09/20/2013 12:38 EDT | Updated 11/19/2013 05:12 EST

My Tinder Bender: Date #3 -- The Fast Talker

I know I complained that the first date didn't talk enough, but this guy -- this guy is like Six from Blossom. He's really banging out the stories. I know I told him I have to work tonight, but not until 5:00 p.m. It's 2:00 p.m. You can slow down, dude.

It's Monday. I wake just in time to turn on Kathy Lee and Hoda. I'm not hungover, even though I spent all day yesterday drinking with a 27-year-old. (My liver can keep up with all but the Irish and Newfies.) Before I even get out of bed, I open my Tinder app. (Is this called "addiction?") I have to check my Tinder box to see if the 38-year-old I matched with late last night wrote me back. Last night, I wrote him,

Finally a dude over 30! There are soooooo many youngens on here.

There are four message bubbles from him. Don't get excited. None of them are pervy. Just then, another message pops up from another dude.

Hey there! Great smile!

It's kind of a boring icebreaker, but at least it's not, "Hey wanna meet me at the Intercontinental Hotel?"

I just got that one. Creepy. (Plus, there are two Intercontinental Hotels in this city. He should be more specific.) So far my favourite icebreaker was from a dude who wrote, "Hey Christina! You are adorable, but you look absolutely hammered in all of your pictures."

Does this guy know me? I can also tell which guys have fat fingers by how many typos they make. I think men get frustrated typing on iPhones.

I decide to message "great smile" guy back. It's Monday morning. The pickings of dudes online right now are pretty slim. His pics look pretty decent: brown hair, nice smile, and he's 33 so I'm not going to jail or anything. He tells me he's off work for two months. Hmmmm... should I ask this guy out for lunch? Should I go for three dates in a row? Damn. I'm getting good at being single. I ask him. He responds right away.

"I was going to ask YOU for lunch!"

Well, that was easy. These Facebook profile pictures are really paying off. I suggest Hemingways, since it's by my gym, and I REALLY have to go the gym. The elastic of my underwear is practically cutting off the circulation between my thighs and my bing bang. He lives at King and Bathurst, but still agrees to come up here. Sweet. I'll save a TTC token.

I get to Hemingways first. It suddenly occurs to me I was just here two nights ago with another Tinder. Maybe I should lie to the bartender and tell her I'm meeting my brother. What if they start thinking I'm an escort? (A really, really skiddy looking escort.) All of a sudden I get five texts in a row from him, quoting my stand up act. He googled me. Oh for fuck's sake. At least somebody's hearing those jokes for the first time. I'm so sick of my act. I tell him that I don't look TV sheik at the current moment. I also text: "I'm wearing a padded bra, so boobs aren't to scale."

(This is turning into a stock line for me.)

He walks in, wearing a plaid shirt and khaki capris. Thank god men wear capris too. My friend Laura always makes fun of me for wearing them. I guess they are sort of a mom pant. He gives me a hug and sits down. I'm starving since I just worked out. I open the menu. What to order... I see chicken fingers. Who would order chicken fingers on a date? Maybe if you're 14. I decide on the Jerk Chicken Caesar Salad. I know caesar salads give you bad breath, but I'm too hungry to commit to a healthier salad. Then he orders: "I'll have the chicken fingers."

NO WAY! Weird. I guess they are good. I just don't remember the last time I ordered them on a date. I will try not to judge him over this. We can't all be classy with dead fish on a plate. Then he starts talking. He's talking really fast. He's talking a lot.

I know I complained that the first date didn't talk enough, but this guy -- this guy is like Six from Blossom. He's really banging out the stories. I know I told him I have to work tonight, but not until 5:00 p.m. It's 2:00 p.m. You can slow down, dude.

I finally manage to stutter my way into the conversation.

"So, I'm not going to lie. I've been on two Tinder dates. One was pretty shy, one was nice but a little young. Have you been on any dates?"

(Try reading this next part out loud, as fast as you can, so you can feel how speedy my listening skills had to be to take it all in.)

Oh ya. I went out with this one chick. I took her to Williams Landing. Do you know where that is? It's always pretty good there, good service, good food, I can walk home from there....blah blah blah... two bottles of Pinot Grigio...blah blah blah, I pay... blah blah blah... then she wants blow, so I take her to get blow. I DON'T deal blow, but I know a guy, so I take her there. I almost bought it for her, but then I was like NO! SHE SHOULD BUY HER OWN BLOW! So I make her buy her own blow, then we go back to her place, she locks herself in her bedroom, DOES THE BLOW BY HERSELF, DOESN'T EVEN SHARE! I have nothing to do, so I go into her bathroom and look through all the pills in her cupboard. I see she has Adderall in her cupboard, and I totally recognized it right away, because I have to take it for my ADHD, and then I snoop around some more and find paper work from a doctor basically saying she's insane...

At this point, I notice I'm almost done my chicken caesar and he hasn't even touched his chicken fingers. I'm no Sherlock Holmes you guys, but even I know that talking fast and a lack of appetite usually means one thing. Plus, I feel like talking about cocaine is taboo. I'm surprised it's such a hot topic on this Monday afternoon. I don't do cocaine. Okay, I'll be honest.

Sometimes I do it on my birthday. There's no way I can accept all those free birthday drinks and stay conscious. I actually hate the stuff. I get the worst drip. I walk around gagging for the first ten minutes after I do it. It probably looks like I'm miming barfing my brains out. It's a running joke among my friends. We never say, "That guy must be on coke." We say, "Must be that guy's birthday."

It seems like this guy has A LOT of birthdays. And based on all the other places he hangs out at, I can see we are part of two very different scenes in this city. You don't really get a big amphetamine crowd at the wing nights I go to. I know this should be the "ABORT! ABORT!" part of the date, but I'm on the edge of my seat wondering if he's ever going to touch his chicken fingers. (He eventually does.)

He continues to talk. I space out. His arms are pretty nice. I wish I had nice arms. I wonder what all the other guys in my Tinder box are doing right now. I wonder if they've messaged me. He's still talking... have you ever been with a person who talks so much, you literally start to feel drowsy? That's where I'm at. I ask for the bill, which he picks up. Fine. I feel like I earned that one. That was a LOT of listening. The date ends the same way it starts. With a hug.

Still, I'm glad he wore capris.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's date. I meet up with a guy from Liberty Village who has to run some pretty strange midnight errands...

Keep calm, and Tinder on...