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.

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


“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.”

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.

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.
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 exemplar 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 one makes me grow the most.

Every painful thing 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.