Some time ago I visited the phenomenon of online dating and made commentary surrounding the adventure. Whelp I’m back at it and this go ‘round is not so much an adventure but more like being on Naked and Afraid for 7 months straight with no rescue crew in sight, minimal provisions, warding off wild local animal species with nothing but my wits and my tits. I am questioning the evolution of mankind at this point based on my most recent experiences trying to date and find a compatable guy in my life.
Read the fine print. I have a lengthy profile bio and it’s pretty specific what I am looking for and what I am not. Yet the influx of those who buck the system or are potentially illiterate enough to bypass this is ludicrous. Geographic location, age, children, musical preferences, favorite foods and drinks, things that are my jam are ALL IN THERE. If you come at me with a cheesy pick up line and the obvious mental capacity of a Russett potato it’s going to be a hard pass.
Age. I have dated younger and we can get the Molly roast out of the way right now. My parents once told me my rental agency might think I was running a daycare. My mom offered to buy the guy some Hot Wheelz to play with. I now know better. And though as adorable as a Capuchin monkey who sits on your shoulder for a photo op in Cozumel, the young boys aren’t for me. It’s comically apparent how a guy speaks to you indicating his age. Calling me a MILF or saying you want to be my boy toy is some rudimentary frat boy lingo. Lay off the Porn Hub and come back once you’ve read some literature and don’t open a conversation with asking if I would sit on your face.
Pretending. I have been at this neverending rodeo long enough to see right through proclamations of intent geared towards what a man wants me to believe. “I’m not really sure if I want kids.” “It’s totally cool if you don’t like country music.” “I’m looking for a relationship not just a physical hookup”. Ummm, you specifically state you are DFB (down for babies), have a cowboy hat in 9 of your 10 pics, and are shirtless and making duck face at the gym which is code for “Let’s bang, baby.” I was once married to a slick, used car salesman type of guy. I can read your transparency clearer than a wet t-shirt contest in a monsoon.
Distance. Even dating someone who lives 30 miles away can be an obstacle yet somehow men think it’s reasonable to message me from Iowa, California, Minnesota, Hawaii, Florida, New York, etc. Even IF one of us traveled many miles for a date, then what? My yearning to be with you is going to be some Disney fairytale shit that I will just leave my friends, kids, job, and life as I know it for a ride off into the sunset with you? I’ve actually met some really great guys but then we have to go back to our respective states. I’m not moving, you’re not moving. It’s unfortunate the well of local ladies has dried up or you have gone through them quicker than a reformed Keto fanatic at an all you can eat pasta buffet but let’s be realistic here.
Humor. I’m a hard sell on this. You can’t fake funny like a porn star fakes an orgasm, you’ve either got game or you don’t. I need sarcasm and an edge, Dad jokes aren’t gonna cut it. And if we throw a penchant for Jesus and telling me it makes you uncomfortable to curse this is just not going to work. I’m cool with JC but you are also a little bit of a fucking pussy because a well-placed swear word can be golden.
Dick pics. Yes, it really IS a thing. Guys send these in an abrupt, unsolicited manner often. Sometimes with an accompanying live action video. One minute you’re telling me how your mama raised you right and you’re cooking a gourmet dinner and then BAM it’s a baloney pony party and you’re telling me you’re covered in lube and wish I was there. Charming. Not sure what your mom did for a living but that was one crazy homeschool class. I maintain that functionally with what you have is one thing, visually I am not jumping through my phone for the chance to ride your Magic Man Meat. Put your pants back on, your pasta sauce is burning on the stove, Chef Boyardong.
Vocabulary. I can be a grammar Nazi and will let a few spellcheck fails pass. I know guys have fat fingers and texting sometimes doesn’t convey their level of tools in the shed. There’s a distinct difference between a couple of your/you’re mishaps and just all out ignorance though. Writing an entire profile bio with zero punctuation, saying “exedera” (is that a new headache medication or a revelation that you never made it to the spelling bee in 5thgrade?), repeatedly messaging “Your sexy”, or just complete moronic sentence structure is inexcusable. I don’t know if your mom dropped you on your head but here’s a helmet to avoid further concussions and please visit a library STAT.
Lines. UR sexy. Did anyone tell you you’re a MILF? I can show you things guys your age could never do. You should come over and sit in my hot tub and relax. Come spit on me. …I can’t make this shit up. First of all, Doogie Howser, I will break you in half and you might not even have hair on your sack yet. And secondly, your ignorance will be far more appreciated if you stay within your own species range--young, dumb, and full of....far less brain cells.
Ghosting. Ironically this is the catch phrase epidemic that literally haunts me, making the notion pretty damn accurate. You message someone, there’s interest, the communication is really good, maybe you text or even talk on the phone. You meet for a date and the conversation and humor flow effortlessly, there’s physical attraction and chemistry. You’re completely on the same page. Then NOTHING. Texts stop, no messaging. Umm, pretty sure I wasn’t hallucinating you calling me your new best friend and I definitely didn’t shit my pants at that cozy little Italian place so what the actual FUCK?? Recently called a guy out for this BS and he said “It’s not that I’m not interested in you but my ex girlfriend came moseying back so…SORRY CHARLIE.” Like the mother fucking Starkist tuna commercial. Really? It’s a straight up land of douche baggery and I am literally swimming in it.
Kids and babies. My girls are older. I am not interested in having, raising, hanging out with, or spending the weekends with wee ones. At my age I maybe could still conceive but the baby would for sure have antlers. And far be it from me to crush someone’s dream of being a daddy some day. So don’t pretend you “don’t really know if it’s in the cards for me to be a father” if it is. The light at the tunnel is bright for me and that selfish me time is right around the corner. You know what's NOT right around the corner for me? Diapers and sippy cups. Sorry not sorry.
About those photos.. I love that you have been all over the world and are yearning for adventure and more stamps in your passport. You climb mountains, love the Cubs, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, your frat bros, your three cats (umm why?), your Harley, skydiving, and your mom. But unless you plan on bringing all of those things to a first date, you probably should stick to photos that actually include YOU. Actually thanks for sharing the cat triplets with me because it’s going to be a no for me, dog. More than one shirtless flex pics from the gym, looking wasted with a cig hanging from your mouth while you’re one tequila away from drowning at the swim up bar in Cabo, posing with animal pelts, police officers, stippers, a bong, or your token pink vagina beanie from the protest are not exactly lady boner-inducing. I would like to see who you are. If you are bald, don’t have 17 pics with hats and one grainy one in a group photo of you with the shiny noggin. If you are not exactly at your fighting weight, I gather the montage of you with Sun In highlights and that Pearl Jam concert T is not in any way current. And why are all your pics of you with sunglasses? Do you have a glass eye? Were you involved in some crazy scuffle on Pirate Night on that Disney cruise and can’t find your patch, Matey? Do you regret that guyliner tattoo when you were super into Poison?
I’ve heard stories on the flip side of women rolling up much older and heavier to those first dates so I know women can be guilty as well. Just don’t post a stock photo from the 1987 Chippenale’s calendar of a shirtless, hairless, super tan guy shaving WITH A BASKET OF KITTENS and expect me to take you for real.
Call me…maybe. If you throw out your number or demand mine within three exhanged sentences you seriously need to calm your tits. If we like each other we’ll get there. I’ve been burned too many times by misfits of the dating world sending ignorant, rude, mean, and presumptuous texts. I’m not giving you my number, my Snapchat, my Facebook, or my Instagram because I A) don’t want Netflix and chill shots of your schlong watching the Bears game, B) I don’t believe that your membership is LITERALLY expiring today and this will be the only way we can communicate, and C) I DON’T EVEN FUCKING KNOW YOU YET. There is a protocol to even online courtship and you’re acting like that asshole kid in the gift shop at Disney who needs a nap and is flipping his shit over a $45 Pluto stuffed animal.
I literally don't even know which way to swipe anymore...
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