Yeah, it’s my birthday. I am thirty five years old. This feels like a momentous age for some reason. I am thinking like a woman, because, for an unmarried woman, this age is some kind of shitstorm where your last viable egg is now gone and you just have a 9/10th’s empty gumball machine with only a couple Trig Palins left rattling around. But still, I am single. I am single with no plausible hope of not being single. I do not know even one person, out of the dozens and dozens of reasonably attractive women whom I know- I do not know even one person I would consider dating who would consider dating me.
And now I’m thirty five. So you figure, if I meet someone tomorrow, we hit it off, we get married after a year, we spend two years traveling and hanging out and somehow saving money, and then we have kids, that puts me at thirty fucking eight when my first child is born. And if I want to have more kids, I’ll be into my forties. My ball sack will be full of Trig Palins. And this is assuming that I meet someone tomorrow, even though I have been trying, trying hard, to meet someone for ten fucking years. I have been doing everything. But ultimately I would have to completely reengineer my life to meet a woman and make it stick. I would have to put myself in a position where women are around me naturally. Because girls don’t want you; they don’t come looking for you; they don’t even like it if you come looking for them. You have to be forced to be in a place and your presence there has to be in no way motivated by there being girls there and they have to slowly come to like you over time.
So I would have to get a new kind of career that does not demand that I work 11 hours a day around only ugly women and gays, and then go have drinks with some agent and then read five scripts at night and then get up early to go have breakfast with some studio executive. I would need to have one of those careers, but it would still have to be a “career”-type job. Because otherwise what am I going to use to pay for the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of care my autistic retarded nineteen-fingered child is going to need. You can’t be a fucking barista playing bass on the side at thirty five. You better be wearing a suit and holding a briefcase full of serious fucking documents everywhere you go. My shit needs to have the nuclear fucking codes in it now. I’m thirty fucking five.
And you’d think, maybe all these people who you’re going to drinks and breakfast with- perhaps there is a potential wife there, no? Someone who also has to read five scripts at the end of every night. Maybe you could kick back and have a brandy with this person and read scripts together under a nice cozy blanket. Except, unfortunately, “Hollywood hot” is the opposite of “L.A. hot.” Any woman who is even- any woman who would not make your dick evaporate like holding an icicle next to a steel furnace is trying to be an actress. Any woman who is in my side of the profession- the lame, soul-crushing, barely creative hanger-on side, is chromosome damage ugly. Their dad must have met their mom when they were thirty five.