Someone(s) in Memphis have a new site and I just found out about it a few minutes ago but I’ve already decided it’s the best thing ever and I even submitted a story (!!!).
It’s called I Showered for Nothing and it’s transcendent. If I don’t already know who’s behind it, I definitely want to meet who’s behind it.
I had a Plenty of Fish profile once upon a time. My username? Hipsterectomy. Yeah, yeah. You wish you thought of it. Anyway. If you’re a girl and you put up even a semi-flattering photo of yourself, you get a shitton of worthless one-word e-mails from dudes (subject line: “hi,” e-mail body: “hi”), even ones who, were they to actually read your profile, would see they are not compatible in any way with you. It’s just how it goes on these sites. The men throw shit against a wall and see what sticks and the women lurk and wait for someone not insane to message them.
Anyway, I got some truly odd messages in my short time on PoF. (Two foot fetishists and one man who wanted to know if I needed someone to call “daddy” stand out in particular.) And then the other day I got this:
I mean, I guess it’s an easy way of saying both “I don’t want kids” and “I don’t read for comprehension,” but still. Fellas, think before you hit send.
INSTANT UPDATE-O-MATIC! Do you think this guy was trying to make a play on words implying that I removed a man from my life recently? IS IT POSSIBLE THAT I HAVE BEEN OUT-CLEVERED AT MY OWN GAME?!
That’s been the name of my game lately, it seems.
My sister’s ordeal has been its own beast, and one that has not yet been fully tamed. She’s coping. I’m coping. We’re all coping. We are mining hope like it’s our job and so far it has either actually helped or made it seem that way.
But there is other uncertainty around. It swirls up from the bottom like creamer in my coffee, making things sweeter but triggering my constant suspicion that it’s not good for me. I savor it when I can get my mouth on it. I think about it a lot. I don’t know what it all amounts to but in my more self-indulgent moments I imagine myself getting used to it and the feeling washes over me and I’m left with a stupid grin on my face and some hazy, sun-speckled idea of what the near future could hold. I am full of pride and know better than to let myself get carried away with getting carried away. And yet. I am doe-eyed and hopeful and possibly naive and definitely making mixed CDs and constantly plotting and scheming (and not in the deceitful way) and hoping the day away. The scary part is that all of this could be in my head, even the real parts. If that makes sense. It doesn’t, I know.
I am putting myself out there, wincing. Bring it, Universe. I can handle you.
I’ve got a post up at iDiva about the frustrations of trying to meet men to date in a city where there are 20,000 or so more single women than men. (Check out that map. Hello, west coast!) It already seems like an uphill battle when you work an odd schedule that takes away most of your nights and weekends, and if you mix in your own anti-outgoing personality and weirdness about meeting new people, well, you’re cooking up a helluva recipe for a crazy cat lady.
I love that the first suggestion offered by a commenter is to go to church to meet men. I suppose I should have mentioned that the conversation in question was taking place between
an agnostic and an atheist two agnostics. Ah, well.