Brought to you by Menopause & Malarkey — where the flags are many and the patience is limited.
Ladies… I present to you a man who is:
“Boss at Self-Employed” (Translation: The boss, the employee, the HR department, and also currently on an unpaid lunch break… indefinitely.)
80 miles away but behaving like we’re all just out here ready to road-trip for romance like it’s 1995.
And — be still my heart — his entire music section is Keith Sweat. Not a sprinkle. Not a vibe. Not a nostalgic “one song on a playlist.” No, ma’am. Keith. Sweat. Or. Bust. This man is out here preparing to beg somebody through a cassette deck.
But wait… the photos.
Ohhh, the photos.
We have:
• The Glamour Cowboy: A wide-brimmed hat, aviators, and a shirt so bright it’s gotta wear shades. He’s giving “Line dancing at noon, sermon at three, vibes by Keith Sweat at five.”
• The Close-Up That Didn’t Need to Be a Close-Up: Half a forehead. Part of a visor. A sprinkle of existential dread. Thank you for this offering.
• The Truck Cab Philosophical Hour: “Cool drama free cool as a fan” (Sir… you wrote “cool” twice. And for that reason alone, I have questions.)
And yet — YET — the best part?
He proudly lists Beauty as an interest.
BEAUTY. Dude, you are Keith-Sweat-ing in a Ford F-150 with an Instagram filter from 2013.
—
Verdict:
🚩🚩🚩MULTIPACK RED FLAGS. We’re talking Costco-level quantities.
Would I swipe right? No.
Would I make a meme out of him? Already did.
Some men come with careers, ambition, and financial stability. Others come with Keith Sweat, a cowboy hat, and a mysterious lack of tax documents. Choose wisely. 😔🔥
It began the way all great horror movies begin: in the dark, just before dawn, when the world is quiet, your guard is down, and nothing good ever comes from checking your phone.
4:51 a.m.
My phone glowed on the nightstand — soft, eerie, and absolutely up to no good. You know the scene: the quick cut, the ominous music shift, and the audience whispering,
“Don’t… pick… it… up.”
But I did. Because I am the Surviving Heroine in this psychological thriller, and also because I regularly make bad decisions before caffeine.
I cracked open one eye. Then the other. I reached.
And with the naïve innocence of the victim in the first 10 minutes of a slasher film… I unlocked the screen.
This is why do not disturb was invented.
There he was.
Andre. From Illinois. Awake at 3:51 a.m. HIS time. Which already raises the eyebrow of suspicion.
His opener?
“Good morning 😃 You’re pretty!”
I should’ve closed my eyes and gone back to sleep. I should’ve thrown the whole phone out the window.
But no. Curiosity won — as it always does — and the typing bubbles began.
Fast. Aggressive. Like a chatbot on steroids.
🩰 Scene 1: Ballet, Cheerleading… or Cult Initiation?
The questions came rapid-fire:
“Did I wake you?”
“You work out?”
“What competitive sports were you in?”
“Ever did ballet?”
“Cheerleading?”
Dude. It is before 5 a.m. I haven’t even remembered my own name yet.
This was no small talk. This was an athletic inquisition.
Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer …
This image is EXACTLY how it felt: Andre, hunched over a keyboard in a dim lair, illuminated only by the unholy glow of his laptop and a deep desire to measure my quads.
🍗 Scene 2: “Nice curves!” — and the Descent Into Madness (Muah, ha, ha)
As I scrolled his profile — trying to confirm whether he was:
human,
Martian, or
texting from an abandoned Gold’s Gym
— my phone buzzed again.
“Nice curves!”
In our movie, that was the whisper before the jump scare.
And then came the final blow…
🔥 Scene 3: The Line That Summoned The Cyber Police
Just as my thumb hovered over BLOCK, he fired off the message that cemented his place in Red Flag Friday history:
“Your thighs pretty strong?”
Wait … WHAT.
It’s before sunrise. The house? Dark. The dogs? Asleep. My patience? Gone.
You can’t ask about thighs at this hour. Or any hour. Ever. It violates at least three federal laws and one sacred truth:
✨ No thighs before sunrise. ✨
No. No, no, no.
Period.
Even the ThighMaster — abandoned since 1993 — knows this is a violation.
❌ Scene 4: The Final Girl Moment
It happened in slow motion. The music swelled. I hit BLOCK so hard my phone considered filing a complaint.
Can I block someone more than once???
Andre vanished. Banished. Slithered back to whatever early-morning Thigh Dimension he crawled out of.
🎬 FINAL SCENE — PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
And now, friends, a crucial PSA:
If a man asks about your thighs before sunrise… That is not romance. That is not flirtation. That is not curiosity.
That is:
🚨 A Thigh-Based Emergency 🚨
Report immediately. Block swiftly. And repeat after me:
No thighs before sunrise.
The Bold Before The BLOCK
Tune in next week for another installment of:
Red Flag Friday — where the flags are bright, the men are bold, and the dating apps never disappoint in disappointing me. 🚩🚩🚩
Menopause & Malarkey 