For the past few days I’ve been feeling like I may or may not have a cold. This is annoying, but I’m actually kind of impressed to learn I have commitment issues even with germs.
Or, depending on my self-esteem at any given moment and how fucked up you like your metaphors: “Damn, even GERMS don’t know my body is worth staying inside.”
I got a first OkCupid message from a man whose only profile photo is a fairly sizable, at-attention penis constrained by thin white cotton underwear.
The only part of his profile he bothered filling out was the “My self-summary,” under which he wrote only, “Discrete.”
*sigh* “Discreet,” sweetie. You’re looking for “discreet.”
“Discrete” is math. Don’t be math.
I guess if I’m allowing for there to be blood in his brain as well as in his penis, “discrete” can also mean “individually separate and distinct,” and its synonyms are “detached, unattached, disconnected.”
So maybe that IS the word he was looking for. In which case, well played, fellow commitment-phobe.
And hey, also? Way to grow a dick. Kudos, you should be proud of that thing.
But…nah, I’ll pass. If I put that in me, I’ll be rendered incapable of discretion no matter how you spell it. Probably best you don’t awaken that beast.
Disclaimer: I am aware that everything I’m about to say makes me a complete asshole.
Still with me? Excellent.
First OkCupid message:
“Hello Smug! I think I love you(r) amazing sense of humor, sarcasm, and snarkiness.”
*hyperventilating* Oh, OK. Apparently even a JOKE about love gives me a tiny anxiety attack.
“Can we please go people watch together, because you just might be my match. Like when you’re holding hands and your fingers fill the spaces in the others persons hand. I bet we’d have fun in Wal Mart!”
…Wait, what?
“My name is James. Let’s just start with the basics… Favorite color, beverage, food (Just kidding, let’s do this over a drink! )”
I don’t even know my favorite color because I am neither 8 years old nor Buddy the Elf. My favorite foods/drinks are in my profile because OKC asks for them. The profile also says I’m not meeting anyone immediately because I’m not becoming a Lifetime movie when you axe murder me.
“P.S. did I mention that I LOVE your sense of humor? The smile isn’t all that bad either…”
Jesus Christ on drums, James — stop saying “love.”
Capping off an already splendid day, I have a cyst that won’t go away, so I’m on my way to the doctor just to be 100% sure I’m not dying. I’m ALMOST positive, but symptoms of lady cancer are, like, fatigue, upset stomach, and menstrual changes — so, you know, not at ALL vague things most women have.
I hate needing medical attention anywhere in my vagina’s orbit. My gyno and I have a once-yearly relationship and I’m pretty OK with that. I’m not really looking for anything next-level.
Plus the only available doctor is male, which makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve had a man in the region. I’m all self-conscious about it and spiffed it up a bit, as if otherwise mine could possibly be the most offensive vagina he’ll see today.
FIRST message from a man on OkCupid: “If you change your mind about the kid thing let me know. You do seem like a riot! :D”
*deep breath* A few things…
1. Thanks a bunch for that cheery kick in the uterus. Much appreciated.
2. So your sole criterion for a baby mama is that she’s…funny? That’s outstanding, I can’t wait to see how your kid turns out.
3. Kids are the only thing you’d need me to change my mind about? So no worries that your profile says you “want to settle down with someone who’s in it for the long haul!” but my profile says, “I’m not looking for a relationship, just casual dating.” I want to know how you arrived at the decision to message me implying I should consider becoming broodmare to a total stranger — show your work. Or do you mean we’d default to “long haul” once I accepted my role as your cum dumpster?
4. ‘Cause surely YOU’RE gonna be the guy to change my deep-seated commitment and trust issues quickly enough to plant your seed before my last, shriveled egg fades to black? Sure, let me change my not-at-all carefully considered decision about growing a PERSON in my body, raising him/her for 18+ years, shaping them into a decent human being, getting them to school by Ass Early a.m., going into MORE debt for their basic needs and education and…Artisanal Self-Actualization camp or whatever the fuck, all so I can…what, exactly? Spend my life forever tethered to a 46-year-old fuckstick in Morgantown, PA, who’s grasping at wombs as he stares down the barrel of his spawn-less mortality? Drive 90 minutes and pay Turnpike tolls so you can jam your half-flaccid cock into me and hope one of your sleepy, disoriented sperm has enough energy to sashay its way into my Danger Zone? PASS.
*exhale*
We’ll just ignore the fact that reading the message, and writing this post, legitimately upset me, and now I have to go hide in the ladies’ room until I can Irish down this ridiculous rush of emotion brought on by some aging dickhead in the boonies.
P.S. There’s nothing wrong with 46, and I know that, science-ly, y’all could knock me up just fine. I just went with impotence because I’m an ass and it’s an easy target.
Today I saw my psychiatrist (ie, my Drug Czar, not Talky Therapist — it takes a village, y’all). And she thinks I should start dating again, before I “get used to being alone.”
Um… How ’bout “Shut up and give me my drugs?” You’re not the boss of me. Talky Therapist is. (Though, um, Talky Therapist also thinks I should.)
You’re shrinks. Shouldn’t I be OK being alone? Shouldn’t I be happy with myself before I bring in a Crazy copilot? Did you HEAR me tell you about the last times I tried dating?
“Well, you can just date casually. You don’t have to sleep with them.”
Well, no, I don’t HAVE to. But if history is any indication, I WILL. If I kiss (and I really NEED to kiss), I will tease, and then the man will end up touching the “on” switch on my neck, then I will lose my tenuous-at-best “lady” decorum, and then suddenly we’re post-coital, and he wants me to spend Christmas with him or leave a toothbrush at his place, and then I’m hyperventilating and doing The Fadeaway because I am a big fat coward.
I don’t feel like dating right now. I’m not cute in the winter, all shrouded in big bulky sweaters and corduroy pants. (Though, it’s supposed to be fucking 74 degrees in Philadelphia on Thursday, so I guess that’s not a valid defense right now.) But generally, sundresses are more my wheelhouse.
And by the way? I LIKE being alone. I’m pretty rad. That’s how I’ll know when I’m ready to deal with a relationship — if I wouldn’t rather be alone than with the guy. This almost never happens. Normally it’s “UGH, I have to…TALK to someone? And…shave things? This will not stand!”
*sigh*
On one hand, I don’t think it’s fair to potential dates that I would be comparing them at least a little to these previous relationships. But Talky Therapist tells me that’s actually a good thing, because I know what I want and what I don’t. Also, I do understand it’s not doing me any good to sit and wallow about any man who, perhaps over-simplistically, doesn’t want to be with me. So maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go check out OkCupid again. (I’m not going to meet anyone in a bar, that’s not my scene. I wanna get with a dude who steps to me in a Barnes & Noble — instead of sending me a drink from across a bar, he can send his favorite book and preferably a scone.)
If nothing else, attempting to date will give me good stories here. So here’s to 2016 being the year I finally get some. (And blah blah blah, true love, soulmates, rainbows — FINE. If I happen to find that while rubbing up against people, then yay for me.)
Sometimes I’m recapping therapy in my private journal and I find myself amusing, so I’m posting this excerpt:
“The therapist asked what I’d want from my next relationship, and I told her, ‘I don’t think I’m ready to be a Girlfriend. That would have to be an incredibly slow progression, like I almost feel bad for the guy and the baby steps he’d have to take to get me there. I should have a sign that says, ‘Commitment issues may be closer than they appear. (You’ll get laid, though, don’t worry.)’
“I mentioned the guy I’d been ‘dating’ who brought pancakes to my door uninvited and unannounced the morning after we’d, um…’dated.’ He texted me from outside my door to announce his presence. So I took the pancakes — I’m crazy, not stupid — but didn’t let him in because I was SO caught off-guard by him being there. It got a little Sheldon, like: “You’re in my house. People can’t be in my house,” even though he’d just been there IN MY BED the night before.
“So I guess I’ll let you fuck me but pancakes are too intimate?
“So I told the therapist I want, ‘Someone who’ll have sex with me, but only with me (because diseases, and what if the other women are better in bed than I am?). And they snuggle me for 5-10 minutes after sex and then get the hell out. And they’re not my boyfriend, but we go on dates, and also, they should be at least smart enough to know, like, how Velcro works.'”
“I do not find this at ALL unfair or unreasonable. (Except the Velcro. Come the hell on.)”
Leave it to me to find a conditioner with a name that triggers my commitment issues. 
I’ve been feeling like I might be getting sick for 4 days. So apparently I even have commitment issues when it comes to germs.
Smug Singleton 