I can’t be bothered to go on a fucking date anymore. The whole thing has just become so joyless. And it’s not them; it’s me. There are plenty of nice attractive girls. I get unsolicited OKCupid messages from them. It would be so easy. But… fuck it.
There was an old episode of STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION. Or maybe DEEP SPACE NINE. What happens is, the Klingon messiah from thousands of years ago comes back to life. Kahless. And there is debate among the Klingon community as to whether it’s the real guy, or merely a clone. As one would expect with Klingons, words are not enough to settle the dispute and there has to be a ritualistic duel of champions with crazy crescent shaped two handed knives.
So the pro-Kahless and anti-Kahless guy are having this grim battle with the knives; sour, determined faces, cunning and strategy; and Kahless steps in and is like- “what the fuck is the matter with you guys? You are taking no JOY in this! We’re Klingons! We fucking LOVE fighting– you guys look miserable!”
That’s what internet dating feels like to me now. And dating at large. I love dating; I love women, but it’s become just this rote, mercenary thing, you know. It’s become an assembly line. Find girl. Message girl two to three sentences exactly– longer messages and shorter messages get far fewer responses. Fifty per cent of the time they respond, almost always continuing whatever joke I made. I “cut the thread,” say some other funny thing that is unrelated, and ask for the number. Fifty per cent of the time I get it. Ten minute phone call on the drive home a day later. Propose a specific plan. A specific bar on a specific night, and the bar is a place close to my house that serves artisanal beers with undetectably but shockingly high alcohol content; three of them will get any girl into the fuck zone. Go for the makeout on the second cigarette break. Walk her to her car and ask her to drive me home. Ask her to come inside. Get her inside, more making out, more booze, get her into bed, eat her pussy till she gets horny enough to let me put it in unprotected. She’ll ask if I have condoms; of course I don’t. Continue reading
I keep looking at this one polyamorous chick’s profile. There are a lot of them on here. Most of them are noise, as far as a guy is concerned, because most of them are “F/bi/available” but have the NO MEN NO MEN NO MEN disclaimer that every bi girl has, or the friendlier “I do like guys, but sorry fellas, I have a harder time meeting women in real life so I’m on here looking for girls only.” Looking for girls to bring back to their strong jawed bartender boyfriend who sings about communism in a band.
And almost all “bi” women are like this, poly or otherwise. NO MEN NO MEN NO MEN. The bitch of it is that because it’s a woman looking for women, and thus having to do some actual work, these profiles are the best ones. You get to see a side of them that’s actually trying to present their lives as something you’d actually want to be a part of. Of course these parts are walled in by giant blocks of NO MEN NO MEN NO MEN type ward-you-off stuff in all caps.
God dammit— why are all you girls so fucking boring. This is how old I am, this is where I’m from, this is what I do– I love my job! I love my family and friends! Go fuck your family and friends. I hope your family and friends are all on a bus and it explodes in a fiery wreck. I hope your job fires you and you are forced to suck dick under an underpass. You will wish your family and friends were there to help you out, but they will have died in a fiery wreck.
Just— you fucking chickenshits have to start showing a little actual personality. Who fucking cares what people think of you— you’re on the goddamn internet. Nobody cares.
Or— let’s just… let’s just assume you love your family and friends. From now on, let’s only make it a point to mention them if you do not love your family and friends. Everybody loves their family and friends, even me. Let’s just say something about your family if they beat and molested you; that’s the only thing that could possibly make them interesting. Even I love my family, although I would gladly trade them in for a family with a shitload of money, and my friends I end up fully replacing about every year and a half.
Originally Posted September 1, 2011:
So a woman went on a date off match.com; the guy was a convicted sexual batterer, and he went ahead and sexually battered her, too. So she sued them and now match.com is screening out sex offenders.
Or trying to. Wonder what the mechanics are here. Do you now have to give them your social security number? Is it men only? I mean, it’s a different beast than OKC because match.com is already taking your credit card number, so, they’re already in the business of identifying you as an individual human being. As far as OKC goes you could actually be a sentient jellyfish that got a hold of a keyboard somehow. That’s kind of the beauty of it.
By the way, match.com is also in the business of taking your credit card number and charging sixty nine ninety nine to it every three months, forever. It’s genius how they do this—every three months that sixty nine ninety nine shows up on your balance. You see it and think “what the fuck? I haven’t signed on to that shit in three years.” You call– you make a series of calls, emails, match tells you to call the bank, the bank tells you to call a different division of the bank, the different division of the bank tells you to call match, who tells you to email, you get no email back, you email again, you call again, etc., etc. and ultimately it turns out you have to do something like send a certified letter signed by a notary or bolstered by an Act of Congress or something and then MAYBE within ninety days they’ll stop charging your credit card. It becomes such a hassle to get off of match.com that you just forget about it for another three months, until you see that charge again and flip out. Maybe you even go on match, figure, fuck it, I’m payin’ for it. You go on match and it’s the exact same chicks that are on OKC, except they too haven’t logged on to match in three years. Continue reading