So, there was this one time I went on an «extreme» date—one I might not have even made it back from alive… It was around 2010, the heyday of facebook. I was messaging back and forth with this gorgeous girl on there when she wrote:

«I’m just so sad at home right now… so lonely...»

Now, being the «knight» that I am—or so I thought—I immediately replied:

«Hey, tell you what: I’ll come over with some cognac; you whip up something to eat, and we’ll have a good time.»

She shot back: «Let's do it!»

I was a starving student at the time, so—anticipating both food and romance, and not wanting to jinx such a stroke of luck—I spruced myself up, put on some cologne, donned a pair of clean underwear, and drove all the way across town to her place...

I arrived. The door opened; a mysterious silhouette slipped into the kitchen, and I heard:

«Go on into the living room, sit down—make yourself at home.»

And there, laid out on the table, was a spread: sausage, cheese, potatoes!

I set down my bottle of cheap, bootleg «Ararat» brandy (the three-star variety) and thought to myself:

«Any minute now, I’ll get to eat… and get to the 'other stuff' with that beauty, too. What a lucky guy I am...»

BUT!

Into the room walked a woman twice my age—with fried-looking dyed-red hair and a stretched-out tank top—looking utterly unkempt.

I just stood there:

«Um… hello? Where’s Sveta?»

(I think that was her name.)

She replied:

«Don't take this the wrong way, but *I’m* Sveta. The photos online aren't actually me—because if I’d used my real ones, you never would have shown up...»

By that point, however, the smell of food had already gone to my head, so I decided:

«Ah, screw it. I’ll stay anyway—at least I’ll get a meal out of it. Then I’ll bail.»

We sat down, had a drink or two, and I started absolutely pigging out on the sausage. Meanwhile, she began telling me the story of her life—and with every passing sentence, her spirits sank lower and lower, until she finally burst into tears. Then she started openly biting her nails, and suddenly she turns to me…

I remember it like it was yesterday: she was tear-stained, a snot bubble was inflating right out of her nose, and she said—in this sultry, languid tone:

«KISS ME.»

Total shock. I started trying to backpedal, mumbling something about how we were just friends...

With every excuse I offered, her eyes seemed to fill with blood.

At one point, she leaped up, grabbed a massive dirk that was hanging next to a portrait of her sailor grandfather, stood right over me, and screamed:

«DO YOU WANT ME TO SHOW YOU—RIGHT NOW—JUST HOW LONELY I AM?!»

And she took a swing!

They say that right before you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes; but for me, only one thought flashed through my mind:

«I’ve really done it this time… Oh God, please don't let me end up on the 'Crime News.' It’s always just drunk stabbings on there—Mom would see it on TV… what a shameful way to go...»

She stood there with the knife—seething, trembling.

I sat in the armchair—terrified, with a mouthful of half-chewed sausage and underwear that was no longer exactly clean—and switched into «therapist mode»:

«Alright… show me. But hey, let's have one more shot first, okay?»

She let out a breath and sat back down—though the knife was still clutched in her hand.

«Will you stay the night?» she asked.

I told her I would; I promised her the moon—all while pouring the drinks.

And the moment she started to take a sip, I seized the opportunity—and couldn't think of anything better to do than simply tip her over, chair and all, onto the floor.

She hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, rolled under the radiator, and let out a hiss:

«PRAY FOR YOUR LIFE, YOU BASTARD!» I grabbed my backpack with my teeth, tucked my brand-new Nikes under my arm, and bolted down the hallway—all while praying to every god imaginable that her door wouldn't have some stupid, finicky lock.

Because if it did, I’d be absolutely screwed—riddled with stab wounds and serving as the dramatic footage for the evening news.

But no—I got lucky.

Having miraculously managed to get the door open, I ran home barefoot and scared shitless.

I didn't make it back until nearly dawn.

My friend was visiting when I got there—the same guy I’d bragged to earlier that night, boasting that I was heading out on a date where I was definitely going to get laid.

And he delivered the final blow with a single question:

«So? How’d it go? Did you get laid?»