Back on OKCupid for a minute. The women have gotten worse. They’re not less attractive physically. But the banality of their profiles has, impossibly, increased. Used to be 90% of women were the “live learn laugh love” people. Now it’s 99% . The if you want to know more about me just ask. The I love my dog, I love my job, I love my family and friends. Everything in my life is perfect I just need the right man to share it with. The anything by Haruki Murakami and David Sedaris women. Radiohead. All music except country. Or all music except rap and country. The PLEASE READ MY PROFILE BEFORE MESSAGING ME I AM NOT INTERESTED IN CASUAL SEX cast into the deaf wind like a prayer to a dead god.
The meaningless Meyers-Briggs letter jumbles. Science’s version of Cosmo’s Are You Good Girl Sexy or Bad Girl Sexy test. I have a kid, I love my kid, you have to understand that my kid comes first. Never I have a kid and I put him in one of those bigass industrial tupperware bins with a bunch of plants when I fuck guys off the internet. I’m hoping it will create a biodome.
Breaking Bad, Downton Abbey, Parks & Rec. Many others. Long, long lists– these are women of few words, but when it comes to TV it’s suddenly the god damn Dead Sea Scrolls. You think: is it just a list of every TV show ever made? If I looked would I find Hardcastle & McCormick in there? Supertrain? I’ll never know. No man can read that many titles. Every band that ever played a note, too. Every DJ who ever put a sticker on his Macbook.
You should message me if you are over six feet tall. If you are steadily employed in a job that you love. If you have your own car, the blue collar ones will say. The poor girls. The my baby is number one in my life girls often require a car. The baby daddy was the only guy in the neighborhood with a car.
Once in a while you get a self-styled bohemian. Passionate adventuress, poetess, lots of -ess words. Deeply into yoga. On the beach at sunset, shot from the back, doing the karate kid crane kick stance facing the sunset. Next picture is her dog sticking his face in frame. You should message me if you are passionate. Spiritual. Ambitious. Ambitious? You mean you want money? Consider the lilies of the field, you twat. The realm of the spirit needs no coin. But these girls are from good backgrounds. They know where the bread is buttered. You get out there and put on a suit and yell into a phone about interest rates all day so their floor to ceiling windows can face the sunset. So there’s a nice sound system to play Indian flutes and storm sounds and birdcalls while they fuck the yoga instructor. You should message me if you are deeply spiritual, and over six feet tall.
Used to be this was 90%. Now 99% . You don’t look at your You Might Likes because you know any thumbnail will lead to one of these. A passionate ambitious dreamer who loves her job and her dog and Haruki motherfucking Murakami. You have to cycle through quickmatch now. Quick look at the pictures. Would I fuck her? If yes, quick read of the first sentence. I’m originally from the Midwest but I’m loving all that LA has to off– next. I’m a Bay Area girl and always will be at hea– next. YES I AM BISEXUAL BUT I AM ****NOT**** ON HERE LOOKING FOR MEN– next, you fucking dilettante whom real Lesbians rightly hate. You will end up with a man, and you know this. Better start looking now. You Lesbians Until Graduation in a world where graduation never comes…
Ah, I’m being a dick. There are real bisexuals and of course they’d get fed up. Every message is from some couple, some horny pig of a man and his fake bisexual girlfriend desperate to please him. You are in a tough position. Trust me, I know. Getting pussy is hard. But I’m still one starring you, you cunt. Fuck you for not wanting me.
I love my life and laugh and learn and love and light and libbity labbity loo– Jesus Christ, is this North Korea? Will they throw you in a gulag if you admit you’re a fucking human being? That you get a paper cut once in a while? Yes… my life is… perfect! I LOVE my job! I LOVE my family! The Dear Leader makes the sun rise!
The women of OKCupid are terrified of seeming negative about anything. Except the men of OKCupid. The men, they will pillory. So many guys on here are lame or just pervs or don’t even READ the profiles! DO NOT message me if you are looking for sex, if you eat meat, if you are black, if you are under six feet tall, if you are looking for sex. Guys, PLEASE read my entire profile before you message me, PLEASE be over six feet tall, I like to wear heels. PLEASE have a common interest chosen from the list of Haruki Murakami Radiohead no country no rap every TV show ever made. NO SEX! How dare men not read these illuminating masterpieces. Commit to memory that you don’t like the one thing anyone would ever want from you. Make note that you like yoga and your fucking dog.
But then, you find the one per cent. And as much as OKCupid sucks, one per cent is enough. A blue collar girl who reads books. A smart girl whose big brain is neglected at work, needs an outlet. A girl who can take a joke. Give you one right back. A dirty little Chinese fuck kitten who doesn’t mind a drunk night with a stranger. They are still out there. Still a few precious drops in this dry tit. But even these might not even look at you. Because they’re getting buried.
It’s your fault that it’s like this, you thirsty bastards. I knew OKCupid was gonna die when I heard men were using scripts. You can tweak OKCupid’s source code right in your browser and make it five star every woman in a 25 mile radius. Send a so and so chose you message.* This is on top of men spamming the old fashioned way. Sending copy pastes to any woman with a good picture. Giving a pass to the excruciating dullness and dishonesty of her words. Thirsty men. OKCupid is closing time in a bar where the girls mostly left at 12:30. It will only get worse. Men are just going to become machines. They will outsource their spamming to India.
Men who just want pussy from anybody. Blind pigs looking for any acorn. Well, I don’t want that. I want to talk before I fuck. I need a girl to tell me something. There are fewer and fewer who can, and it keeps dwindling down. They are in relationships with men now, these girls. Three months in the guy asks her to find another girl. She reactivates. Puts the disclaimer on top: yes, I am bisexual but NO MEN NO MEN NO MEN. The circle of life continues.
*Yeah, go ahead and google it, ya jerkoffs.
delicioustacos 
God I hate these things. It’s not possible to summarize myself in a paragraph. I like to have fun and laugh.
I’m a foodie. I like food that tastes good.
I like to travel. I enjoy not working while spending time in an interesting and expensive place. I know, it’s weird, but I’m all about vacations.
I can wear a dress or jeans. Not like the other girls. I’m different. I can drink a beer and watch sports. I can play a video game.
“I’m [X], but i’m also [Y]”. Y being the the opposite of X.
“I’m one part blah, one part blah, one part blah…” Each Blah being something that’s only of trivial interest to women, and the sum of all Blahs not constituting an actual personality.
“Here’s a picture of my cat!”, a create as indifferent to her existence as the alpha males are.
Here’s a tip for you, buddy: no heterosexual adult male who does not spend five hours a day on 4chan uses the phrase “alpha male.”
… which shows how little you know about dominant / alpha males and their interactions. You’re either a nerd, or a woman who’s too low value to attact one.
I’m not trying to be a dick; no need to get defensive. Just trying to help you out.
Shut your whiny trap,fucking concern troll
My friends made this profile as a joke.
So true. *brofist*
This might be the greatest post in the history of delicioustacos.
Hang in there, little buckaroo. Read some Bukowski. It’s his birthday.
He said he never had any trouble getting a job in the Depression because people felt sorry for him he was so ugly. Is that how he got laid all the time too?
He didn’t start getting laid like mad until he became famous.
“The meaningless Meyers-Briggs letter jumbles” constantly plagues my life too. I don’t disagree with the majority of this post, but it’s the same old bullshit on both sides.
I never understood the whole “a job you love” schtick. Why is this important? What kind of psycho loves their job?
Feminists.
This is true. The girls on xoJane take endlessly about work, office relationships, how much they love to contribute to office drone shit. I don’t even think its an act, they seriously love work.
We all have to lie to something…some choose an internet dating profile.
I love you
After meeting you on OKC it’s hard to accept the alternatives.
You, Emily, are one of the many albatross DT has shot down.
‘ In part due to the Coolidge poem, there is a widespread myth that (all) sailors believe it disastrous to shoot or harm an albatross’
It’s so hipster to whine about the emptiness and vapidity of this shit pretending that the other ones with wit or brains are better, but at bottom everyone is just a fake fuck afraid to be genuine, probably with good reason. At least the yoga bitches with the jobs they love make it clear what you’re dealing with up front.
It’s even more hipster to condemn someone’s post for “whining” and say “everyone does it.”
You say everyone is a fake fuck afraid to be genuine, but then you go on to say the yoga bitches make it clear what you’re dealing with up front. So which one is it? He’s saying that they’re just as shallow as the rest, but mask it with a thin veneer of pseudo-spirituality.
Let me tell you something about them young professional yoga bitches – and this goes for almost all women of independent means, which is almost all of them nowadays – they are cold, calculating, unforgiving, fickle, superficial ice queen cunts who will kick your ass to the curb when you are at your weakest and most in need of support. They have no sense of loyalty whatsoever. They have options. They know they have options and they wield that knowledge like a fucking executioner’s axe over your relationship’s metaphorical neck. There is no such thing as a “romantic relationship” with these women. There are only business-like partnerships. They go about their relationships like they go about their careers. “Young professional” women are the fucking worst.
Or no, they will tolerate weakness as long as the money is rolling in and you can buy them their fucking Ugg boots and vintage bakelite jewelry and Marc Jacobs purses and MAC makeup and take them out to fancy fucking fusion restaurants and on exotic vacations. They will put up with an insane amount of shitty behavior as long as you got some money in your pocket. It doesn’t even matter that they have their own money, they still want you to satisfy their expensive tastes. These girls, they’re raking in over six figures a year, but they still want to be treated like fucking housewives.
They don’t know what the fuck they want. You tell a girl you work in construction and they expect you to be able to build them a house from the ground up with your bare hands. “Ooh, can you put this crown molding up in my living room? Can you build me a new patio?” Bitch, I’m an electrician. Fuck I look like, Bob Vila? You should’ve dated a fucking carpenter if you wanted crown molding. They like the idea of dating someone who works with their hands, their imagined ideal. But
that’s it. Like the girl who wants someone who looks like he “chops
wood.” But does not want a guy who actually chops wood.
Ah, what the fuck am I talking about. My failed relationships have more to do with my dysfunctional behavior and abrasive personality than with said “young professional’s” materialism. I mean, there is an element of truth to it. You know when she considers “American Boy” to be “our” song you got a fucking problem on your hands. But ultimately I have to shoulder most of the blame. This is not an easy thing to come to terms with. No matter how many times you say to yourself about this person: “I love you and I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy. And I understand that could not happen with me.” There is still that ember of vindictive hatred burning at your core, spawning fantasies of seeing her fiancee being turned into a parapalegic in a violent car wreck. Til death do yous part, huh? We’ll see about that when your changing your husband’s colostomy bag ever day.
It is also impossible for me to be completely honest with a girl right off the bat if I don’t want her to turn tail like she just found out I’m a fucking serial killer. What am I gonna write in my profile? Hi, I’m an extremely broken individual who has the coping skills of a fifteen-year-old due to a decades worth of hard drug and alcohol abuse, which has left me in a severe state of arrested emotional development? I spent most of my late teens and early twenties in a perpetual heroin nod? The rest of my twenties in a drunken, opioid and benzo-induced haze? On the bright side, I was somehow able to effectively manage my professional affairs, so I am not homeless. And for the first time in my life I am able to consciously deal with my character flaws in a relatively healthy way, and I now pride myself on my self-control, and in my ability not to beat my helper to death with a pipe bender for fucking up my coffee break order every other god damn day? The idiot Ginzo Wigger hybrid who who carries around like three cell phones on him for some odd reason, that he’s constantly on. Probably hustles on the side. Who’s YOLO-style diatribes I am subjected to on a daily basis:
Yo, cuz, you should come down the Borgata this weekend with us, yo. Fucking DJ Frankie Fishsticks is spinning at Mixx, bro, it’s gonna be sick. Last weekend I was fingerblasting this cumhog’s snatch right on the dance floor, you shoulda seen it. Couldn’t get the smell off my hands for a week. Tried Fast Orange and everything. Shattered some Spic’s jaw right in front of his girl in the parking lot. This weekend’s gonna be better, bro, I’m gonna blow my whole fucking paycheck on friday night then ask you if I can borrow money on wednesday. Nah, I ain’t even gonna make it back, cause I’m gonna fucking pop mollies and blow lines till my fucking heart explodes on the dance floor, yo.
Maybe we are afraid to be genuine, but so are you. Fuck you and your accurate comments. yeah yeah, the past does not define you, except it does. You have to account for it somehow.
As backward as it sounds, being on OKCupid has re-doubled my motivation to approach girls in person and get #s. The site just makes me so unhappy when I’m using it and the alternative is always at least a nice momentary adrenaline hit and possibly a funny story when I fail, and it always has a moderate probability of a legitimate payoff. When I fail on OKC and get completely ignored it feels far more emotionally hurtful for some reason. I bet there’s not a fucking man on earth who has a better approach->#s rate on OKC vs in person, but yet the rejections almost hurt more than in person because its so cold, one sided, and non interactive.
oh and another thing I fucking hate. “I’m in graduate school right now and that keeps me busy” like wtf do you study bitch? I’m guessing it’s not motherfucking applied mathematics and I’m sure your god damn Higher Education Administration master’s isn’t keeping you busy.
hahaha. +1 on all this.
“As backward as it sounds, being on OKCupid has re-doubled my motivation to approach girls in person and get #s.”
Seconded. OKC is like doing pushups and situps at home without joining a gym and getting a real workout, the paltry opportunities online are a good motivator to get the fuck out of the house and meet some live girls.
Somehow there’s a Scrodinger’s-cat synergy where everything works better for me when I’m having some kind of success on OKC and some kind of success IRL simultaneously…it’s like they can sense each other even though half of it is typing.
I notice the same banal singularity as DT, I think we’ve reached a point where young coastal women just put a profile up the same as they subscribe to a magazine they don’t read. I get the spidey sense that most of the women on there aren’t that interested in actually dating off the site, it is there as a secondary option and a validation machine.
The biggest negative in online dating for men is the inversion of the approach dynamics – IRL, she has to acknowledge your approach, even if just to reject it, so you almost always get a minimum of five seconds of a woman’s time. And you get some semblance of feedback as to her reaction (offended, attracted, bored?) and so you can tweak from there. Online, you have no goddamn idea how she reacted unless she actually responds.
So yes, a sense of manic nonchalance that is the DT trademark is probably the only way to keep from going fucking insane on there. Send a few copypasta messages then go to the grocery store and run Day Bang routines straight up.
Keep hitting next for that 1%
tacoz #1 in the game
it seems like you pull punches at times though, you could step outside of imagery at points and really douse the flames of why you’re writing the piece
Nailed it sir. I occasionally log in to both OKC and POF out of curiosity that there just might be a chick that I find attractive and doesnt bark “OMFG PERVERTS NO SEX” right from the start…and I’ve come to the same conclusion as you. Unfortunately I live in a pretty small town in Louisiana and that magical 1% you talk about just don’t exist here. My “matches” are utter shit, low level percentage as far as OKC calculations go.
Also you should mention how overwhelming the land whales are on these sites that don’t anywhere in their profile state “hey I’m a big fat fuck and would just glad to be with anyone who would take me”…no its always this “I’m a BBW and real men want a REAL woman with CURVES not some boney little girl!!” Makes me fucking sick to my stomach. Eat some more ice cream you tubby bitch.
Great post. I read through this and laughed and nodded and recognized basically everything you wrote. The profiles are so vapid most of the time.
On POF, you can do a narrowed search by age and radius and see how many come up. Usually, there’s about a 2:1 or 3:1 man to woman ratio so right there you’re odds are messed up. Still, for me it beats approaching at bars and clubs where the bitch shields are usually glacially thick.
Hilarious. Online dating shows how vacuous the human species is. Men only care about looks. Women only care about money. Someone tell me why we outlaw prostitution? It’s the perfect male/female relationship.
We outlawed prostitution because, if it were legal, men would stop getting married. They’d work as little as possible to support their lifestyle of videogames and booze and hookers and society would collapse. If the pussy supply isn’t tightly controlled, losers will stop working their ass off to get and then the wheels fall off. Gotta regulate the pussy.
LOL. As though feminism with hypergamy and the rest of its attendant ills hasn’t brought us to this point already, prostitution or no.
Nowadays the pussy supply is so tightly “controlled” (read: reserved for alcoholics, drug dealers and kiddy-diddlers) that virtually every road leads to celibacy. Why get a job and work your ass off when the reward is the same as if you’d spent that time eating pizza and playing video games?
Enjoy the decline, ladies. Oh, and remember: never settle!!
Nailed it
I’m not even sad that I sit on a fence and watch each sex fight it out. **gets popcorn**
Best ever. You forgot:
“It’s all about the journey.” (I do not now, nor have I ever, done anything of note.)
“Now I know that I’m ready.” (I am a failed hypergamist dilettante, and it’s been a great 15 year ride on a train of dicks, a train as long as a Union Pacific coal train, but if you will man up I will agree to marry you three weeks later provided your sperm count is high enough to offset my crashing and burning fertility.)
“Friends first.” (You buy dinner. If that goes well, I might fuck you in the car, after.)
“… treat me like a lady.” (You buy dinner. And everything else. Do you have your own jet?)
“Players need not apply.” (I fuck players on my own time, thanks. You’re beta bux. Don’t forget to fill in the line for Income on your application. Are you over 6′ tall?)
“… and a Yogi!” (I do not now, nor have I ever, done anything of note. So I go to yoga class a lot because as a spiritual being the world needs me to lead it to peace. Do you have money? We Yogi are all broke.)
“I don’t cook but if you do I’ll do the dishes.” (My apartment — I don’t own a home — looks like my dorm room did, and there are exactly three things in my refrigerator, but you can buy me groceries, cook dinner, and say, ‘That’s okay dear, I’ll clean up you just go practice yoga while I do the dishes, scrape the film off your counters and sink, and get started disinfecting the bathroom.”
“Must love dogs.” (Do you mind dog hair and particles of dogshit in my bed?)
“I don’t want children of my own, but I *love* my nephews and nieces!” (I am going to be the child in our relationship, idiot, why would I be interested in children?)
“I am a strong independent woman.” (When you are not throwing me halfway across the room and fake-choking me on the bed, I will be yelling at you. A lot.)
“… my commitment to social justice.” (I don’t make any money so you’d better make a lot. Also, give a lot of it to me, you retrograde running dog exploiter of college educated women with large credit card balances.)
“… spiritual but not religious.” (I’m Jewish and I have a problem with that. Also, yoga.)
I took the time to steal some shit from DT’s profile. Fingers crossed!
the adorable little circle jerk in the comments here almost compelled me to start a male version of this painfully well-penned missive. (#6: white dudes in their 30s who claim “buddhist?” taotful. stop self-medicating. bipolarity is a chemical imbalance; lexapro is your god.) almost.
but i’m way too high for that shit right now. and weed is more of a body buzz for me. so, instead of crafting a laundry list of the ways in which your equally generic brains disappoint women forevs, times infins (#34: you’ve traveled to 35 different countries and counting? wow! a man who isn’t afraid to pick up and leave in search of more exotic and untapped regions…), i’d rather just fantasize about slapping you hard in the face. just slap the shit out of you, you know? oh, boobears, look — i’m not mad at you. it’s just i’ve never slapped anyone in the face before. and i really really want to. the way you wish she’d shove a finger up your asshole during blowjobs, because you’re so curious (no homo), but too embarrassed to ask.
most of you answered “indifferent” to the OKC question of how you’d react to being slapped hard in the face. but i’m betting there is a way to find the “sweet spot,” you know? holding the hand at just the right angle, curving the palm inward ever so slightly and delivering with a sharp even force to make a most delicious pleasurepain shock through both of our bodies. mostly yours. the pleasure is more psychologically driven for me, probably. can you imagine? of course you can. you’re probably still slapping your meat to the bathroom mirror nudes of the entitled yogini bitch now known to anyone with ears as your “crazy ex.” you hate the whore who broke your feeble sedentary heart, but you’d wiggle your worm tongue over her shaved cunt again if she’d let you. (she won’t.)
oh, but you know, i’m so chickenshit. i can’t just slap you. i want to, but i can’t. too tenderhearted to hurt you with any direct intention. maybe you could smack me first? yeah, that’s it. the scenario could go a little something like this: huge angry fight, crashing into hate sex, dissolving into make-up sex, falling into deep cuddling. what do you think? oh sweeties, fighting with you is the last thing i ever want to do, but it’s the only way i can realistically fantasize about having the guts to smack you in the face. i couldn’t do it unless i was mad. you understand.
more than anything else, i want to shake you up. make you lose control. in the way i’m sometimes so wildly turned on, i just want to bite your lip until it bleeds — i want to engage you in that violent dance of animalistic courtship. you fucking me with every ounce of brute passion and force you can muster. roaring your lust in my ear. digging your claws deeply into my back to hold me in position. falling asleep with your cock still inside of me, so that not a single drop of your seed escapes. so that no one else can take what belongs to you.
you’re right. most of the time i’m a materialistic, spoiled, predictable human. but sometimes, occasionally, i’m also rabid.
You’re fucked up. You should seek professional help.
Nah, she just needs men to hit her when she starts feeling screwy. She’ll calm down and feel safe then. You don’t need a professional for that.
damn, pfffffffttttsssssss.
first time you didn’t write a goddamm book in response.
where’s the wind for your fucking sail?
you are the best commenter DT has ever had.
I swear emily, you’re like the new sylviasarah.
DT’s always gotta have some shit-for-brains groupie hanging around, and of course you had to pick up that torch. the bottom bitch.
Oh come on, Emily, that’s some Fifty Shades of Grey fantasy shit right there. Let’s be honest here, that ain’t how it usually works. How it usually works is you’re driving her somewhere arguing over some trivial thing, and then she unexpectedly cracks you in the face with a straight right, making you swerve and almost side swipe a row of fucking cars. Your nose is dripping blood all over one of your good shirts, and it takes every ounce of willpower you have not to back hand her as hard as you can in her face, lest you break her nose and she immediately runs to one of her brothers, then you’re gonna have problems with them even though they know what a crazy bitch she is. And you don’t want problems with them, a bloody nose is better than spending a week laid up in a hospital bed with a shattered orbital and broken ribs. So instead you clench your teeth hard enough to crack them and grab the steering wheel in a death grip, waiting till you get a chance to pull over so you can drag her out of the car kicking and screaming,looking like a psychotic mess. You drive maybe ten blocks before the guilt sets in, causing you to turn around and pick her up. Then when she gets back in the car she gives you a shameful, wounded look like one of those neglected dogs on late-night TV commercials. A look that says, how could you do that to me?like you’re the bad guy.
And that’s it for the day. There is no torrid make-up sex on the hood of your Buick Regal in a trash strewn parking lot. You just drive her around running errands for her mom, taking her to the tanning salon while you sit in the car for a half an hour like a jerkoff. Look what I did for you, I put this heart shaped sticker above my precious diamond mine of a cunt, so the skin there is slightly less tanned then the rest of my body. Isn’t that hot? That makes everything better, right?
Or she comes storming up behind you in the bar, cold cocks you in the side of the face while you’re eating a plate of hot wings. So you were supposed to be home two hours ago, so fucking what? It’s not like she got bit by a Death Adder and you had to deliver her a fucking Antivenom. And she’s a tough bitch too, she hits hard. You hear the sound of the punch landing from inside your head – THONK – and bright, blue-black fireworks burst across your field of vision. If you didn’t have a chin like Jake LaMotta she mighta knocked you off your barstool. She hits you so hard that you hear a collective Ooooooohhhhh followed by gales of laughter from everyone on the side of the L-shaped bar that happened to see it. Raised eyebrows, drunken amused grins, half of them guys from the Local who won’t let you live it down for a month – all enjoying the show. You get up, grab her by the arm and half march, half push her through the door out onto the sidewalk, one or two guys following close behind just in case you start hooking off. You don’t. Instead you try to calm her down while walking the two, three blocks to her car while shes going berserk, screaming her head off. You get her in the car and she begins to calm down before catching her second wind and trying to hit you again. By this point you’re about to blow your top and just beat her unconscious, but instead you get out and boot so many dents in the side panel you wind up paying like $500 to get the shit fixed later on. You start walking. “Fuck her, I’m done,” you’re saying to yourself, but this time she’s the one trying to pick you back up, and you finally relent and get back in the car cause she’s doing 2mph. right beside you with two blocks worth of traffic backed up behind her laying on their horns.
When you get home you finally do have hate sex, but you don’t smack her around – you still have a little too much respect for her to go that far. You throw her on the couch, and you got her legs up pounding her with all that “brute passion and force” while you got your hand around her throat. She’s telling you to punish her with your dick, and you do. You fucking tear her ass up until you “spill all your seed” in her, but she’s on the fucking Depo shot, so ultimately it don’t mean a god damn thing . It just feels stunted and kinda sick and pathetic.
And that’s why you’re better off dating “young professionals” as fucking materialistic, spoiled, vapid and predictable as they are, then you are dating a chick from the neighborhood.
THAT’S the pffffffftttttsssssss we know and love….
damn pffffffft. i have to say, that was an excellent description of your incredibly cliched small-town life. i’m from a small town, too, so i can really appreciate the depressing detail. there’s one fairly obvious difference between you and me, though: i got the fuck out. first, at age 8, when i started devouring books with few pictures and many hard words. then again at 18, when i bailed for real. so now, when i come back for family visits, i get to feel the warm and fuzzy of nostalgic affinity. you don’t get to feel that way ever probably; you have to actually leave, see. experience the world beyond your mom’s cat-scratched couch, where a comic book’s super villain is the only Death Adder with which you’ll ever share a zipcode.
speaking of poor substitutes — it’s lucky some Edward Cullen-loving hack jizzed out “50 Shades,” else you’d have been forced to reference a legitimate literary erotic work, like Réage’s “Story of O” or Nin’s “Delta of Venus.” which, let’s be honest, you can’t. men who read books like that don’t date women who use tanning beds. and they’re probably far too discerning to misrepresent self-loathing as “too much respect” for a woman.
darling, you were right about one thing, though: she does hit hard.
(getting popcorn)
Oooooh, she reads Réage. This girl really thinks who the fuck she is, huh? Well, I gotta tell you, sweetheart, I’m very impressed by your literary tastes. I am sure you are a highly sophisticated and cultured woman. After all, anybody who reads French writers with accent marks in their names has to be extremely cultured and sophisticated. I don’t know, though, I don’t know you. But you seem to know me. At least you seem to think you know me judging by all the baseless assumptions you’re throwing around here. You’ll have to excuse me if I throw a few back at you in my reply.
I feel like I’m beating a dead horse here. I’ve already written about people like you here:
but, fuck it, I’m having fun.
For one, I’m not from a small town. I’m from a place where the caffe & pasticcerias of yesteryear, where the old timers used to sit outside reading the papers and playing gin for a quarter a point are slowly being replaced by gourmet coffee shops that serve pureed kale muffins and cruelty-free Peruvian blends gently coaxed off the shrub by Andean women to pretentious, self-styled bohemian types from small fly-over state towns while they sit around name dropping obscure authors and sneering in condescension at the few remaining boorish Guido types who wolf whistle at them while their limp-wristed hipster boyfriends stare at their Macbooks pretending not to hear.
Is that what your first comment was all about? You laugh at those guys and all of their cliches. You make fun of the meathead Carpenter Angelo next door with the Catholic tattoos all over him who blasts house music out of his double-parked Cadillac while he’s detailing it in the summer. The Cadillac he spends a grand a month leasing while he lives at home with his mom, even though he makes $70,000 a year. Who can blame him? Anybody in their right mind who grew up with an Italian mother would live at home for as long as possible. I would rather eat an alcoholic bum’s bloody diarhhea then eat the organic Wegman’s health food shit that girls under the age of thirty five cook. You can’t cook for shit.
You make fun of him, but secretly want his calloused hands wrapped around your throat while he’s hate fucking you. He’s like a novelty for girls like you, like fucking a black guy, right? You want to wear his Local 1050 hoodie around the house on Sunday until he gets laid off, then you’ll trade it in for some college educated computer programmer’s Lumberjack chic plaid shirt, because, like DT said, you know where your bread gets buttered.
Well that ain’t me, although I do share a good many traits with them. I may take shots at them guys, but it’s not self-loathing. As ridiculous as I think all their macho wannabe gangster posturing and their speech peppered with the handful of Italian words they know is, they are my family, friends and neighbors. And if there’s one thing that us Italian-Americans know, or used to know, it’s that you don’t abandon your family and friends no matter what. But I don’t blame you arrogant, yuppie gentrifying hipsters for invading my neighborhood and trying to reinvent it in your image with complete disregard for the people who’ve been here for three generations; I blame those of us who sold out our culture and community for a house in the suburbs with a lawn and an inground pool.
awwwwwwww chyeah! Pffffftttsssss throwing downnnnnnn
I used to read Nin to a girl while she fingered herself. I found it boring
Lolita gave me a stiffy of two though.
Not really, I pulled a lot of the more graphic punches. Tried to take the high road. I was gonna compare her to the succubus in Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, but I was too embarrassed to admit I read pop fiction garbage like the rest of the lowly masses.
Tell you what, face-to-face I’ll bet you I could get her to slap me.
Just changed my okc headline to “Consider the lilies of the field, you twat.”
A bumper sticker would be cool too. DT, you depress the shit out of me. You really need to GTFO of LA, it’s a fucked up place. Jamie Robinson at rideapart is probably the only sane man in the entire city. But this was a good one.
Well put (sadly I don’t even know the 90% times.) That said, probably at least half of the guys commenting on this piece peddle male versions of just the same moronic template crap, while the other half alienates everyone by thirteenth-rate dappling in muscular delicioustaco or ThugKitchen lingo. Defeatism seems apposite, then. *n*
Had to google that one, Thugkitchen. Really? So the only way you can relate to language like that is through Thugkitchen? Must be another yogini. Duly noted. I understand writing is supposed to be a heightened form of communication, but sometimes I can’t shake the urge to write as close to the way I talk in real life as possible. I can tone it down when I need to.
Then again, the late great Elmore Leonard said, “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.”
I don’t get why people get mad about bisexual women usually ending up with dudes. Isn’t it just a statistics game? About 95% of men are straight and only 5% of women are lesbians, so even if you were pure 50/50 bisexual, you’re still 10x more likely to end up with a man.
Also just from my observations, straight men tend to be way more likely to indulge their partners’ bisexual urges than lesbians. So if you were a bi woman, wouldn’t you choose to settle down with a man and get a steady stream of pussy on the side via threesomes, rather than settling down with a lesbian and never getting dick again? Plus you can just do everything on the down low and never have to deal with homophobia. I actually know plenty of married women who do this – no wonder people call them greedy.
And here I was, considering getting back onto OKCupid after a 3 year break, and then I was reminded of the shit I found on there all too often.
Alright, so…maybe I’ll still do it. I’ll just make sure to think of it as something I do when I’m bored, so that I never get worked up enough by it to write a 1,200+ word rant about it.
I was on okcupid and talked about programming and tits. Then they banned me.
Reblogged this on Tricksy Tangy Official Blog and commented:
I’m still a little pissed about being banned from OkCupid.
I might start asking people to go http://www.okcupid.com/help and message them to tell them I’m a real person and unban me.
Cause I didn’t even break any TOS.
Well-written, fucking hilarious, and sad-but-true…
Yes! Finally someone writes about my profile.
I have read so many articles concerning the blogger
lovers but this post is genuinely a pleasant paragraph, keep it up.
Please let me know if you’re looking for a writer for
your weblog. You have some really great posts and I think I would be a good asset.
If you ever want to take some of the load off, I’d absolutely love
to write some material for your blog in exchange for a link back to mine.
Please send me an e-mail if interested. Regards!
Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and video games of
older console eras. Is that clear Money speechYou have meddled
with the need for entertainment purposes convenient and effortless.
Rock Revolution for Xbox reside marketplace, the characters, brutal, stereotyped glory.
Lots of times and then return to a new video game console.
You should take part in a contest for one of the finest sites on the internet.
I am going to recommend this web site!