I am not pathetic and lonely.
I am pathetic and alone.
(Though both those feature me weeping in the shower to hide the tears, so I can see how it’d be easy to confuse the two.)
My date canceled on me for tonight.
That’s fine. I’m easy and relaxed. Stuff happens and all that. It was just a first date from Match. No biggie.
This was my response to her, however:
“So you mean to tell me I shaved my legs this morning for *nothing*?! This is a travesty! How could you?!”
Because I know how to woo the ladies.
No one has broken up with me in a while. Those were just some of the “greatest hits” culled from a lifetime of getting dumped.
I’D HAVE TO HAVE AN ACTUAL SOCIAL LIFE FOR THAT TO HAPPEN.
Oh good heavens…
HERE COMES THE WEEPING AGAIN.
But at least I’ll be a hoot while I’m weeping.
“A hoot” is going to be my title on my business cards from now on, I think. “Hi, I’m Jon. I’m a hoot.”
Anyway. Next time I go out with a woman, I’m just going to hand her this list and a thesaurus. “Please don’t use any of the above when you flush me out of your life, OK? I’ve heard all these and it’d be great if you could come up with something original. Thanks!”
Also, who tells someone he’s a great kisser when she’s breaking up with him? What’s that about? I mean, it’s nice to hear and all, but pretty odd in the context of breaking up with him, am I right?
Remember a month or so ago when I got tipsy, signed up for Match.com, they gleefully took my $35 and then I promptly crawled back under my rock and ignored my social life?
Yeah, I forgot to cancel my subscription and they dinged me for another $35.
Of course that happened.
The story of my disorganization is not the story I want to tell, though.
Last night I went to a little get together with work people, came home, made dinner, poured myself a divinely strong glass of bourbon (Bulleit, which is quite tasty and I love the bottle shape, too) and the rest of the evening is a bit of a fog, truth be told.
Until I woke up this morning and saw I’d messaged a woman on Match at approximately 11:37 PM.
A woman I’m sure I’ll never meet, who mentioned in her profile that she’s looking for a man she with whom she can “play Scrabble and who won’t cry when I win.”
My message to her contained the following:
“I won’t cry when you win at Scrabble, but I will ‘accidentally’ knock over the board right near the end of the game, just as you’re about to claim victory and then say, in a completely believable way, ‘Oh no! How dreadfully clumsy of me! I’m such an oaf,’ while simultaneously spilling red wine on the notepad with the scores on it, rendering them totally illegible and then I’ll say in the most innocent way possible ‘Well, I guess we’ll never know who would have won, though I was about to throw down with “quartz” on that open triple word space, so it probably would have been me. Yes, let’s just note for the record that I won, OK?’”
It’s all good, though.
I’m getting used to the idea of dying alone.
TL;DR: “Dating sucks. Also, everyone sucks.”
ATTENTION ALL LADIES I MAY SOMEDAY ASK OUT ON A DATE! SERIOUSLY! HEADS UP!
If you do not want to go out with me (either in the first place or ever again), good gravy on a popsicle stick, just freaking tell me, OK? Really. You’re a “woman of a certain age” (I’m so very not one of those divorced early 40s guys who chase after 25 year olds, ew), can we please get beyond this high school-ish nonsense behavior of “trying to spare his feelings” and “if I keep canceling on him, he’ll get the message eventually.”
True, I will get the message. If you tell me, “sure, let’s go out,” guess what? I WILL TAKE YOU AT FACE VALUE and if then you cancel on me a zillion times, all the while telling me that you do want to go out, I will get the message that you’re hateful and possibly someone who punches puppies and eats babies in her spare time. I’m a big boy. I can take rejection. Different strokes for different folks and all that. No harm, no foul. But when I say plainly and without guile, “Hey, you seem great. I like you. Would you like to go out for a drink or a meal or something, perhaps this Friday evening?” You know what that means? It means that I’m an up front honest kind of fellow and the fact that I can so readily share my admittedly modest and initial feelings on the matter; that, my dear lady who I now want to bop on the nose with a clue stick, that little utterance of mine is a statement that I’m at least reasonably well adjusted and if you say, “Yeah, I don’t think so. Thanks for the offer, though,” I’m not going to stalk you or fly off the handle or break down in the grocery store aisle when you tell me that. Fine, I’ll probably weep a little, since I’m a Princess Sparkle Pony, but I’l get over it. Honey, I’ve started to do stand up comedy at my age. You think I don’t know all about rejection already?
Really. What’s the deal with this “if I just ignore the guy, he’ll go away” crap? Whatever happened to being up front and honest? It’s always been this horrible thing, hasn’t it? I’m an idiot for even daring to hope life would ever be different from junior high school. Perhaps I should try some other tack, because doing what I’m doing is so not working out for me. I mean, I’m not being gross or forward or creepy and sending penis pics via text message and telling these women how “hot” I think they are. I’m just saying “I like you. Let’s go out again.” (Or some non creepy as possible equivalent.) What the hell am I doing wrong? Maybe I should try the penis pic route. I’m going to need a stand in penis for that, though. Yo, @rsmallbone, I know you like to search for penis pics online; hook a brother up, will ya?
The “what am I doing wrong here?” is rhetorical question; I don’t expect an answer, of course. I just needed to rant for a bit. Truly, I’m getting used to the fact that I may be alone the rest of my life. I don’t particularly want to do that, but I swear, if I have to go on one more “let’s have coffee” date which ends with us both saying, “yeah, let’s do this again” and then my never seeing her again, I will start to punch puppies.
OK. Done ranting.
Y’all have a great Friday. I’ll be home alone with a bottle of bourbon and cutting on myself, just so I can feel something.
When we met, she went for the “nice to meet you hug,” I went for the simple “Hi, how are you? handshake.”
The awkward went to 11.9 after that.