The pictures are real. I am black & white in person. I am merely alone and available and if I were seeking a life partner, it is statistically very unlikely that you would be it. Or s[t]he[y].
Did I just invent an instantly obsolete gender neutral pronoun?
I believe there is a subset of Poly called Cranky, and there's far less cuddling involved.
You: Do you burn?
Me: I don't even melt.
Recently someone asked me, "If you write that you're looking for short term relationships, why don't you say you're looking for casual sex?"
I replied, "Because I'm not casual about anything."
You are in a painfully dim room, illuminated only by the reality television show that you watch to make your life seem just a bit less miserable. Because at least you're not whoring yourself out for nitrous, or burying yourself in expired yogurt cartons, or pawning your autographed Judge Landis baseball card to pay off a gambling debt you won't admit to. You are better than them. You must be. You still cling to a little scrap of paper with the word HOPE written on it. So you put the TV on mute and go to your Bose sound machine your father gave you -- the one that now is the color of coffee with too much half and half instead of whatever white it used to be. You plug in your i-whatever and seek through to your collection of Morrissey tracks. You set it to shuffle. You set it to play. And you tweak the volume to a level just audible enough to make you melancholy but not loud enough to distract you from your mission.
Hello, once hopeful one. And welcome to the Sad Sack Dating Site.
Unlike the people who have just come to the city from exotic places like Zurich and Sheboygan, who by and large are a fresh-faced and unjaded bunch, I have been on this island for over a decade with nothing to show for it but the odd phenomenon that all of my jobs from the last three years have come courtesy of someone I've boned.
I am also very good at multitasking, and am extremely detail oriented. This comes in handy as I maintain my eclectic stable of non-relationships which distract me from the person I really want but who I can't have and who won't have me until I change and he changes and I change and he changes and 8 plus 8 plus 8 is 4.
I have a very prominent shelf-style, bartender's friend of a behind. This makes me a hot commodity to people who have no interest in what I actually have to say.
Reviews have included such soundbytes as:
"God Bless You, Lady."
"Holy fuck is that shit real?"
and my personal favorite, "Who did your butt?"
Also 95% of my clothes are black and covered in cat hair.
Can I date you if you're a vegan? Maybe. Will I like it? Maybe. But will you squirm with all the food I hold dear and will it eventually be a dealbreaker even though both of us say, oh no, we don't judge, at the outset?
Because this is the section where I prove my coolness and I'm throwing the fight. Because I am dead certain that my random iDeath mix, when it escapes from the confines of Morrissey, will appall you and the only things that will play on our future romantic road trips will be the songs that you and I both can't stand. Then we'll give up and turn on the radio in middle america and just fucking deal.
And then we'll get into one of those conversations that have no solutions because that's just the way of things when no one can commit and everyone keeps their options open for first dates with people even more damaged than the ones currently in rotation.
Right now I'm reading a non-fiction book about the cholera outbreak in London. It's really good.
How much I hate dill.
The Family Circus.
If you're truly interested, send a reel.
No one has ever sent a reel.
That's a lie. I've gotten at least half a dozen reels.
And a lot of you weirdos don't have your pictures on your profile.