Thursday, February 9, 2012

i'm done dating forever.

i know how to write about a horrible fucking date. seriously, i've got that shit down to a science: first i have to skewer whatever misguided friend of mine tried to be a decent human being and give a lonely bitch a reason to put pants that have a zipper on, or come up with a real-ish sounding cover story because "he responded to my craigslist ad" sounds SUPER SAD. poop. okay, next i have to mention that i was dressed wrong, and enumerate the ways i was sweaty or smelly or leaking diarrhea from my eye sockets. i am usually lost, or late, or both lost and late, dependent on shitty public transportation because i have to hang on to my cash just in case this dude isn't going to pay because they NEVER FUCKING PAY. so then i arrive at our chosen meeting place, definitely sweating by now if i hadn't been before, and dude is what, ambivalent? nonplussed? totally fucking disappointed?! yes, one of those. or maybe all of the above. some weird, suburban politeness dictates that i must sit for an hour or two with someone who obviously HATES TALKING TO ME (maybe he's even texting other people every time it's my turn to talk, or updating his facebook, probably scrolling through his twitter feed), and i drink too much or order an entire brontosaurus rib for dinner and turn him off even more. which i hadn't thought possible considering that i'd already had to correct him twice when he thought my name was "stephanie." talk talk yawn bore yawn talk JOKES THAT FALL FLAT over. finally, wait for the bus, in the rain OBVIOUSLY, because he really didn't pay for dinner and i spent all my cab money on a cheese plate. home to my shoebox, where i immediately wish i'd had the foresight to change the sheets because it would have been so much better to come home from a bad date to a fresh bed, yell at the cat, apologize profusely for taking my anger out on said cat, get in bed for the next three days. rinse and repeat.

i went on what i thought was a REALLY MOTHERFUCKING SUCCESSFUL date a few weeks ago, and i want to know, what does one call a good date that was super good and ended well but then maybe wasn't really as good as you thought it had been because even though he texted you for a couple weeks and asked you out again while you were still at dinner the first time and made plans that he broke with a reasonable-sounding excuse that included influenza and then a reschedule never materialized which is weird because i hadn't even sexted him a picture of my tits yet. i'm giving this up, friends. AGAIN. i'm fucking serious this time. nothing works, and even if i think i've got it kind of figured out for thirty seconds i haven't even scratched the surface of how totally wrong i am. it's confusing more than anything else. FOR INSTANCE, some match.com dude emailed me for two weeks and asked for my phone number and i gave it to him, then he no-showed for some plans we made. no problemo, on to the next thing. except he still texts me and shit. like, "how is your day?" or "did you make it home okay in the snow?" i'm sorry, sir, but what exactly is the point of that? are there really women for whom the occasional, "it's not too cold for ya, is it?" suffices as sexual pursuit and meaningful interaction? i never respond, because he's obviously marginally interested at best, yet he remains undeterred in the laziest courtship in the history of cellular telephones. maybe "it sure is dark this evening" will replace "great legs, what time do they open?" as the pick-up line of the future. holy fuck.

what happens when a total clown goes on a date with THE MOST SOMBER DUDE IN THE WORLD? here are some things that i do every single day in my real life: 1 imitate people using a high-pitched child's voice 2 have realistic two-sided conversations with both animals and inanimate objects 3 dance around my office and sing loudly in spanish along with tejano and cubano records 4 laugh hysterically while telling terrible jokes such as the following, Q "what do you call a nosy pepper?" A "jalapeƱo business!" 5 read celebrity gossip blogs with the intensity most people devote to tolstoy 6 purchase those cheese and cracker things from the corner store, you know, the ones in the plastic with the peel-off top that has four saltine crackers and that fake orange cheese and the little red thing that is neither scoopy enough or spready enough to really warrant inclusion in the package and 7 put that much fucking thought into silly shit like CHEESE AND CRACKERS PACKAGING. basically, when i'm not seething in a blinding rage or marinating in a pool self-induced hate vomit, i'm totally fucking stupid.

now let's be for real: i'm 100% salty, 99.9% of the time. everything is so boring and dumb and everyone is so selfish and terrible, and i think what i've discovered about myself is that i am, despite my efforts to prove to myself otherwise, just not a happy person. not in a sad way, though. I ENJOY SHIT. seriously, i love a lot of stuff: the kitten halftime during the puppy bowl on animal planet; reading a good book on the toilet; huitlacoche tacos; listening to someone smart tell a really amazing story. i might be mired in self-loathing every single one of my waking hours, but if some gilberto gil comes on the old pandora machine i am getting up and dancing, son. and then when i'm done enjoying whatever it is that has momentarily distracted me from the misery that is every day life, i crawl right back into the comfortable embrace of EVERYTHING FUCKING SUCKS. people who are cheerful all the time seem stupid to me.

if you ask me out, though, i'm all goddamned sunshine. no one in his right mind wants to bang some sour bitch, so if i have some brisket plans with a breathing adult male i get all my good jokes together and run through the "this is what i want this dude to think about me" modern-day dating resume. you know what the fuck i mean, the shit you tell a person that makes you look smart and awesome and fuckable. for instance, i pretend like i just sprung fully-grown from zeus's brow at age 26 and have spent the six years since being adorable and hilarious and not weird or mean or jerkfaced. don't act like it's just me, you bitches know you keep a list of your impressive accomplishments printed on the bathroom mirror so you can memorize that shit while putting on the eyeliner he is totally not going to notice. i see you, grrrrrl: "graduated law school, volunteered in guatemala, got a job at a fancy law firm, bought my condo," blah blah blah. over and over and over again until it rolls naturally off your tongue while he pretends not to be staring at your tits over his cocktail.

my abbreviated dating resume looks a little something like this: "animal job, hilarious comedy jokes, have you read [insert title of intelligent-sounding au courant piece of literature] yet?" then, when pressed for a more detailed history: "sorry, homie, but i didn't have a childhood. i was born an adult. weird, right? HAHAHA! and my writing totally isn't available anywhere at all ever at any time. so, should we split an appetizer or what?" i would love to be all, "DUDE, DID YOU SEE ME IN THAT MAGAZINE THAT ONE TIME?!" to prove that i'm worth this hour and a half he's giving me, but in my vain attempt to create the slightest illusion of mystery i have to hold all that in until he hasn't recoiled in horror at my rubber sheets. this is where having studied visual art would totally trump the clickety-clack of this keyboard, because i then could just pull a drawing out of my bag and be like, "let's have sex now." but now i have to be charming and shit then drop a five hundred page manuscript in front of him and say, "if you read the first couple chapters you will so not regret having come home with me." that's a lot of goddamned work, which is why i always lead with a dirty limerick and hope he's sort of dumb and easily impressed.

I WORE A BLAZER, if that fucking says anything. and girl shoes. i mean, i really put some thought into it. and the serious man and i had a good time. at least i thought we did. i even got him to crack a smile, which is the shit i live for. i like a comedy challenge, and i will say anything i have to to get a bitch to laugh. not even kidding. if you're a new reader, or just a lazy asshole who doesn't want to read through the archives, you should know that a couple years ago i decided i was never going to work harder to give my vagina away than a dude was working to get it. that's just silly. and i demanded that we all adopt this policy, but i know that sometimes it's hard because you're lonely. SO AM I, HO. but my black box is made out of the same shit they make airplane black boxes out of, and i turn that loneliness into unbridled hatred. the product of which you're reading currently.

i think that whole "the rules" shit is totally dumb, but i have adopted a modified "he's just not that into you" operating system when it comes to dealing with dudes. as soon as they stop acting interested, i let it the fuck go and move on. seriously, four or five days with no contact and i take the hint and delete him out of my phone and watch unfaithful a couple times and then i'm magically over it. you're never going to know why, so just assume he's not into you and never text him again. the shit works, no joke. listen, you're never going to know why, so don't torture yourself. that dude didn't just forget that he likes me, maybe he really did for a week or so, but right now he most definitely does NOT. and that's cool, man. i'm just not going to sit up all night listening to sad music worrying about it. but i also am not doing this shit anymore. it's BORING and i'm tired of wasting my arsenal of one-liners on dudes who text me about the republican primary candidates for two weeks before dropping off the face of the earth. and into some other lady's vagina, DUH. i'm retiring my dance card. and demanding my $34.99 back from match.com.