Introspection and Shit.

I've been thinking a lot lately.

I blame the weather - come this time of year, a darkness peppered with rainstorms creeps in over the Midwest like it's heralding some terrible future (it is: snow), and I, along with about 70% of the population, take to my bed at high noon because it's so dark outside it looks like the climax of a horror flick.

Maybe I just read "Julie of the Wolves" too many times as a child but already I am starting to revert back to the ways of our ancestors as a means to survive. I'm striking up alliances with neighborhood animals and finding my place in the local squirrel pack (it's lower than I expected). I'm performing strange mystical rituals by the light of the candle I finally lit by rubbing two sticks together (matchsticks). I'm doubling my caloric intake in preparation for the long winter and also because mozzarella sticks were on sale.

Long story short, it's dark, I'm dark, and I've been thinking a lot.

One of the first things I'm realizing is that I'm a lot stupider than I used to be. More stupid? Dammit. See? I don't even fucking know.

I'm not sure whether to blame this on the fact that I'm now on the downward slide toward thirty and that my brain is deteriorating within my skull more and more with the passing of each day...  or that I've been pumping my body so full of various forms of alcohol for the past ten years and I can light a flame with just my breath (and two matchsticks).

For whatever reason, I'm dumber. I'd worry that this will impact my future career options, unpredictably alter my social interactions, and inevitably steer me down a much simpler and safer path in life than I had envisioned for myself as a quick-witted teen... but my poor brain can't process that much all at once.

Frankly, I need to conserve any remaining strategic abilities for kicking Fluffertail out of the pack. I'm tired of getting the shittiest acorns. That bitch gotsata go.

Secondly, that I care less. Possibly this is because my critical thinking skills are degrading so fast that next year I'll only be capable of sipping a juice box in a rocking chair for the better part of the day, but I just. Don't. Care. I'm getting older and stupider at light speed, and I've wasted a lot of my life putting up with people I shouldn't have, laughing off jokes that hurt my feelings, and having crushes on men that would probably rather date Fluffertail if it came down to a choice.

I'm done with that shit, I really am. Something switched on inside of me (it was probably just hidden beneath all the intelligence, before) that I'm grateful for. People will call me a bitch, people will call me overly sensitive, but I'm going to just call it like I see it now and follow my freaking bliss. I don't need people like that in my life. I'm edging closer to death with every breath, and I need my final days full of people that appreciate that I'm learning to stand up for myself.

Third, I'm noticing that other people are really stupid too.

Yes, I've always known this, because until my brain rotted away I've held myself above these silly, simple fools. I laughed at their little antics, and rested assured in the knowledge that I was better than them.

Well, now I'm down on that level, and since stupidity has given me confidence (aren't most of the stupid people you know strangely confident? That is because they literally don't know any better), I'm ready to tell you folks how stupid you're being in the hopes that we can all band stupidly together and form one and a half or so reasonably intelligent beings. Idiots, we need to unite.

Most especially when it comes to dating.

I do believe I already had a small rant regarding the Friend Zone, so I'll gloss that one over.

Let me just reiterate this: If a girl or guy tells you they just want to be friends, and you stick around hoping they change their mind, you are an idiot. I don't care which movie you think your life is based on, it ain't happening for you, Julia Roberts. Pull your head out of your ass and quit pretending you care about their feelings when you're really just biding your time to bone them.

Guys, being nice doesn't mean you deserve a hot girl. If you're so fucking nice, date a nice ugly girl and quit complaining that the 10 won't date the 3 even though he's like, always there for her. 

Girls, if he's not interested in you, plenty of other men are. You have boobs.

This is not all rocket science. I have seventeen brain cells left, and even I know this.

Uh, do you have an ass? Asses count too.

One of the biggest complaints I hear from my guy friends (or "friends") is that dating is too difficult because they don't want to get rejected. In real life, they lurk in that Friend Zone hoping that one day she'll get drunk, cry on his shoulder because her cat died or something, and see that he's been there for her all along. In the online world of dating, they message one or two girls significantly out of their league, complain when neither Tiffany nor Amber responds, and throw up their hands in defeat.

This all is very stupid. I love you guys, I do, but you're being really stupid.

However a whole new brand of stupid has revealed itself to me as of late. I haven't been dating much lately, probably because I've been so busy trading pelts and growing Yeti legs to keep me warm during the winter months.

Some of my friends are, however, and the best thing about having other poor souls stuck in online dating with you is that you can all stalk the guys your friend is talking with.

Yes, we do that. Did you notice that a girl checked out your profile but did not message you? You probably have a coffee date with her friend that week.

Because I deleted my Plenty of Fish account, my stalking abilities were frustratingly limited, so I signed back up. My experiences with POF have been disappointing and disgusting to the point where I had to scald off most of my skin and some of the memories. So, when creating a profile this time around, I went the most unappealing route I could.

I left everything blank except for my hobbies (Eating. Cooking. Food. Recipes. Leftovers.). My body type is "carrying a few extra pounds." Looking for friends only. My profile pic was of me making an indecipherable face and drinking from a penis cup at a bachelorette party.

Still, the messages came. Other people like food too! Omg we have so much in common.

I consulted my friend on this strange happening, and she noted that my picture gives off the impression that I really love to party and have fun or, as she gently put it, that I'm "easy." I immediately switched it to one of my Halloween photos - entirely in make-up and costume, making the craziest eyes possible, there is absolutely no way to determine what I actually look like underneath it all. None. I could be Jessica Alba or Bill Nye, you would never be able to tell.

If anything, the messages increased. I'm getting favorited right and left. Hahaha, I seem fun. Nice picture. Wanna get coffee?

I have not answered a single message nor made any attempt to seem approachable, my profile is almost entirely blank, and there is no way to distinguish what the hell my face actually looks like. This is the online "Shields up" equivalent of wearing chain mail, a ninja mask, and using my Katana to lop off the hands of anyone who comes within striking range.

Why are men throwing themselves at an online profile that is so clearly not going to end well? The same reason girls think they can only date men that order salads for them at dinner.

BECAUSE WE ARE ALL SO STUPID!

Seriously. I love you all, I really do, and myself even more, but got damn. We need to get our shit together, people, before the squirrels take over.

I've been in their midst, and I know how they think, and the human race is in true danger.

Lets order a pizza and talk strategy.

Ah, Fuck it!

Hello my beauties!

Well, I suppose we all knew this was inevitable. It's time to get me back on the market.

I'm in such a hot, sexy prison right now, I can't even stand it. 

At the moment, however, I'm battling a little bit of Manhate. Why, you ask with such concern?

Because men are stupid, that is my answer. Don't worry though. I think women are stupid too. Basically, I hate everyone, and mix cocktails in the dark whilst muttering black thoughts to myself and shooing mewing cats away from my slipper-clad feet.

First, I am continually, wildly disappointed in my men friends. Not all, mind you. A select few I still text very hopefully, but the general lot I am finding are really annoying.

The concept of male/female friendship seems to have gone out the window. I clearly am not capable of being friends with a man without desperately seeking to remove all his clothing AT ONCE SIR.

This seem to largely tie into the fact that I can only be their friend until they start dating someone. That someone assumes I wish nothing more than to remove the clothes of the male friend I had somehow magically controlled my baser impulses around up to this point, but now that this friend is in a relationship, I clearly seek to destroy it.

Ladies, a word of advice. Let your men have female friends, even attractive ones. And be NICE to those female friends. If I like you, I won't sleep with your man. If you piss me off... there really are no promises. I may just show up at his house at random and flash some boob, not because I would take pleasure from it but because I really just want to make you that mad because you took my friend away and I no longer have anyone to grab a beer with on Friday nights. Okay, Tuesdays.

I just like hanging out with people who are impressed by how much I can eat.

There's no way of sugar coating that. If you piss me off, I will show your boyfriend my tits. You've all been warned. If you're sweet to me, we will all be best friends until the end of time and I will casually laugh off his jokes about threesomes that make us both uncomfortable.

Another thing I'm sure most women who have reached my age (year "supple") have noticed is that rejecting a man, honestly and openly, but still asking if they want to be friends leads them to lie. They just lie. Yes, that's okay. No, not a problem. We'll still be buds. UNTIL A CHICK WHO WANTS TO DATE ME COMES ALONG.

At that point, I cease to exist. Thanks, pal.

Honestly, this has happened so many times I could literally market my life's story for a movie plot and be financially set for life. Yes, it might end up on Lifetime because my life basically sucks, but you get the point. I'm somewhere in between "Good Luck Chuck" and "Misery." I honestly pray those in question all end up divorced.

I have already mentioned the problematic situation of being forced to go single to a wedding, as a bridesmaid, where I will no doubt be pitied and possibly stoned to death by older Polish relatives.

Since I have literally no one left to hang out with in this fucking hick town, and being denied the ability to bring one of the very few men left that I can honestly call my friend, this all chased me back to online dating in some vague hope that I'd meet someone who, if not worthy of introducing to friends, could at least keep me company on a Friday night until I could find someone else to keep me company on Saturday night.

Let's face it, I require a lot of attention.

Interestingly, the men who noted my return to OKC were those I had already been in contact with previously...

This includes Gerard Butler Guy, who holds onto the ridiculous optimism that maybe I've ignored him and dodged his texts and messages for months because I'm just so into him it scares me. Clearly his dull personality and unwillingness to pick up the tab have not taken him off the market.

It also includes what actually amounts to a "slew" of writers, as well. Apparently putting that I'm more or less of a writer on my profile inspires other people who consider themselves writers to think we have something in common. You know what makes me immediately not like someone? Potential competition.

Be good at math. We'll encompass all aspects together. Do not be a better writer than me or I will hate you. I am not even going to pretend I'm not petty in this. I have very few talents of which I am proud, and I refuse to date someone who is, in actuality, more talented at writing. That only leaves me drinking and picking up stray cats.

Only whites. Reds taste like feet. 

However, writers can at least hold on a conversation (via messaging, text, Facebook, and any other media that primarily involves typing thought). I've got a good handful that were happy to see me back online, that know the difference between "too" and "to" (and "two"), and thought the pictures I added of me making stupid-ass faces were "sexy."

That's one good thing about writers - we are idiots. I made a joke about constantly wearing sweatpants (I am literally wearing sweatpants as I write this. I wear sweatpants 96% of of the week), and he countered with a joke about how the only way I could be sexier was if I ate potato chips in bed.

I hope you meant that, fucker, because don't even try to pry this bag away from me.

You know who love lazy women? Writers. And Philosophy majors.

And the unemployed (this includes both writers and philosophy majors).

... In conclusion, I hate most men and most women, but I'm going to try to date again anyway. Whatever. At some point I still like to think I'll get something meaningful out of this experiment.

Let's do this.

It's probably wisdom. Yeah. Wisdom.

What. Fucking. Ever.

Welp, my lovely Mustache Man was spotted cuddling up on some very slim organic hippy-type lady today, thus ruining my crush much too early. Was it too much to ask that he not just throw that in my face at this juncture? Let's be real. There's no way I was going to actually talk to him. I would have dragged this out for months and been perfectly happy secretly pretending we were a couple. Those fantasies keep me going in my everyday life; those, and imagining I'm a guest on "Ellen."

One of the problems with living in a small town, especially being an almost-thirty in a small town, is that dating pickings are slim... especially if you're as picky as I am. Yes, I'm looking for a lot out of my next guy, but the next guy could possibly end up being my husband, so why not be particular?

But everyone is either married, has moved out of this stupid city (as you should too!), someone you know/grew up with, or just overall unappealing to you for whatever reason. Maybe there's something to the fact that they've stayed here while everyone else fled in a Biblical manner.

Possibly I need to go on a bad-boy binge and just sow some wild oats before stumbling upon the Future Mr. MeMe, but that's equally difficult in a small town where everyone knows everyone, unless you want that guy you randomly made out with in a parking lot to show up at your next social gathering. Not speaking from experience or anything.

'Tis the seasons for weddings, and it's turning out to be especially rough on me this year. Not that I'm not excited for everyone who's out there tying the knot or producing babies. But I'm faced with standing up in a wedding soon as the only single bridesmaid. This sets me up as 1) a figure of pity or ridicule for the older crowd and 2) a figure of sex for the males who assume I'll be upset and rendered desperate by my situation (they are correct, and I will also be drunk).

Perhaps it's time to reopen the dating files and get out there a couple times a month, at least to keep my spirits up and make me feel like I'm making some small attempt to socialize with the male species.

Plus, I'm bored as hell half the time, and I could use someone to hang out with on a Friday night. It won't hurt my bank account if someone else is buying the drinks, either.

Time to wade through the applicants. Wish me luck.

Alas.

Just a quick update on my Mysterious Mustache Man...

Three failed attempts to stalk him later, this endeavor was a bust, and frankly, a complete waste of my good make-up. Do you know how much it costs to make myself look like I fell out of bed gorgeous? That shit cannot be squandered. Time and money like that can never be regained.

I did this for YOU.

At this point I'm pretty confident I hallucinated him and all his mustachey gloriousness. He has left no trail.

We didn't even get a chance to make pottery together!

Or, more realistically, he pleaded with his employers to stop forcing him to go to the market where the creepy girl stares at him a lot.

Come here often?

Either way, I labeled this one "bust," cried into my margarita (spent a lot of time looking at gifs), and started pasting pictures of Joseph Gordon-Levitt onto all of my photos to see how we'd look as a couple.

It's a good thing I have hobbies or I'd be pretty bummed right now.

Kiss Kiss, Crush Crush

I know I haven't been around much lately... I'm sure your journals have had to hear all about this emotionally stressful time and the void I've left inside you, but you'll be happy (I hope) to know that it's for all good reasons that I've been so absent.

MeMe has been... content lately. Life is pretty good. Ducks are lining up reluctantly into their rows. Throwing in the added chaos of dating men I'm only moderately interested in has just seemed like an unnecessary way of messing shit up, so I've let it go for now.

They say that good things happen to you when you're not looking for them, and for once, I've stopped looking. With that, I've fallen hardcore into a new improbable crush.

I haven't had a crush in a while. One of the worst parts about learning more about your crush is that usually it ruins the crush because these are actually real people and not the perfection I've built in my head.

My crush tank emptied slowly, one by one. I stopped stalking people who don't like me and texting boys that are bad for me. I finally came to terms that my fall-back crush ain't going nowhere. I quit trying to make "fetch" happen.

So I've been floating around crush-free (more or less). Ryan Gosling a la "The Notebook" has had to take the place of a crush in all of my fantasies, and honestly, let's face it: my odds of taking Ryan Gosling to bed are only like... 40, 45% at best. It sort of ruins a daydream for me when I'm so fully aware that it will come to nothing unless Eva Mendes suddenly drops dead on set and everything goes according to my evil plan MWAHAHAHAHA.

And, while no doubt this crush will take some energies away from all the productive events in my life, like trying to not suck at my job, and paying bills and car payments on time... it's kind of nice to have one again.

Everyone likes to have a crush. It gives us something to think about when we're stuck in traffic, or right before bed, or when you forget to bring a magazine to the bathroom.

This weekend I was at the Farmer's Market hunting for organic food to make meals with, because in my transformation into an Adult I've become disgustingly adorable and these are the sort of things I do now. The organic booths are limited, but I know one in particular that I like to hit, largely because it's manned by a real cutie pie and I don't hate lookin' at the goods while I'm shopping.

Cutie Pie was, this day, busy helping others, so I stepped back and let him customer-ize. He glanced up at me and went back to helping old ladies pick out produce (D'aww), getting a little frazzled, and telling them apologetically that he was suddenly flustered.

I'd like to think this is because he noticed me and how adorable I looked in my leather boots, but in real life my ego isn't really that substantial, and I just waited my turn patiently while he got his shit together and distantly thought how nice it would be if I were the source of all the flustering.

When it was finally my chance, I picked out an ear of corn--yes, a single ear. Cutie wouldn't have it. He threw all of his remaining corn at me for the same price, met my eye with ridiculously pretty blue ones, and bam... I was head over heels.

A little dazedly, I wandered off, smiling like an idiot and clumsily balancing an armful of corn. Ryan Gosling went out the window--Cutie leapt into my imagination.

We wake together at dawn to till the soil, after he brings me coffee in bed, and we laugh as the sun comes up and our rescue pets and goats roam the land. Together, probably wearing little floral printed aprons, we built a mildly successful business and are the fucking cutest farming couple the local markets had ever seen. He wears plaid and smells like grass and Gain detergent and brings me sunflowers when I'm not expecting them. I carry everything in a wicker basket, and learn to like pie. We adopt twin Chinese babies and raise them off the earth to be selfless and good. Before bed, we all read classics together by lamplight (my fantasies always seem to take place in the cabin from "Little House on the Prairie"). We grow old together and die hand-in-hand (Wait, no, that one is special just for Ryan).

Happily, I found the rest of my party, and told them the news: I was in love. He had blue eyes, and he had given me free food. He was my dream man.

One major problem:

He has a mustache.

Not like, a little fuzzy mustache because he forgot to shave that morning.

I mean like ringleader of a circus mustache. A mustache ironic to the point where it's no longer ironic (ironically).

People who know me know that I hate, hate mustaches. Mustaches are for men in unmarked vans telling children they have candy. Mustaches make me think of 1970's cold cases, and the horrible boss I hated so much I once pushed him. A mustache is just the sad destruction of a perfectly good beard.

Yet...

My cyber stalking refused to pay off, so tomorrow I'll have to doll myself up until I look as natural as possible, put on something that projects that I'd make a fine wife, and go stalk him in person. Does he have a wedding ring? Does he like women? Is he too young for me? Is he open to shaving? These are all important questions I need answered.

Or, OR, the more likely scenario... I refuse to make eye contact, can only grunt and point at which items I wish to purchase (You, YOOOUUUU!!! My God, how much??), and slink off without any of this vital information.

But hey, at least I won't ruin my nice new crush by talking to him.

The Overshare

This may officially cross the line into an "overshare," but if you bear with me, I promise at some points it may or may not be relevant to dating.

My body is, at this point in time, gearing up for what can only be referred to as a Superperiod...

The Superperiod is one of the most deadly natural events known to Man... Specifically to Man.

You left the seat up again, you fool! You've doomed us all!

A little anatomy lesson for those who don't believe me:

Within the production of a Superperiod, a female's body goes through a confusing series of events.

First, she becomes enormously fat. Her uterus is convinced its time has finally come, and preps her for being pregnant by making her look fucking pregnant.

Add in combination an eruption of acne she hasn't experienced since she first hit puberty. Now she's even more hideous. I'm not a history buff, but I'm pretty sure right after God cursed Woman with the period, he felt bad and invented make-up.

She just wants to wear her glasses, avoid people (who will laugh at her for being hideous those pricks), put on pants without a waistband and eat pickles out of the jar, because deep in her belly her uterus is demanding a continual sacrifice of potato chips and brownies like an obese Mayan deity.

There's no arguing with this creature. She's up in the middle of the night fashioning together makeshift garlic bread by the shameful green glow of the microwave, and it can't be avoided. All you Men can do is pretend not to see and let her simmer in her own self-hatred.

Confusingly, while the tangle of hormones in her body has combined to make her as unattractive as humanly possible, somewhere there's an instinct that drops with the egg screaming BREED BREED! '

She will want to have sex with everyone. Everyone.

It's like beer goggles for your reproductive parts. Suddenly, everyone is gorgeous and probably her Future Husband.

That greased up 40 year-old guido in the volkswagon? Future Husband.

The fat guy in the deli ""sampling" every single cold meat? Future Husband.

That dude walking in front of her with the ponytail? Oh no, wait, that's a chick.

I wouldn't kick him out of bed... 

I won't even mention the mood swings, I think we all know the real dangers of the Superperiod. Beware, gentlemen. She'll sex the shit out of you and while you're climaxing she'll chew right through your spinal column, Praying Mantis-style, because you told her six weeks ago that you thought Jennifer Aniston was pretty.

Why don't you go fuck JENNIFER ANISTON YOU FUCKING PIECE OF CRAP?? My mother was right about you.

And then, she'll cry and ask you to hold her.

It won't make sense. Don't try to make sense of it.

So, where does this leave MeMe?

I had mentioned previously the very young guy that managed to stalk me down and ask for my number. I had given it to him, agreed to go out, and had a sudden rush of Ick that made me a little ill and thus provided an excuse to not go.

Unfortunately, for work, I still had to go to his place of employment. I hadn't expected to run into him on a regular basis. Things have changed. Shit got serious.

I steeled myself. I would just go out with him and act horrible. I would sabotage the date. I would talk about my many cats, and my Pinterest wedding, and how many children I wanted, and who were his grandparents so I could incorporate our families in their names?

That way, the next time I had to see him, he'd do the polite thing and hide in the back room for an hour.

However, when I went in there, pimpy and grotesque and about three inches away from bitch-slapping the people standing next to me for breathing (not heavily, just breathing)... I realized I had forgotten how attractive he was. Wow.

And not openly off-put by my horrible state. Still interested even though I'm stuffing gummi worms into my mouth- directly from my purse? Color me flattered.

Chemical changes. Brain waves. A gentle but persistent persuasion from the nether regions. SCIENCE!

Then this happened:

So, yeah. Ahem. I embark upon another dating... experiment.

The Younger Man.

This should be interesting.

The Gentle (?) Letdown.

My wild weekend of dating turned out to be somewhat of a bust. First the cancellation from the mistaken racist, and then a cancellation (blamed on a change of work schedule) by the second, who I would say I was most interested in meeting with (and not just because he's a bartender... only mostly because he's a bartender).

My third and only date remained steady, bless his little heart. We met for coffee today-- I arrived early and bought my own, because I am frankly feeling on the bitchy edge of anti-social off and on the past few weeks (I'm blaming a serious amount of stress all  at once, including a death in the family) and the thought of going through the "who will pay" dance made me cringe. I didn't think I could muster up enough fake gratitude for a cup of coffee to make it worthwhile.

He was nice, and he liked to talk, which worked out well for me since I've been more in the mood to glare and fester, but of course, as usual, there was no real interest on my part. The only thing I could arrange any enthusiasm for was our discussion of "Game of Thrones," which is my new obsession and a nice change from my conversations revolving around mutant sharks. I didn't even go into detail about my multitude of pets when he asked me, which is usually the topic of conversation that turns me into a warm-hearted tiny white Oprah.

And this picture is from when I gave him a bath! 

It was, as my friend termed it, the "Snore Date."

No rudeness on his part, just a general lack of compatibility. I was glad he talked, because unless my coffee magically transformed into a frosty brew, I didn't have the energy for feigning interest in the things he enjoys, and he didn't seem especially enamored of my own likes and dislikes, and was only lukewarm when I showed him a slideshow of my cats.

An hour into it, I was confident nothing was going to happen, and also hungry (bitchiness level: high), so I excused myself to go home and eat ( + sweatpants). The poor man checked his phone for the time.

"Oh, it's only been an hour? Feels like longer!"

Yes, it really did, but thanks for that flattering reminder. This earned its appropriate response from me... something between a sneer and a look of disgust, along with an acerbic concern I had bored him.

So, yeah...

I wasn't sure I'd hear from him after all of that, but I did a few hours later, thanking me for the date and asking to grab a drink another time.

I set my phone aside. I pondered. I forgot about it and watched "True Blood." I remembered. I worried. I watched more television and did laundry.

While most agree I am perfection (statistics show), one criticism I do get from those that know me and know of my dating routines is that I avoid letting men down in the worst possible way.

To me, this is utter kindness, with only a strong dash of cowardice.

"Wouldn't you want to know?" My friend says.

NO. I would not want to know. Absolutely not. I've touched on this before and I reiterate it. In casual dating situations (exceptions may exist based on how "casual" I consider the situation), I would rather assume (and hope) that the man in question died a tragic death on the way home from our date--possibly running his car into the river because he was lost in thought about how marvelous I am and didn't see that a freak storm had washed the bridge out, yonder--rather than that he found some part of me lacking.

Especially on such short acquaintance, when I work so hard for them to not notice all the Crazy I've swept under the rug. On first dates, I'm at my best. I'm charming, more or less. I'm pretending to care about your job and your interests.

I showered.

So what is the problem? Is it my crooked smile? Is it that one of my jokes came off wrong? Is it that I blurt out things before I can consider them? Do you not like an in-depth critical analysis of "Sharktopus?"

*eye twitch*

We've all got our tragic flaw, and mine is that I want that to be good enough... for everyone. I can't become prettier, or more interesting, or pretend to enjoy things I don't.

It is what it is.

But I like it, and if someone else doesn't... well, honestly, I don't want to know about it. Let's just gradually lose touch and pretend we don't know each other when we see one another on the street. That was I can go on thinking the problem is your sexual confusion, and nothing to do with me.

When I consider rejection of another, all I can think is of how I would feel in their place... how I am reducing them to a shivering glob of insecurity by my cold, heartless disinterest.

I spoke with them, I looked at them, and I found them lacking, or unappealing.

 How dare I? Who the fuck do I think I am? I DON'T GOT TO CHANGE FOR NOBODY!!

Apparently, though, this is not how the rest of the world thinks. Not everyone is on my level of defiant desperation. General consensus is: if you don't want to go out with a guy again... he should probably know that.

I can only change my phone number so many times. The kind thing to do is to cut ties, move on, and get a new phone in case they drunk text and make me feel bad.

So tonight I made the effort to man up. After a few hours of putting it off (fantasies of "how could you, you bitch? I loved you!" popping up on my screen), I had my first experience with gently rejecting someone I had gone on a date with.

I'm gonna need a bigger mug.

I did the best I could, using honesty and smiley faces and every other method of kindness I can portray via text. I told him I had a good time. I told him I just didn't feel the specific (nearly unobtainable) connection I was looking for... which was totally my fault, fer shor I'm practically dead inside. I told him I'd love to hang out as friends, which is true (he has all the DVD seasons of "Game of Thrones"). I threw in some more emoticons.

I have not heard back yet, so I assume he has killed himself.