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Apparently, at some point in the past these cranberry-orange bagels wronged me, so this morning I extracted my broiling, red hot revenge of them.
DIE, COMPLEX CARBS! DIE IN A FIRE UNTIL YOU ARE NOTHING BUT HOCKEY PUCKS OF YOUR FORMER SELVES
Also, the smoke detector won’t stop beeping.
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There’s a Subtle Difference, But Huge Difference
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.)
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In Which I Show That I Am Klassy with a Capital “K” All Day Long
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.
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In Which I Can’t Get to Sleep
It’s 12:53 AM, I have an 8 AM meeting tomorrow morning, I can’t get to sleep and I have the theme song from “Friends” stuck in my head.
This will not end well.
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An Addendum to That Last Thing I Wrote
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.
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A Small Sample of How Women Who Have Broken Up with Me or Blown Me Off Have Described Me As They Have Broken Up with Me or Blown Me Off
- “Sweet”
- “Fucking hilarious”
- “A super nice guy”
- “A generous and caring person”
- “Totally funny!”
- “Kind”
- “A great kisser”
- “A hoot”
- “Too sweet”
- “Not someone I can see in a romantic way”
- “Smart and talented”
- “Really great to be with”
- “A wonderful person”
- “Eclectic and funny”
- “Complicated, complex and brilliant”
“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?
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My dirty little secret, which I only share with you guys, my special, very attractive, incredibly smart and insanely witty Tumblr people whom I trust not to tell anyone else?
There was no date tonight.
I haven’t been on a date in months.
This is also where I insert “le ginormous emo sigh” and come to grips with dying alone.
And I begin to overcome my dreadful allergy to cats so I’ll have some form of companionship in my last days.
I’m going to need a minute here, I think.
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It’s a Saturday night, I have bourbon, cookie dough ice cream, a power tool and an ancient hollowed out G5 tower; it just doesn’t get any better than this does it?
Oh dear, here comes the weeping.
Maybe I’ll keep all the tears in the G5 tower instead of finishing my “+3 G5 Coffee Table of Holding” project.
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Ben & Jerry’s, Bourbon and the OS X Lion Beta for Dinner
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In Which I Begin to Understand That the Only Time I’m Ever Interested in Dating Is When I’ve Had Too Much Bourbon
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.
