no one is willing to give me a ride somewhere out of here. I enquire further and find out that my date is no real threat, just a notorious d****ebag with a truckload of personal issues.

[Guy] does show his face around midnight for a short time, and he looks tired and moody. I approach him and ask him if he is ready to leave, but he says no and tells me to continue dancing on my own.

Two o’clock in the morning rolls around and I’m dead beat, the high has gone, and I’m more than done with all this. I’m slumped on a sofa somewhere, just waiting for him to make an appearance. Some people are kind enough to keep me company, but most people have gone home by now. Then, [Guy] finally shows.

Guy: *Curtly* “We’re going.”

I follow him to the car. By the time we get to the hotel, that one album plays three more times, and I’m close to punching a wall.

He snores like a pig all night, so I don’t sleep a wink. During breakfast, he continues to be grumpy and doesn’t say a word, so I finally tell him he can drop me off at the nearest train station and I’ll find my way home from there.

He has the nerve to look surprised.

We get to the station, and I swear, I never want to hear this particular album again ever in my life. Before I leave, I turn to him and say:

Me: “You know, I even managed to have a bit of fun last night.”

His face lights up.

Guy: “You did?”

Me: “Yes. But obviously, no thanks to you. Never see you later.”

I slammed the car door in his face and, true to my word, never saw him again. I did meet some more people who seemed to know the guy some months after, and again, I was told I’d dodged a bullet with that one.

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Ain’t Dating Just The Best?

I’m volunteering as security at one of the bigger music festivals in my state. This fair has been happening every year for the last forty-seven years, with the only notable exception being the last two years (2020 and 2021) for obvious reasons. It takes place in a small community that’s about forty miles from the largest city in the state, and over the course of the weekend, thousands of people will come from that city and overwhelm our very limited parking capacity.

We have implemented a LOT of policies to make everything work, one of which is that the parking around the playground in the park where this festival takes place is all reserved and disability-accessible parking. Part of my job is to help enforce that policy.

It is Saturday of the festival weekend. There have been signs and promotional materials all over town for a whole week. The local radio station has been broadcasting our mainstage all day, and the traffic reports are all about how the closest highway is backed up for miles.

It is the middle of the afternoon when a shiny black SUV pulls into the lot and barely stops fast enough to avoid hitting me as I walk up to speak to the driver.

Me: “Hi there! Happy fair! How can I help you today?”

Driver: “What the h*** is going on here? I just wanted to bring my kids down to the playground, and it’s a d*** madhouse!”

Me: “Yeah, it gets like that during the fair. Unfortunately, there’s no parking here by the playground. If you want, you can park up at the day lodge and take the shuttle down.”

The day lodge is about a mile and a quarter up the road, and it’s the only free parking in town except for the accessible parking in my location.

Driver: “Why the f*** would I drive all the way up there? I live just across the bridge. I just want to go to the playground.”

At this point, he starts to roll up his window.

Me: *Speaking quickly* “Sir, you’re not going to be able to park here! This is accessible only during the fair!”

Driver: “What fair?! I’ve been here for years, and this is the first I’m hearing of this! You guys should have asked before throwing your little party in our town!”

Me: “Sir, I know we missed a couple of years, but this fair has been going on for a long time. Now, I need you to turn around and head back up the road.”

Driver: “F*** you! And f*** your [Nearby City] party! This town doesn’t want you here!”

As he speeds off, one of the other security team volunteers, who grew up at the fair and has lived in town his whole life, starts laughing and shaking his head.

Volunteer: “Yeah, he just moved here from California at the end of summer 2019. We tried to make friends, but… he’s just not that pleasant to talk to. So, probably no one warned him what was coming.”

Our town has a street carnival every year. During these days, our family-run butcher (run by my dad) is closed, and we only sell bratwurst and fleischwurst (bologna) out of a small tent, which only holds three to four people and some desks.

A customer comes over to my desk and orders a fleischwurst in a bread roll — nothing special. I just do my job and hand it over to her.

A couple of minutes later, after I have already sold two more bread rolls with bratwurst, the customer comes back and complains:

Customer: “There is meat in my fleischwurst!”

“Fleisch” means “meat” in German.

Customer: “I’m a vegetarian! How could you sell me meat?!”

My dad came over to talk to her and calm her down. She kept on yelling, and my dad offered her a cold Coke as a refund. She accepted it…

Until a minute later when an open bottle of Coke was thrown into our tent. I had had enough.

I stormed out of the tent, saw her running around the next tent, and tracked her down. I grabbed her by her arm and dragged her to an officer. I told him that she had tried to scam us and that she had thrown a bottle of Coke to hurt either us or a customer after her scam didn’t go well.

The officer took her to the police station, and I haven’t seen her since then.

I’ve had thousands of customers in my life, but holy s***, I remember that woman like no other.

Two friends and I (along with several thousand other knitters from all over the world) descend on the ancient and beautiful city of Edinburgh, Scotland for the annual Yarn Festival. I’ve booked rooms in a guesthouse, and at breakfast the first morning, we discover that everyone else at the table is there for the same reason. There’s a total of four Americans and two Austrians. We quickly calculate that it will be slightly cheaper and much faster for us to split a taxi fare six ways than to ride the bus to the venue every day.

Although we have all signed up for classes, the real draw is the stunning variety of beautiful wools offered by two exhibition halls worth of vendors. We hold back the first day, but at sunset on the second day, the six of us stagger out of the venerable Corn Exchange heavily laden with purchases.

Our driver watches as we pack bag after bag after bag into his Tardis-like black taxi.

Finally, he asks slyly:

Driver: “Wouldnae it be cheaper tae just tak’ a sheep home wid ye?”

This story is part of our Halfway-Through-2022 roundup!

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When I was in middle school, my church worship team was invited to perform a set at a downtown music festival. As expected, our leaders had to tell the organizers what instruments and equipment we had so the techs could properly hook us up.

Enter me, the percussionist. We already had a drummer on a kit, but I kept the beat and played whatever other instrument had to be played. Maracas? My job. Bongos? No problem. Slamming chains on an upside-down metal washbin? Loved it.

But my main instrument was the weird hippie stepchild of the percussion family: the cajon. It was basically a drum that you sat on to play. If not for the instrument company logo on the front, you’d think it was some sort of alternative-style chair. To play it, I had to sit with my legs apart, lean forward, and slap the panel for every beat. Weird as it was, it was a necessary component.

When we got to the festival, everyone else was getting hooked up. Absolutely no one was paying a shred of attention to me, but I was used to it and just trying to stay out of the way of everyone who had more finicky instruments and equipment.

While the announcers kept the crowd entertained, radio host style, we started filing out onstage. Everyone else set up, I carried my cajon onstage, put it down, and sat in preparation to play.

Cue an extremely flustered tech running onstage after me. Utterly confused as to why he was heading for me and not one of the guitarists or vocalists, I really didn’t say anything.

Tech: “You have a cajon? Nobody told me we had a cajon!”

He set up a mic where it would best pick up my cajon. That was the fastest I’ve ever seen anyone set up a microphone, even if he was muttering about how “Nobody told me there was a cajon!” the whole time.