Dredging the Lake

Match is at it again, dredging the depths of their vast testosterone inventory to find only the most suitable suitors for me.

Here are a couple of gems.

Meet chu1010

Of all the unfortunate (and rather appropriate) places to prematurely end a sentence, this man has it nailed. Don’t worry, Meet chu1010, I am less likely to want to shoot you and more likely to want to shoot myself in wherever it is that stores my short-term memories and processes visual images.

Thanks, Match.

Winona341

Of all the shitty matches Match has deemed fit for me, this one may take the cake. This one says, “There is no actual process. This is all just as random as real world you get to live in for free – complete with advertising in all corners.”

Good news: This scam and I are a good match because “he” is “athletic and toned”.

Vote of Confidence

I’m pretty sure that Match’s most recent matching algorithm consists of: *Shrug* Fuck if I know…

These gems were all contained within one day’s set of “matches.”

“Eligible” Bachelor #1: YOUNGCOWBOY28

Aside from his inexplicable caps lock and splitting of one word into two smaller one-syllable words, I guess we could be a match.
FUCK THAT, MATCH.
FUCK THAT.

Enjoying camping, drinking, and dogs is not enough to bring two people together. Trust me, I’ve tried that shit.

Next.

“Eligible” Bachelor #2:  Ladieslovesandme

Can you say, “codependent”? “My favorite place is your favorite place.” “I like to do, what u like to do hopefully shopping, cooking, and putting on makeup.”

Wow.
Also, fuck you and your pixelated, lego-faced second picture.

“Eligible” Bachelor #3: b_t_hellam1

I think Match may have momentarily gotten me confused with my crazy sister who would love to date and marry a nondenominational protestant minister (for marriage #4) with whom she could relax, read the Bible, and watch Paul Blart: Mall Cop.

“Eligible” Bachelor #4: D8M4

You know, this fucker’s not so bad (comparatively) except that he listens to shitty music.
Still, fuck him.

Also, fuck this.

Hot Mess: Volume 13

This week’s edition of “holy fuck, why?” is brought to you by MarcB1234.

The problem is partly his face, but it’s also that he writes his message like it’s an old school, personal ad. Probably because he’s been looking “to meet somebody and see what happens” for just about that long.

Obviously, I’m not paying for a service because my primary criteria are age, height, weight, and availability.
Perhaps, that’s not as obvious as I think it should be.

MarcB1234 is yet another fine specimen (struggling to meet the 200 character minimum) who introduces himself like an early elementary school child.

I’ve told you how old I am. What else do you need to know?

But wait! In order to prove my ability to be a non-needy, responsible adult. I want you to be sure that I don’t want to rush anything, “We’ll see how it goes.” Just “hope the person is understanding” that I have the personality of a goldfish and internal exploration and self-awareness of a lobotomized T-rex.

Deadmaus: Sacrificing the Spirit Animal

If my recent few months were in chart form, it might look something like this.

The only constant theme in my life since last August has been constant change, not limited to but including:

• August – Move in with boyfriend. Return to school.
• September – Start my school year with what could realistically be two full time jobs. Get super stressed out.
• October – Stay stressed out. Cry a lot.
• November – Ditto.
• December – Changes in staffing who work closely with me. Boyfriend “loves me but is not in love with me.” Continue to live awkwardly with ex-boyfriend. More changes in staffing who work closely with me. Apply for job in United Arab Emirates.
• January – More changes in staffing who work closely with me. Ex-boyfriend leaves. It’s fun to go home again. Start dating new man.
• February – Fall for new man. Hard. After a month he “doesn’t feel anything.” More changes in staffing who work closely with me. Try not to cry in public. Much. Drink. Seek therapy. Realize that therapy is real expensive. Write.
• March – Continue to try not to cry in public. Much. Learn I did not get UAE job I’d been planning for since December. Be humbled. Start to formulate plan B. Drink. Write.
• April – Continue to formulate Plan B. Summon strength. Dub this my “year of tests.” Cross fingers and hope that said tests do indeed have some sort of expiration date and that this date is soon.

This is not a funny story.
This is a true story.

The first night that Mr. February Heart-Break spent the night with me was the first night that I realized that I might have mice.

An intense month-long mouse hunt began in which a mouse ate all of the food I had left out to lure it into snap traps – without touching the traps. Then it eventually ate the food, including licking the trap clean of peanut butter – without setting off either snap trap.

Then I bought poison. The poison went untouched.
Nothing.

Until the day that Mr. February Heart-Break dumped me. As soon as he walked out the door, I find this.

Dying on the floor.
Slowly.
Crawling a few inches every once and a while before giving up again.

I called him immediately to say something stupid like, “There is a mouse dying on my fucking floor.”

“Do you realize that this mouse hunt last the EXACT lifespan of this relationship?”
“If I had known it was our fucking spirit animal, I wouldn’t have tried so hard to kill it.”

I nicknamed our spirit animal Deadmaus.

My life continues to be a bizarre as shit series of uprootings and quakes, every dysfunction an all-too-apt metaphor for the way things always seem to fall apart when touched, every artery and ventricle in my heart rubbed raw, leaning towards, “Touch me and I’ll elbow you in the gut” rather than, “Love me – some reassembly required.”

It has become necessary to make myself mantras:

• You are stronger than you give yourself credit for.
• What doesn’t kill you makes you funnier.
• Be present.

 

The last one sucks the most.
The last makes me grow the most.

Every painful experience I will experience in my life is born of privilege. Without privilege, I would have to worry about things that threaten more than my comfort or pride.

This is humbling. On a good day, I can be grateful.
Shit show or not, raw heart or not, I have a pretty good life.

 

Hot Mess: Volume 12

On this week’s “Good god, look who favorited me!” – HJV17
This man is the vanilla ice cream at the ice cream shop. Or to use a fish-in-the-sea metaphor, this man is breaded fish stick. No one’s really sure what’s in it, but it might be fish.

Reasons HJV17 and I will never go on a date: 

1. His headline, “Looking to meet new people” was recently updated. Before that he just had, “I’m here to send countless emails and winks to women who will never have sex with me.”
2. His user name is one character away from the scariest STD in the world.
3. He’s 37 and seeking women 18+. Six years older would be much too old, but 19 years younger is kosher AND legal.
4. His entire “About Me” is 32 words, if you include “etc.” and he probably just threw that in to meet the 200 character minimum.
5. He’s another gray silhouette, and I’m usually into the three-dimensional types.

 

Is this in appropriate occasion to say, “Fuck my life”?

Hot Mess: Volume 11

In general, I have pretty high self-esteem, some might even call it “cockiness.”
Semantics.

I know I’m not all that painful on the eyes. I’m pretty witty, laidback, self-sufficient, and low-maintenance. Also, I could probably kick your ass. This is, perhaps, why I’m perpetually the best friend with whom people really SHOULD be in love, but… There’s always a big “but”…

I’m also aware that many women do not carry themselves with or feel the same sense of confidence that I do. Which is why this is such a terrible first message.

It’s a fucking virtual head pat.

This message says:

• You seem nice. Too bad your life blows.
• I’m not quite sure why no-one wants you, but there must be a reason.
• You seem hot, so you must be crazy.
• I don’t understand why cupid keeps making you gargle his sweaty balls. You seem cool enough to me.

To add to the low blow, one knows it’s from someone who’s in exactly the same position, someone who thinks he’s a pretty good catch, despite the fact that he’s fictionally 92 years old and who has many interests not limited to, but including, women between the ages of 18 and 45.

Nothing says, “I’m just looking for a someone with (semi)functioning female parts” like a thirty year age range.
Don’t give me any of that, “Age is just a number” bullshit. No one says that or believes it except teenage girls who think they’re in love with guys old enough to buy them liquor, child molesters, old rich guys with trophy wives, and the gold-diggers waiting for them to die.

This message is only a confirmation for my “fuck it” inclination. Until my membership runs out, Match’s sole purpose is for providing me with entertainment while I get matched with myself and heal from their previous “matches”.

Hot Mess: Volume 10

In, perhaps, an it-seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time moment, I reactivated my account with Match. After a few messages began to pile up in the inbox I had not paid to see, I gave the site some money.
At least 75% of my justification to myself was that I would, at least, have some new blogging material.

Message #1 was from a woman who wanted to hear about my Match experience but was “Don’t worry. Not a lesbo.”  I suspect that it was some sort of scam.

Message #2 was as follows:

While I suspected that Lex may be a bit crazy, I couldn’t resist the urge to reply.

Of course, it’s a bad idea to encourage the crazy. He replied twice within the same hour…

While I do find myself inexplicably attracted to Lex’s 2D pastel blue silhouette, I’m not sure I’m ready to admit that I’d like to tie up that pastel blue silhouette and do “kinky things” to it. I think the paper cuts would get to me before long.

If I had not already been put off by his discussion of gang banging, I would have certainly thrown off by his transition from kinky sex to “actually, I was thinking about angels.” It’s a rough transition from inappropriate early messaging etiquette to a philosophical justification of his apparent Schizophrenia and his intimate “I’m sure you understand” statements.

Sorry, Lex, my fairly open mind is a little too small for the crazed yammerings of those that hear Djinn.

While this reopening saga does not bode well for my dating, it does bode well for you, dear readers. Some fish are still in the sea because they’ve been thrown back.
Get ready. It looks like we’ll be laughing a lot together.