OKCupid: My Life is Perfect

16 Aug


They hit 30 and the profiles start saying:

My life is perfect. I just need a man to share it with.

At 1AM her chihuahua woke me up licking the back of my balls. I want to say I thought it was her, waking me with a blowjob. But I knew it was the dog. Been woken up by OKCupid girls’ ball licking dogs about a thousand times more than blowjobs. My life is perfect means she has a dog. Dog job BMW cocktails with the girls. Mid century modern furniture. A hanging copper fruit basket. Books arranged by color. She likes you, she says about the dog. She doesn’t usually like men. Heard this a thousand times. I’ve told a thousand women: the cat doesn’t like you. Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t like anybody. Once in a while he lets them get a palm on his back and I tell them this is exceptional.

I don’t give a shit if the cat likes you. It’s not a sign we’re meant to be. You could walk in the room and the cat could scream like he’s on fire. I’d still fuck you. I’d still care how fast you text me back for a week. I’d still stop caring after a week. The cat can run and hide like his back leg was crushed by the garbage truck or snuggle up to your neck. He’s not the one who’s gotta fuck you. True too with the dog. Your new man won’t like the dog. The dog won’t like him. You’ll still end up with him instead of me. Typically he’s British. I hope it’s the same guy with all of them. Same British guy doomed to wander the earth dating Korean yuppies who dumped me.

My life is perfect. Just need a woman to share it with. I have no money. I drive a certified pre owned mid size family sedan. When you lift any object in my house it’s like a log in the forest after rain. Hideous wet invertebrates with poison pincers scatter. Some flee to my underwear drawer. They’ll lay in wait to gnaw my sac with chittering H.R. Giger mandibles and give me instant flesh necrosis. Pots in the refrigerator with mashed potatoes from June blooming with delicate otherwordly fungus. Books covered with dust and old toenails and hollow dead spiders.

I have friends but never see them. Every day wake up alone. Write something not worth reading. Drive to work with the obnoxious radio. Work a job where saying my title makes my dick shrink like I’m eight years old in a cold lake. Collect a salary that puts me in the top ten per cent of all individuals in America, the point zero one three per cent of all people on Earth; I am one of the highest earning people who has ever lived, according to some dick measuring money web site that tries to sell me mortgages. I make three times more than the average family in my city, which is one of the most expensive in history. And my income is laughable. I own nothing but a pile of debt and a laptop. A couple guitars and a bike (edit: that got stolen yesterday). Middle class money is nothing. Even with no wife no kids, one bedroom in a stucco building with a cinder block wall and two wilting agaves in the dirt off the front porch– in terms of pussy, you’re a legless beggar in India.

Money is nothing unless you have enough to brag about. People think there’s more than there is. The median pre tax income for an American household is fifty two grand. To brag you’d have to pay ten times that in taxes. All books and articles and movies and shows are about rich people. All public figures are rich people. All sitcom apartments are worth ten million dollars as a convenience of set design. So being rich looks normal. Just like cop shows make competent cops look normal, because the case has to wrap after the fourth commercial. Really they just write tickets and kill blacks.

Wake up. Write alone. Write shit and spend the day ruminating how your writing is shit. Menial work, lunch break, menial work. The gym, where your pathetic genetic waste of a body groans on every joint with every rep. You’d like to think it’s aging but it’s always been like this. You were always a boneless gangly flopping marionette even at sixteen. The shape your body wants to be, if you skip two weeks of pro athlete level weight training, is floppy daddy long legs limbs hanging off a distended jelly gut. How did my ancestors survive. Why wasn’t my bloodline mercifully extinguished. It’s a gay gym, which means 60 year old steroid blasting freaks with bodies a thousand times better than mine. Fine. Motivating. But gay music. All gyms by law should only play AC/DC. Ramones, Motorhead, Black Sabbath, NWA. Mine plays the HIV remix of Miley Cyrus. The hepatitis remix of Ke$ha. Gay men’s interest in teenage girls: unseemly. I just want to statutory rape them like a normal person.

That’s an hour. Then AA. You’re there to be lifted spiritually by serving others. You spend 53 out of 60 minutes sulking over a better looking guy with the one hot girl. Newcomers identify themselves. You must help them. Get their numbers. Later sit through awkward calls with them like talking to your grandmother on Christmas. Go home. Read woman hating forums and reddit threads about A Song of Ice and Fire. Then bed. Somewhere in there beat off with the Powerful Male Stroker it took 20 years to get the guts to buy. About one day in ten you think about killing yourself. Get mad at your mother for being the reason you don’t. Typically that’s weekends. Typically after you haven’t written anything good. You’ve written a thousand things. Six of them are good.

What good are you if you’re not rich. If you’re not famous. If you’re not– not merely decent looking but exceptionally, freakishly good looking. What good are you if your penis is not nine inches long or more, which girls think is slightly above average. Which is in fact three and a half standard deviations above average. My IQ is probably three and a half standard deviations above average. But it doesn’t hit cervix.

She wants to write. She has writer’s block. An in. You have to know something she doesn’t. Have more money. Be better looking. Nicer car. You have to know more than her about her favorite thing that she spends all her time learning about. You have to be the only person who can solve the One Big Problem Otherwise My Life Is Perfect. Writer’s block is the only problem I can solve. God help me if I had to change a tire.

You solve writer’s block by eating shit and being in agony for years. Force yourself to hammer out worse than useless garbage for hours that feel like lifetimes. Every day, until something clicks and you suddenly need it as therapy. Sit there with a demonic inner voice shrieking at you for a decade. And remember: this is a decade of calendar time. In subjective time, one instant of writing feels like years walking dark mazy corridors of third degree burn self hatred. Like Stephen King’s The Jaunt. Come back with white hair jabbering it’s longer than you think.

Anyway, just do that. Your self hating voice never gets tamed. Even after you get a little known. Make a little money. Girls in different cities mail you dirty panties and buy plane tickets to fuck you and you walk around with a secret. I am INTERNET FAMOUS, god dammit. I am a REVERED CULT AUTHOR, fat Chinese woman selling me gas station cigarettes. That’s what you’re seeing in my eyes. Once in a while your gaze makes other men look down at cracks in the sidewalk. I have 22 “positive” Amazon reviews and my hundred thousand hours of work has earned me almost what I make in one week as a fucking secretary. Look upon my works and despair.

My life is perfect. Just need the perfect woman to share it with. Well she kind of is perfect. Asian with tits who does not take birth control. She’s 36. This means dropping sperm in her is like dropping a pinball in one of those Rube Goldberg animations from The Electric Company. God knows what unholy birth defect it’ll land on. But she wraps her legs around your back and grabs on to you like she wants it and I do find the dog charming.


Check out my book Hot Naked Tits

18 Responses to “OKCupid: My Life is Perfect”

  1. marcosschwarz August 16, 2015 at 4:45 pm #

    Ugh bravo. Keep writing these they’re fantastic

  2. Anonymous August 16, 2015 at 5:12 pm #

    Keep at it mate; you’re good and getting better.

  3. anon August 16, 2015 at 6:38 pm #

    love your writing but it’s starting to seem like you’re beating a dead horse here with the whole “women are shallow, online dating is empty, we are no one if not rich/famous, but i still get pussy on occasion but it still feels empty” spiel. it’s like, OK…how long are you gonna string this along for. what’s next. if it’s pointless then it doesn’t matter. where do you go from there.

    have you had a chance to check out aziz ansari’s book modern romance, apparently it includes lots of detail about online dating, shallow women etc.

    somehow putting things into a book gives it more of a sense of…finality. then you can move on and evolve to the next step of dissatisfaction.

    • Warcrimes666 August 19, 2015 at 6:27 am #

      You love the writing so much that you wish it was completely different so you can enjoy it more. How dare you. The man puts truth to agonizing page and most pleasantly, with great accuracy, covers the eternal anguish of all men since the beginning of time. Aziz ansari, are you for real? Does the worm tell the bird what to eat? We can smell that you are a fat sexless woman, get a grip.

  4. Shylock Holmes August 16, 2015 at 10:58 pm #

    It would definitely be a lot more refreshing to read a similar profile that read ‘I’m 34 and still single, which leads me to conclude that I either got very unlucky or made some horrible mistake somewhere along the line that I apparently still can’t quite figure out what it is. Help me try to fix that!’. At least it would be self-perceptive.

    • nikolhasler August 17, 2015 at 9:37 am #

      Nobody needs your help, butthole. You can’t even suss out the point of a fucking blog post.

      • Shylock Holmes August 17, 2015 at 1:30 pm #

        If you don’t like the verb ‘help’, switch it to something more empowering – ‘I’d like to change that’ or whatever. I don’t think it alters the point much.

        That such women don’t need ME probably is true. What of it?

        That there are plenty of women who are 34 and genuinely very happy with their situation and don’t need a man for anything and have no regrets about any of their major life choices is also very likely true.

        That such women are typical among the set posting OK Cupid profiles like the one described seems less obviously true. Frankly, I’m somewhat skeptical of anyone of says their life is perfect.

        As to the point I’ve failed to suss out, do feel free to enlighten me.

      • Anal Trauma August 18, 2015 at 3:53 am #

        What a horrible response – so nasty.

    • ben bien August 19, 2015 at 6:45 pm #

      hey dude, the font on your site is too small to read. would be cool if it were 14 pt or higher. i checked it out and didn’t feel like squinting or zooming in so i just left.

      unsolicited advice, i know. i use blogger too and the typesetting is awful.

  5. Atlanta Man August 17, 2015 at 10:03 am #

    DT is the shit man! This blog post is real as fuck, I am 40 and I feel everything in it. I have to go to the gym and train like a goddamn professional athlete just to look decent, I have a JD a Phd (in fucking Biotech) and am currently finishing my MD , I am tall, and pretty fucking charming but I still struggle to get laid consistently by hot women. My body only looks good because of the daily gym struggle, my mind is sharp, and I am a career obsessed driven individual but none of this attracts the hot Serbian waitress at the South Beach dive bar I frequent.

    I am quitting Medical School to go back to bartending, I always got laid doing that…..Vagina just does not respect my ambition.Fuck.

  6. mark boris August 17, 2015 at 10:11 am #

    I actually laughed out loud while reading this. Twice. Thanks for brightening my day.

  7. ben bien August 17, 2015 at 4:00 pm #

    took it full circle.

  8. JG August 18, 2015 at 10:47 am #

    Make sure when you change your tire that you loosen the lug nuts before jacking the wheel all the way up off the ground. Failing to do so will make the job much more unstable and difficult.

  9. lolz August 27, 2015 at 12:55 pm #

    I love middle aged Asian broads. And Geriatric Adian broads. And 20-something Asian broads. And Asian teen girls.

  10. Dildo Faggins August 28, 2015 at 11:34 am #

    You should start a patreon campaign. I know you’ve compiled a book — and people can buy that to support you. And that’s great. But for regular readers, who’ve already read all your stuff — I imagine patronage might be a more attractive option because it’s like an investment in new material.

    You have provided a lot of value with your writings — and you might be surprised to find out how much interest there would be becoming a patron as an expression of gratitude/love and to encourage you to keep writing and publishing your stuff.

  11. Dildo Faggins August 28, 2015 at 11:45 am #

    “She likes you, she says about the dog.”

    LOL. This line is a gem. Geniusly phrased. I had to stop and bask in the genius / funniness of it for awhile.

    Instead of saying “The dog likes you, she says” or “She says the dog likes you” you switched up the phrasing, the reader first inferring that “she” is the girl, but revealing it’s actually the dog — this turned a boring-at-face-value statement into a professional-comedian-level one-liner.

    You know, like classic Groucho Marx-style:

    “I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn’t it.”

    Bravo. K, I’m done nerding out.

    Oh, and the rest of the peice was good too.

  12. RPK (@RPK_) December 11, 2015 at 8:09 pm #

    Your own brutal honestly hits so close to home it’s scary. If it makes you feel any better I really enjoy your work and hope you keep it up.


  1. OKCupid: My Life is Perfect | Manosphere.com - August 16, 2015

    […] OKCupid: My Life is Perfect […]

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