Dear Flippy,

It’s me again, Xanthe. We met several weeks ago on a downbeat Wednesday night at the Shallow End Dive Bar, and I just have to say—you cannot read social cues. 

For example, when you were playing football at our table, you knocked over your craft beer into my purse. Incidentally, it spilled onto the wads of cash that I had intended to use to pay for an Uber home after we slept together. Regardless, when I apologized to you for the involuntary Irish pub renovations that you performed at no cost inside of my Kate Spade, you said: “that’s ok.” Incorrect. Incorrect! 

My bag did not sign up to be the next up-and-coming small-scale brewery co-op where 25-year-old hipsters go to meet tattoo artists. And if it had signed up to become a bar, it would have been at my expense and not yours. I apologized to save you some embarrassment, but it became very clear to me that you felt about as much sorrow as a hurried mom hitting a squirrel on her way to carpool.

Anyway, I think I just have to be upfront with you. You should pay for my Uber. I’m writing this in a public newspaper editorial because I don’t really feel comfortable giving you my number. Also, it’s still covered in handcrafted microbrew. 

Thanks.

Xanthe 

Dear Xanthe,

You’re welcome.