Super Stalkers: A Lesson in Red Flags and Escape Routes

I don’t recall ever being stalked so relentlessly—but here we are.

A few weeks ago, I went to my friend’s house for her husband’s birthday party. He’s a DJ for a local Latino promotions company, so as expected, the music was blasting, the backyard was full, and the energy was wild.

I brought along a coworker I adore—we’ll call her Dory. She’s much younger than me, and although she’s strong and confident, I tend to be a bit protective. Still, I let her do her thing.

We were just standing by the wall when two guys approached and asked us to dance. I love to dance, so of course, I said yes. What we didn’t expect was for these guys to instantly latch on to us. They bought drinks, asked questions, blocked other guys from approaching, and even started taking pictures with us like we were a couple.

One of them asked Dory if we were going to the club after the party. She looked to me for backup, and since I was already dressed for the night, I said I’d go to keep an eye out.

The Plot Twist

We went to Dory’s place so she could change, then met the guys at the club. Once we were inside, things unraveled. We found out Dory’s guy had a girlfriend. We confronted him, and of course, he denied it over and over.

Why do guys think we won’t find out? If you're part of the local club scene, word travels fast.

Meanwhile, my guy was doing the most—pushing drinks on me all night. I could tell exactly what he was hoping for, but thankfully, I have a sixth sense for ulterior motives. Let’s just say he wasn’t going to get what he came for.

By the end of the night, I was exhausted. I asked Dory if we could leave, and she was ready to go too. We didn't tell them we were leaving—petty? Maybe. But necessary. If you’re going to lie and flirt with other women, don’t expect me to play nice.

The Stalker Moment

Dory dropped me off at my car. I started heading home, and just as I was relaxing… I looked to my left at a red light.
It was them. In their car. Right next to me.

I froze but kept driving—and thank God, I found a turnoff and escaped.

It Didn’t End There…

On Monday, Dory told me her guy had been texting her all weekend. One message stood out:

“Can you give your friend my number?”

Absolutely not. No way was I inviting that kind of crazy into my life.

Weeks later, I ended up at the same club again, and guess who showed up? Yup, them. Fortunately, I was with someone else, so I ignored them completely.

Even funnier? My friend who works the door told me they’d been asking her for my number too.

All I can say is…
Wow.
And every time I go out now, I make sure I have a solid escape route.

Finding Myself: Learning to Reclaim My Path

The last few weeks, I’ve been doing a kind of soul search—trying to find emotional balance and reconnect with who I am.

I haven’t figured it all out yet.
But there’s been a little clarity.

Back in high school, I remember being so sure of myself. I had dreams, goals, direction. I knew who I was and where I was going.

But life happened.

Some big, unexpected things threw me off course—and since then, I’ve kind of just been coasting. Not falling apart… just floating.

Realizations in Singleness

Now that I’ve been single for over a year and a half, it’s becoming clearer:

I allowed people and situations to cloud my purpose.

I used to have so much drive. So many ideas.
Now, I find myself wondering where all that energy went.

Still—somehow—I know I’m working toward something.
And even though I’m not fully there yet, I’m halfway to the goal.

Where I Go From Here

What I need now is to find the balance between:

• Who I used to be

• Who I am now

• And who I’m meant to become

Most importantly, I need to figure out what it means to be truly happy.
That’s the goal. Not just accomplishments, not just checkboxes.

Genuine joy.

I know what I want.
I just have to pull myself out of this rut—and keep moving toward it.

This One Time at Band Camp…

Yes, I went to band camp.
And no—nothing perverted happened there.
I was actually very innocent in high school.

But I’ve noticed something funny. Some stories from that time still make people laugh—even if I’ve told them a dozen times. And since writing my Bad Date series, I’ve gone on a few more dates.

What I didn’t expect?

Guys being scared I’d write about them.

Seriously. A few of them actually said:

“Please don’t blog about this.”

Let me clarify:

I would never write about someone unless there’s comedic relief involved.
If a date was sweet, sincere, and genuinely great? There’s no joke there—just sappy love content (which I enjoy on my own time, thank you very much).

One of my friends even told me:

“It’s not fair to the dating population—you basically wrote a ‘how-not-to-date-you’ guide.”

And they’re not wrong.

My blog is a bit of a blueprint.
It gives readers a glimpse into my personality, preferences, and the very real things that turn me off. But honestly? I don’t mind.

I consider myself an open book. If you want to know something—ask.
I’ve grown comfortable enough in my own skin that I’m no longer afraid of what someone might think about me.

So Here’s Your Friendly Disclaimer:

If you don’t want to end up as a headline in my blog:

• Don’t tip your server 5% after a $100 meal.

• Don’t pick Chick-fil-A for a first date when there are plenty of decent sit-down restaurants.

• Don’t show up at my place on a bicycle.

• And please, for the love of dating dignity—don’t be creepy. 😊

Simple, right?

I'm officially published

I know I'm a little late but I am published officially for the first time. Check out my article. RYSE_FEB-MARCH_FindingMrRight_ValerieFigueroa

Bad Date #5 - Really?? Another bad tipper

I know I’ve told this story to a few people already, but it deserves a place in the Bad Dates Hall of Fame.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought I had finally made a genuine connection with someone. We’d been talking regularly, building up comfort and chemistry over the phone. I was cautiously optimistic.

So for our first date, I made an effort—hair, outfit, energy all on point.

He showed up... in military green cargo pants and a plaid shirt. Not terrible, but let’s just say, not exactly first-date energy. Still, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, we clicked on the phone. Maybe this could work.

And Then Came the Check...

Dinner went smoothly. Good conversation. I was trying to stay open. But when the bill arrived, something shifted.

Let me pause to say:

I’m a little old-fashioned. If a man invites me on a date, chooses the place, and sets the plans—he should cover the bill. Especially on a first date.

The check sat there for 30 minutes.
I could feel him waiting for me to offer to split it.

Then he conveniently excused himself to the bathroom. While he was gone, I peeked at the check. 👀

When he returned, he finally put down his card. Relief, right?

Until I saw him sign—and leave a $5 tip on a bill well over $100. That’s barely 5%.

And let me be clear:

Our waiter was amazing.
He knew the menu, gave great wine recommendations, and was genuinely charming.

I felt so bad that I later sent the restaurant a compliment card—and included a generous tip.

Trying to Talk Myself Into It...

After dinner, we went for a walk. I was trying to convince myself it wasn’t that bad. Maybe he was nervous? Maybe he forgot cash?

But I just couldn’t get past it.
That feeling stuck.

When we wrapped up the walk, I told him I was tired and needed to go home. (A white lie—but one that saved me.)

The Aftermath

The next day, he sent a routine “good morning” text. I decided to be honest—well, partially.

I replied:

“Listen, I think it’s best we stay friends.”

He called immediately.
“What happened?”

I didn’t want to be harsh, so I said I just didn’t feel the chemistry. Not a total lie—but not the full truth.

He got defensive.
“You’re not who I thought you were. You lied to me.”

Then the texts started—accusing me of being influenced by my friends, questioning my character, spiraling into full-on emotional chaos.

Finally, I told him the truth.

I said the tip thing turned me off. That it felt inconsiderate and reflected poorly—especially for a first date. That the expectation for me to split the bill wasn’t communicated and felt unfair, given he invited me and chose the restaurant.

He admitted he got caught—but then tried to justify it.

“You can’t judge me off that one action. I’m not cheap.”
“I’m on a budget.”
“I didn’t expect the bill to be that high.”

Seriously?

This man was from New York and didn’t know what a decent restaurant would cost?
Do your research. Don’t guilt me for expecting basic courtesy.

Final Thoughts

Needless to say,

That was the first and last date.

Another one for the archives.
Another reminder that if someone shows you who they are at the tip line—believe them.

Closing the Ex Files: Choosing Digital Distance for My Sanity

I genuinely love being happy for people.
But when it comes to an ex or someone I once dated?

I’d rather not see their happiness—unless I’m blissfully in love, living in my own little bubble.

I know that sounds selfish. But honestly? It’s not about them.

It’s about my sanity.

I’ve never been great at dealing with emotions, so I tend to do the next best thing:

Pretend they don’t exist.

It’s not that I don’t wish them well. I do—from afar.
But watching someone I once cared about take their new girlfriend on a magical vacation or post an engagement photo...

That stings.
And it often comes with a little whisper in my head:
“That could’ve been me.”

Of course, that’s if I had actually wanted that person at the time—or managed to get past my own superficiality (especially in my younger days). I’ve always believed I have the right to be a little picky.
But sometimes I wonder…

What if I wasn’t?

Thank God for Technology

Luckily, the internet gets it now.

I can hide someone’s posts on Facebook and still technically remain “friends,” so I don’t look like the crazy one. (We’ve all done it.)
Even better? I recently found browser extensions for Chrome and Firefox that let you hide an ex’s name altogether.

That’s right—the ex filter.

The internet is out here doing more emotional damage control than some therapists.

My Breakup Rule

After a big breakup, I have a personal rule:

I fall off the face of the earth.

No texts. No social media. No curiosity-fueled profile visits.
I block the temptation before it blocks my peace.

Facebook? Hidden.
Instagram? Muted.
Search engine results? Erased like we never met.

I’ve often wondered—if technology keeps improving, will it lower the demand for therapy?
Because honestly, clicking “mute” has done more for me than some long, drawn-out breakup convos.

Bad Date #4: The Really Blind Date

Here’s a lesson I learned a long time ago:

Never meet someone from the internet without seeing a picture first.

I was about 20 or 21, maybe in my second or third year of college at UF in Gainesville, when I started talking to a guy from Orlando. We hit it off over the phone—hours of conversation, easy banter, real connection.

He told me I’d seen his picture before (spoiler: I hadn’t), and he spoke so highly of his appearance that I... just went with it. Young, naïve, and curious, I agreed to meet him.

We planned a date for one of the weekends I was visiting home in Orlando. He chose a popular restaurant near International Drive.

I pulled into the parking lot, and as I stepped out of my car, he greeted me with a rose. Sweet, right?

Except...

I had never seen this man in my life.

He was not what I expected physically—and definitely not my type. But I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt because our phone connection had been so strong.

I kissed him on the cheek, placed the rose in the backseat, and tried to keep an open mind.

When Words Disappear

We sat down at the restaurant.
And then... crickets.

He had nothing to say.
This man who had once talked to me for hours was suddenly shy and stiff. To pass the time, I started listening to two Italian men at a nearby table and translated their conversation (I was taking Italian at the time).

He asked, “Is something wrong?”
I said, “No... I’m just surprised you’re not talking much.”

His reply?

“I’m nervous.”

I gently reminded him that we’d been talking nonstop for two weeks—there was no reason to be nervous now. But the vibe was gone, and so was the conversation.

The Turning Point

After dinner, he suggested we head downtown. I thought, Why not? At least we won’t have to talk much.

On the way, he stopped at a gas station. That’s when he looked at me and asked:

“You’re not attracted to me, are you?”

I was stunned. Cornered in his car, caught off guard, and way too young to have a polished answer. I tried to deflect and told him we should just enjoy the night.

But he pressed me to answer.

So I did—honestly but gently. I told him I wasn’t physically attracted to him, but I had come on the date because of our amazing phone conversations. I hoped we could still have a good time.

Unfortunately, there was no conversation, no chemistry—just awkward energy and silence.

And Then It Got Worse

We ended up at a rooftop club downtown. On the way up, I dropped my license, and he offered to hold it for me. I let him.

I was determined to make the most of this disaster.

Then we started dancing.
And I could feel... things.

His manhood was aggressively pressed into my back.

Nope.

I turned to him and said I needed to use the restroom. He walked me to the door. I splashed cold water on my face and spent ten minutes breathing.

When I came out, I asked him to take me back to my car.

The Meltdown

As we walked to the garage, he turned to me and said:

“You are the most selfish, self-centered b**ch I’ve ever met in my life. I can’t believe I let myself care about you.”

I was speechless.

I responded:

“Are you joking? I tried to talk to you all night—and you couldn’t hold a conversation with someone you’ve been talking to for two weeks?”

He just kept going.
Insults. Name-calling. Anger.
I stayed silent the rest of the ride.

When we finally reached my car, I slammed his door.

Never looked back.
Never got my driver’s license back either. 🙃

Bad Date #3: The Bad Tipper

This one wasn’t a bad date... until the very end.

Back in college, I had a crush on this guy—I still don’t know why. He was a Mexican Texan who kind of looked like Fred Flintstone, and maybe it was some weird nostalgic tie to my childhood. Who knows. But for whatever reason, I was into it.

So I asked him if he’d take me to this popular sushi spot in Gainesville. (If you went to UF, you already know which one I mean.) I ordered sushi, he didn’t, which I didn’t judge. Not everyone has the taste for it.

The date itself? Pretty chill. We ate, chatted, laughed a little. He picked up the bill at the end, then said he had to run to the bathroom.

I headed toward the front of the restaurant to wait for him.
Then the waitress approached me.

She looked uncomfortable.
I asked, “Is something wrong?”

She replied,

“Did I do something bad?”

I said, “No, why?”

She said:

“Because I only got a $1 tip from you guys.”

My jaw didn’t drop physically, but inside?

🚨 EMERGENCY. SHUT DOWN. REBOOT.

I was mortified.

I didn’t have cash on me, but I offered to tip her using my debit card—even suggested she charge me for something random just so I could make it right. She kindly declined.

My date came strolling out of the bathroom, totally unaware, and we left.
I didn’t say a word.
But inside?
I was done.

No matter how much you look like Fred Flintstone, if you leave a $1 tip and embarrass me in front of a hardworking waitress...
You’re getting ghosted.

And just like that, it was the last date with Fred.

Bad Date #2: The Bicycle Incident—Why Club Chemistry Doesn't Always Translate

There’s a reason people say:

“Don’t expect a relationship from someone you meet at a club.”

A few years ago, I went out to a popular Latin club with my roommate. That’s where I met him. We were dancing, vibing, and after a few drinks and forgotten conversations, we exchanged numbers. The attraction was definitely there—physically, at least.

A few days later, I invited him over to hang out with me and my roommate. He said he lived about 20 minutes away. I figured it wouldn’t take long.

An hour passed.
Still no sign of him.

Then finally—a knock at the door.

He had arrived.
I asked, “How did you get here?”
He said, “I rode my bike.”

I laughed and said, “Where’d you park your motorcycle?”

He answered:

“No… like, my bicycle. It’s locked to the stairwell.”

I opened the door.
Sure enough—there it was, in all its two-wheeled glory.

Turns out, he had taken the bus most of the way, then used his bicycle for the last stretch. To be fair, he explained that he was recently divorced and his ex got the car in the settlement. I tried to brush it off and give him the benefit of the doubt.

But then we started talking. And by “we,” I mean he started talking.
Nonstop.
And every word came with a side of flying spit.

Gross.

Being the nice person I am, I endured the verbal sprinkler system and let him talk. Then he offered to take me out to eat. I hesitated—I really didn’t want him thinking this would turn into anything.

He suggested I put his bike in my trunk so we could drive to a nearby ale house.

In that moment, I made a calculated decision:

If I don’t do this now, I’ll probably have to see him again.

So, off we went.

The Icing on the Cringe Cake:

On the drive back, a car pulled up beside us at a red light. The people inside signaled for us to roll the window down. When I did, they started laughing. Coincidentally enough, the song No Scrubs by TLC came on the radio. I found it uncanny considering the situation I was in.

They were making fun of me.

“You’re really driving a grown man and his bicycle?”

Bless my roommate—she called with a perfectly timed fake emergency. I told him I had to rush home because my “sister” had shown up unexpectedly.

As I dropped him off, he looked at me and asked:

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

I smiled. Lied.

“I’ll give you a call.”

Spoiler alert:
He did not get a goodnight kiss.
He did not get a second date.
And that was the end of Bicycle Guy.

Bad Date #1: Chick-fil-A at the Mall—You Can’t Make This Up

Welcome to the world of bad dates—a series where I let you in on some of my personal favorites. Luckily, I’m pretty laid-back, so I survived these with minimal emotional damage. But each one taught me a little something.

Let’s start with this gem from a few years ago...

I had just ended things with my ex-fiancé about a month and a half earlier. I was still navigating the weird emotional space between heartbreak and hopeful new beginnings. Then I went to a friend’s Super Bowl party. She was hyping up her husband’s best friend like he was the ideal man—great job, great personality, great on paper. She even said, “He’s someone I’d actually approve of.”

A week later, he and I were texting and made plans to go out.

He suggested we meet at the upscale mall nearby—the one with all the good dining options. We met up and he asked the classic question:

“Where do you want to eat?”

Now, I’m a little old-school. I like when the guy takes the lead, especially on a first date. Plus, I’m mindful of price ranges and don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.

So I smiled and said, “Wherever you’d like.”

He looked around thoughtfully and said:

“Let’s do Chick-fil-A.”

I froze. Internally.

Chick-fil-A? On a first date? In a mall with places like Cheesecake Factory, PF Chang’s, Brio, and California Pizza Kitchen?

Don’t get me wrong—I love a spicy deluxe sandwich as much as the next girl. But this was giving food court energy, not date night energy.

I didn’t say anything. I’m not cruel, and I wasn’t going to make a scene. I ordered whatever I wanted off the menu. But mentally, I made a note:

“This is our first—and last—date.”

Thank God there wasn’t a dollar menu. I have a feeling he would've pointed to it and said, “Order from this side.”