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.

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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.

Image

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 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.

 

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.

Image

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.

I need to stab someone. Where’s my stabbing knife?

I need to stab someone. Where's my stabbing knife?

I’m back.

In I’m Cashing Out: A Special Valentine’s Day edition, I informed readers that I had met someone – one of three last stabs in the dark – and, therefore, was cashing out.

After a year and moving in together, Mr. Wonderful, of the aforementioned post, loves me but isn’t IN love with me. He informed me of this, but with far more words, causing me to have experienced the third breakup followed by me having to say, “Uhhhh…did you just break up with me?”

And, really, I’m not as stabby as one might think.

Despite the inherent suckiness of the situation and the fact that we’re still somewhat awkwardly sharing an apartment for another week or so, it isn’t so bad. I am no longer interested in expending energy fighting change or trying to hang on to people who want to walk away.

I have been through this (and worse) enough to know some things.

1. This will only suck for a while.
2. There are other people I can and will love.
3. I am okay (perhaps, even better) alone.

So. Expect more posts as I return to spearfish the many other fish in the sea that I keep hearing so much about.
Wish me luck.

In other updates:

Fuck You: Chapter 2 from Re-emergency: Or fuck you, fuck you, you’re pretty cool, and fuck you re-emerged again over the past summer via text message. Due to a tragic phone/toilet bowl union, I no longer have the original text messages.
However, my only response to his original text was to send him a link to the post in which he featured. He proceeded to identify himself as Fuck You: Chapter 3 and inform me that he liked more than my hips and that he told me so. I then had to point him towards the appropriate “fuck you”.

Fuck You: Chapter 3 greeted me as a stranger when in the same room.

Dear Googler: A Spelling Lesson

More times than I care to document or admit the top searches bringing hits to Sex and the Pity are from those of you who are unable to spell “transvestite” .

So let’s clear up the confusion. If you are looking for a

Transvestite

please observe the above spelling.

If you are looking for “travesties”, then look no further.

Travesty

Travesty


To recap, here are a few helpful hints when searching for pornography for all of your transvestite fetish needs

  1. Spell “transvestites” correctly.
  2. Using the key word “hot” probably isn’t going to land you in any different place than not using the key word “hot”.
    I’m a bit skeptical that there is a large “fugly” transvestite following. But who knows…there’s a lot of weird pornography on this here interweb.
  3. While some transvestites may also be travesties, I don’t think you will find them on Sex and the Pity.

Happy Googling,

Hannah

I’m Cashing Out: A Special Valentine’s Day Edition

Although I still gag at the mere glimpse of Lifetime movies and their unapologetically sustained profusion of “love” stories – the predictable pyramid plot structure whose conflict is always resolved by a wedding – I am finding myself feeling incredibly lucky these days. This is not only because I have taken life by the horns and have begun a streak of no-better-time-than-now living, it is also a result of one of three last-stabs-in-the-dark as my Match membership was approaching expiration at the end of last November.

While the two of those three stabs would make for really good Sex and the Pity material, I’ll give you the abridged version.

Stab #1: After two dates, Stab #1 made a lot of assumptions about what lack of communication over the course of ~ 22 hours meant and then flipped out via text thus setting off my Cling-dar ® among other ‘dars.

Stab #2: I had a phone conversation with Stab #2 once during which I jokingly told him that if he got really drunk at the bar he was going to the following evening, he would only be a block away from one of the less classy strip joints in town. He got overly excited and proceeded to talk about strip clubs for the rest of the conversation.

Stab #3: Stab #3 and I have just passed the two month mark and are well on the way to (hopefully) passing up my three month threshold (which has not happened with anyone in quite some time). He is incredible. More accurately, we are incredible together.  In ways that I have yet to fully comprehend, he satiates me. We are a nuclear fusion, a collision of skepticism turned to unabashed mutual adoration, and I fully plan to keep him for as long as he will allow me to do so.

Problem:

I am running rather short on Sex and the Pity material, as Mr. Wonderful does not appear to be an asshole, douchebag, or hot mess enough to provide me with new blogging material. (I am quite okay with this.)

Solution:

Since I am finally winning at this ridiculous game, I would love to hear about and share your Hot Messes and/or Dating Travesties.

You may send me submissions of fully written blog entries (though, I reserve the right to edit them) or you may send me particularly hot and messy profile shots from the various dating websites out there.

Please submit your work to cushinghm@gmail.com Include your full name, contact info, and how you want your name to appear should it be published.

Hot Mess: Volume 8

What scares me most about Hot Mess #8 is that he may be responsible for healing and/or keeping people safe.
Oh, also the chest shots. Nothing says, “I think I’m hot” like obvious self-portraits that involve your chest. That goes for the ladies too.

Keep your Myspace pics on Myspace, kids.

Tested Theory: Guys who can’t walk by the mirror without checking themselves out or primping are overrated and, possibly, gay (at least in my study).

Let’s play “Guess My IQ

  • “People look at me and seem to wonder what i’m thinking about, most of the time i’m not exactly sure, but whatever it is probably has to do with how great you are.” I’m gonna have to call “bullshit” on this statement except for his reported confusion and lack of conscious thought. However, if this is true, I guess he’s probably NOT lying when he later says, “There is one thing I haven’t had that much experience in, and that is ‘dating’. Or, at least, these thoughts about how “great you are” are not often mutual.
  • “I have fairly decent values, I know whats ‘good’ vs. whats ‘bad’. I fit into the good category”. Congratulations, you have reached Kohlberg’s first stage of moral development – Pre-conventional Morality. It must be exceedingly convenient to organize your world in neat little dualities and even more convenient, that you fit into the socially acceptable side of these dualities. Your mother must be proud.
  • “I’m also the most mature person there is.” Skeptical. See above. And below.
  • “I feel like going out and doing something; I could go out and take pictures with my cell phone while climbing mountains and riding a bicycle.” Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Recommendation: If you really don’t have anything going on in your head, don’t attempt a stream-of-consciousness writing style.
  • My religion: “that’s kind of a yes or no question” That’s not even a question, except possibly in Pre-conventional Morality. If it is a question, I think his answer may mean, “Yes, I’ll take it – the good one.”
  • Favorite Things: “Any category of music, as long as it’s good music.” Obviously. Should have seen that one coming.

If you guessed that Hot Mess #8’s IQ is 68, you are correct. Just short of both amusing and average.