Dammit. There goes my soulmate…

I saw this in a man’s OkCupid profile, and… Is this a big enough issue for men that y’all need to disclaim it away up front?


Are there women out there all, “Get you a man who’s been in a gang/jail and has no job?”

But hey, good on you, sir — establishing your boundaries and managing my expectations. Ahem…I guess…

I already know I’m an asshole.

This is one of those times I’m AWARE I’m an asshole. You don’t have to tell me. Cool? Cool.

My father emailed all his daughters to wish us a nice holiday weekend and he said, for the first time ever in my life, “Love you to the moon and back,” and instead of feeling touched and all a’squish with love, MY jackass brain went, “What the fuck does that even MEAN? Why is this a thing?”

In my defense, I’ve been seeing that phrase everywhere lately on, like, inspirational framed posters and shit and wondered the same thing. I guess I just get extra pissy when it’s aimed at me.

I mean no offense if you use this expression. I’m just on marketing overload with it, and I have questions. Like…why the moon? Why don’t you love me to Neptune and back? That’s some cold shit. Wait…is Neptune farther than the moon? And then, see, I have to realize how little I remember about the solar system and now I feel stupid. Your love reminds me I’m stupid — THANKS.

Can you love me to Italy and back? Bring me some gelato while you’re out.

Exclamation pointless

I’m tempted to write back to this first OkCupid message, only to demand an explanation for that last exclamation point.

I have questions.

Is that, like, your punctuation money shot? You finish writing a standard message like a normal 45-year-old man but then you’re like, “Wait, you know what? …BAM, a RED one — unexpected, right?! Hash tag NAILED IT.”

Don’t you know the minimum is 15 pieces of flair, sir?

The most “The fuck?” baby I’ve ever seen.

I took this photo from the car while driving, so I’m sorry for the poor quality, but I drive past this billboard every day and I feel like everyone needs to behold its majesty.

image1

“What Not to Wear” — THAT. Don’t wear THAT. 

Aunt: “You look good, your outfit looks like an Ann Taylor ad.”

Me, aloud: “Thanks!”

Me, mentally: “Your outfit looks like ‘I have questions.'”

Praise be to any/all deities for providing me so many years of What Not to Wear, and other external influences to counteract an apparently genetic inclination to hide one’s body in giant clothes, or wear sweatpants to family parties.

P.S. I am a petty and small person. 

Fresh Off the NOPE

First message on OkCupid: “So out of all the people who message you how many would you say are asian?”

*blink* Uh…

It’s FROM an Asian guy, but still, what a strange first question. Am I supposed to respond with a number? That’d be pretty fucked up — I’m pretty sure it’s not cool to track the number of people from any given race who’ve messaged me. Plus, I don’t have time to be racist. It seems exhausting to divvy up my misanthropy into groups.

Also, you probably meant “what percentage.” If I said none of them have been Asian, but I’ve only had three guys message me in total, that’s not really statistically significant.

…Aaand now you’ve just forced me into heckling an Asian person about math. Thanks, now I AM a racist. Dick.