We hear crazy dating stories all the time. So we want YOU to tell us your best…and worst! Send them in to charles@datespaces.com. We promise we’ll hide the names to protect the innocent.

Meanwhile, here’s an installment from Erin Hicks, a dating columnist who will check in with her experiences from time to time. Here’s her first encounter.

The dating wells been a little dry lately, and when you’re a dating columnist this is not only a devastating blow to the ego— its also bad for business. Living in New York City, I exchange eye contact, hellos, and in some cases, fluids, with hundreds of thousands of complete strangers every day—its just a matter of time before one asks me out, right?

This is actually seldom the case. Two months in the city came and went without anything resembling a date, so imagine my surprise when at the restaurant where I serve, I brought this guy out a Volcano roll, and he asked for the check—and my number. Romantic.

And though it’s off to such a promising start, I’m not that hyped about this date because a) he’s too attractive, and b) he doesn’t read (why are these always dependent variables?)

When it comes to attractiveness, my rule is on a scale of one to 10, he has to place somewhere around the four range. Therefore, I’m only interested in short guys who are also kind of fat. If he’s a four (and no more) chances are he’s more down to earth and authentic then, say, an eight. He’s probably funnier (Jack McBrayer), wittier (Drew Carey) and maybe he can also sing (James Blunt). And, $10 says he reads.

Any higher than a four and you’re just asking to have you heart broken and ground into a value menu McDonald’s burger. Even a five is a gamble—due to the inflated male ego, every five secretly fancies himself a seven.

So, OK, this guys way cuter than a four. But I was willing to give him another chance. He called me to set up date logistics, and we chatted a bit for the first time. I threw in a literary reference, and then everything fell to shit.

“So, where are you right now?”

“Near my work. In midtown. I’m an engineer (nervous chuckle).

(Alright, I think. He’s a nerd. We’re going to get along just fine…)

“So, you build buildings? Kind of like an architect?”

“Something like that, I guess.”

“Ah, we’ve got a regular Roark on our hands.”

“A who?”

“You know, Ayn Rand”

“What?”

“Not a Fountainhead fan huh? How ‘bout Atlas Shrugged?”

“I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”

Jesus.

I don’t think this has any room for growth. I should probably just call and cancel dinner before its too late and we’re forced to share a meal of awkward for appetizers, and an entrée of what-the-fuck-do-I-say-now?

Or, maybe I’ll defy my theory and just give him a chance. Besides, what do I know? Even fours can be douche bags.

Erin is a struggling writer, and a struggling single. She is in no position to give dating advice but writes a relationship column, anyway.