…is apparently my 2015 battle cry. Because that’s EXACTLY what is going to happen to me this year. It’s an ugly death when you see the freight train coming at you and you just let it happen because you’re too much of a lazy fat ass to expend the energy to dive out of the way and save your own life, so you just accept/resign yourself to the fact that there’s no escaping your doom. So, while we’re down here at rock bottom, hanging out with the UGLIEST of God’s creatures, might as well do what the shameless do: again, go for broke.
What do I have in common with my landlord and the owner of the Italian restaurant across the street? I’m down for cutting corners. Which is exactly why I joined the magically terrifying world of online dating.
“Frances, you need to get with the times. It’s hard to meet someone in a big city. And you need to explore guys that aren’t your type—and you do have a type—douchebags.” The guy I’d dated for the past three months (‘dating’ is a laughable euphemism for what that shit was) definitely fit the bill, especially when he, effectively, nailed the camel in the back with a shotgun at close range (thereby breaking the camel’s back) by moving to Miami without telling me, much less saying goodbye. After that, I thought, “I bet even the urchins of the internet have better manners than that.” So, here I am.
And that was indeed my worry. I was afraid that, since I seemed to have no trouble attracting sociopaths like fly paper in my daily life, internet dating would only facilitate easier access for freaks the world over to reach out and impose their freak-ness on my person. Then again, this is coming from the girl who actually entertained the idea of putting ‘pro choice’ in her profile. (Friend’s reaction below)
“Frances, don’t look for the hot asshole with the six pack. Look for the guy who can bank roll your lifestyle.” Touché, trusted best friend. Stay close to the one true objective: free food.
The only thing I’ve experienced thus far with online dating is that it’s uncomfortable as all hell proffering yourself to complete strangers. You vet them before you meet them—I get that, that’s cool—but only by employing awkward conversation that more closely resembles a job interview than courtship. And regardless of your intention, you are basing your decision in large part on the other person’s profile pictures (Cool, because one of mine is Tilda Swinton as Madame D. in The Grand Budapest Hotel – if you can’t hang widdat den keep walkin’…also possibly why I’m alone). It’s just a painfully awkward place, more so for painfully awkward people like myself.
This is stupid. This is stupid. This is stupid, I tell myself. But will it work? Has anyone done a follow-up report on the success of ‘Fall Boyfriends’? Is this any more/less safe than posting an ad on Craigslist courting some random to agree to just show up at your door and spend approximately 36 hours holed up with you in your apartment as your cuddle buddy (or something more?) during this ‘historic’ winter storm? Yo no sé!
So, while I wait for mildly attractive, great-personalitied, wealthy-for-their-age matches to converse with me, you can find me at home, in the fetal position on—not under—my covers, eating salted edamame and pondering if people in hell are condemned to folding fitted bed sheets for the rest of eternity (like, how the fuck do you do that symmetrically?).
“Do you have enough provisions to last you through the storm?” my sister asks.
“Well, if I don’t then I’ll just eat the others.” #YOLOswag
“Does your onesie-slash-chastity-belt allow you to effectively stalk your prey?”
“No, it’s pretty loud.”
“Then I’m sorry, but you will starve.”
(One of the many fucked-up thoughts that immediately came into my head in response: ‘I’ll just eat my blizzard bae!’ Exactly why I deserve to die alone.)
Stay tuned, kids. Shit’s bound to get weird.