Once, I went on a date with a Hill staffer who spent 45 minutes trying to argue me into being a Democrat. It was a surreal experience: fancy drinks with the stereotypical transient Washington resident who couldn’t name his councilmember, but could repeat—-verbatim—-the latest wisdom from that morning’s Playbook. And maybe I looked like a stereotypical D.C. journalist to him: we both gave “work” as the excuse we couldn’t stay out late.
Obviously that was the last date we had. But I’ve heard lots of amazingly bad stories—-from men and women—-about their attempts to find love, or at least a feasible longterm hook up, in the District.
And here’s your chance to share yours! We’re taking the best worst stories you’ve got:
We’ll print the best (read: worst) stories you send to email@example.com here on the site, no names attached. Feel free to give us stories involving loathsome women of D.C., as well as men, but we suspect we know how the gender split will work on this one.
Illustration by Brooke Hatfield