05/20/2026
“The Perfect Dinner. At Least in My Head.”
It was our second date.
I wanted everything to be perfect.
So I planned the whole evening like a man who had watched way too many romantic movies:
fresh pasta,
good wine,
and one IKEA candle that promised something like “warm Nordic atmosphere.”
8 PM.
Everything ready.
Soft jazz playing.
Lights low.
Black shirt slightly open because apparently I thought I was the main character.
Doorbell rings.
It’s her.
She walks in, smiles, and says:
“Wow… it smells so good in here.”
And honestly?
At that moment I felt unstoppable.
I smile and say:
“Thanks. I cooked everything myself.”
Then she casually asks:
“Wait… aren’t you lactose intolerant?”
Now.
A smart man would’ve stopped right there.
I am not a smart man.
“Yeah,” I say.
“But today we take risks.”
Big mistake.
I serve the pasta:
cream,
cheese,
more cheese,
basically a dairy su***de mission.
We eat.
She loves it.
I’m smiling, acting confident…
Meanwhile my stomach is slowly preparing a civil war.
10:30 PM.
Movie on.
Lights dim.
We sit closer together.
First kiss.
Perfect timing.
Perfect moment.
And then suddenly…
My intestines declare independence.
You know those moments where your body quietly whispers:
“Brother… we are in danger.”
Yeah.
I freeze.
Then I calmly stand up like a man trying not to panic in public.
“Sorry… bathroom. One minute.”
She smiles sweetly.
She has no idea what’s happening.
I walk into that bathroom knowing my ancestors are disappointed in me.
Twenty minutes.
Two flushes.
One near-death experience.
At some point I was holding onto the sink like a man surviving a natural disaster.
I finally walk back out looking pale, exhausted, spiritually empty.
She looks worried.
“Are you okay?”
And I say:
“Yeah… just needed a minute to meditate.”
We never went out again.
But for weeks afterward, my apartment still smelled like IKEA candles and terrible decisions.
Moral of the story:
Love is unpredictable.
Lactose intolerance is not.
