You know, I was going to write something serious, something pertaining to love or the meaning of life or the trouble with growing up. But I think that the world can be entirely too serious sometimes. So, instead of writing about all those things that are so sobering and mature, I am going to tell you a little story and its accompanying lesson. It is a lesson that I learned the hard way, first hand: you should never eat Chinese food on a first date.

God, of all the articles I've written for "Odyssey," I really hope this isn't the one that attracts the largest audience. Welp, here goes nothing.

Flashback to 2014—for me, a summer of self-discovery and exploration, Hot Topic clothing and oversaturated Instagram photos.

Several months prior, I had gotten out of a relationship. Scratch that. A relationship is too strong a word for that. We'll just call it several weeks of painfully awkward social interaction.

I was about to meet up with an online admirer, a guy I had met through mutual friends on Instagram. We had corresponded via Kik. That should have been the first red flag--this was not going to end well. Rarely do serious romances blossom from the phrase “Got Kik?”

Our first date was to take place at a local mall. Nice and public, just in case the rather cute sixteen-year-old whom I was meeting was, in actuality, a serial killer.

I meandered through the food court, a bit hungry and blissfully unaware of the looming storm that would soon rage inside of me. So, I passed the name-brand eateries: a DQ, a Raising Cane's, a Burger King, a Sbarro and on down to the Chinese restaurant. It was one of those locally-owned places with one too many faded photos of the food on their display board (that actually looks nothing like the food sitting under the heat lamps) that make you question how in the heck they are still in operation. And there I saw it: the sweet & sour chicken. My one weakness. I could not resist.

Several minutes passed while I devoured the sweet and sour chicken and wondered whether or not he would be a good kisser. And then there he was, walking towards me, Auntie Annie’s cinnamon-sugar pretzel in hand. His name has been changed to protect the names of the innocent and fitfully embarrassed; we'll call him Michael. He was taller than me by an inch or two; he was scrawny with a fair complexion. He had shining black hair, swept to the side with gel. He wore a graphic tee with the name of some alternative band, cargo shorts and a worn pair of grey Vans shoes. The light that bathed the room reflected off of his striking, forest-green eyes. Things were looking good.

Within about an hour, we were wandering around the mall. We passed the Teavana and its free samples, went through Hot Topic (of course) and Old Navy and averted our eyer from the temptation of the Dippin’ Dots stand. We found ourselves inside the regal and refined, Von Maur. Greeted by red marble floors, we sat at a mahogany table with a dazzling arrangement of seasonal florals in stark oranges, reds and yellows. Sour, old women judged our adolescence from afar. The air stank of aged perfume. The moment my shoes made contact with that cool, stony floor, all hell began to break loose.

My stomach made a low moaning gurgle. I sounded pained. Michael darted his eyes towards me, like green marbles trying to roll their way towards freedom (if only they had!), and asked if I was alright. I replied with a quick, “Yes, I just think I need to use the restroom,” attempting to cover up the sounds of my stomach imploding. Or maybe exploding. Whichever is worse.

We made our way towards the restroom, walking near the chrome railing, peering down a story towards someone with fair blonde hair in a grey suit, playing the baby grand piano. It was probably some classical piece with a light and delicate melody; but in my mind, the sound of the tinkling ivory crescendoed, each note building in volume, foreshadowing a dark and terrible end. Had I known what was coming, I would've leapt over that golden railing.

The men’s bathroom at Von Maur is nice. Really nice. CEO private bathroom kind of nice. It’s plastered with a green and gold floral wallpaper. Grey marble tiles line the floors and creep halfway up the wall. The fixtures are adorned with glittering, gleaming brass, the kind that easily reflects ashamed gazes. In the corner stood a janitor, mopping the cold, stone floors. Michael went to one of the urinals and I tried to hide my haste as I fast-walked to one of the stalls. The doors stretched from floor to ceiling. I clicked it close, and hellfire began to rain down.

I wondered if one of my ancestors had angered a great Chinese shaman and perhaps this was the curse, at last manifesting itself. Maybe the cook at the Chinese restaurant was a descendent of Genghis Khan and found a new, far-more-mischievous method of waging war (within my colon).

Were you to walk into the bathroom, you would be greeted with the sounds of tinkling (coming from my date) and the ringing out of the mop (from our friend, the janitor). But all of the background noise was drowned out by the sound of the complete and utter destruction of my bowels. I thought that not much more could go wrong at that point. It's funny how, when you think that, things often get far, far worse. My date was standing right outside of the door, so I had no escape route. As if I would have been able to escape at that point anyways.

What else could my extremely uncomfortable, blushing, 15-year-old self do to make things worse and to relieve my stress (as if I needed to relieve myself any more), but laugh. Shit hit the fan. I broke into hysteria, a sad attempt at covering up the stream of rage spewing from my bum. And I couldn’t stop, either. But luckily, the door to the bathroom had opened and closed and I quieted down, more than glad that Michael had left me and my stinking humility in the bathroom to sulk.

I could only imagine what the janitor was thinking as he heard my diarrhea accompanied by an array of giggles.

The hellfire slowly ceased and I finished up what I had gone there to do. I opened the door and, head down in bitter defeat, ran smack into my date. He hadn't left. The janitor had. He had that face people make when they say, "Oh, sweetie"--a mixture of mild amusement and dismay.

I washed up, red-faced and unable to say a single word, and we left the bathroom. On the way out of the store, I spotted the janitor, talking to one of the salesclerks, laughing and pointing in the direction of the men’s bathroom. In that moment, I had effectively redefined the phrase, "for shits and giggles."

That's it. That's my story. I don't believe that I ever spoke to Michael again. In fact, I'm fairly certain that I had scared him off, altogether. At the time, I sure as hell didn't find it amusing, but now I can get some hearty enjoyment out of it and I hope that you do, too. And, whatever you do, please heed this advice: don't eat Chinese food on a first date.