On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page.

The worst part about dating, for me anyway, is the emotional baggage from past relationships that comes with it. Even if the new person is nothing like the old person, I always find ways to make the two overlap somehow, which ultimately leads to sabotaging the new situation.

Despite my extraordinary efforts to “nip it in the bud,” as they say, Tattoo Guy is still in the picture. Tattoo Guy is pretty much the opposite of the majority of guys I’ve ever dated. For starters, he’s older than me by two years — this is a first for me, as all the other fellas have been younger by at least a few years or more. He’s sweet, yet not so much when I need him to be otherwise (i.e., in the bedroom.), and he says really charming things to me. Granted, he could be lying, but let’s take it at face value and assume he really does think I’m pretty and witty and fun and whatever other malarkey came out of his mouth this morning. I also love the way he looks at me.

While these are indeed contrasts to previous fellas, he also, like every one before him, likes to cook. The guy is always cooking; it’s exhausting to watch these elaborate meals he makes at three o’clock in the morning. Where he gets the energy to whip up these masterpieces after inflicting pain on others all day long is a mystery to me, so I just disregard it, have a few bites of whatever he’s concocted, then wander into my bedroom.

However, last week Tattoo Guy fucked up a wee bit. What did he do? He made me an omelet. Sure, it may seem insignificant, but for me it is not. The last person to make me an omelet, the person who was always making us omelets at all hours of the day and night was Swede. One wouldn’t think that such a kind and thoughtful gesture on the part of Tattoo Guy would result in an emotional breakdown, but it did. Like any irrational person, I refused to eat it and locked myself in the bathroom. OK, I didn’t lock it, because Swede had kicked it in not once but twice so it no longer locks, but I did shut the door, turned on the shower and proceeded to cry. Some people cry over spilled milk, while I apparently cry over a few broken eggs.

When I finally pulled my shit together, I came out of the bathroom and explained that I just wasn’t feeling well. I also, a day later, explained the truth (I really need to nip this maturity thing in the bud as well.) Since then Tattoo Guy has made a few more omelets which he has all but tried to shove down my throat so as to help me get over my irrational behavior, but I’ve yet to give in to his omelet demands. However, I’ve stopped crying over his omelet making, and that alone shows I’m progressing. I think. Although if he really wants to see me eat for a change, he should bake me a few dozen cupcakes. Swede never liked cupcakes.