Population: Me.
I don't know... maybe I shouldn't go as far as to call myself desperate. But I'm not really sure how to correctly describe the new low I've reached without taking a personal jab against my flamboyant behavior, so desperate it is.
I joined a dating website.
Mostly for shits and gigs, because I'm reticent to say that I'll dredge anything up in the fucking online backwaters of society. And it's a free website, so to say I'm going to get my proverbial pick of the litter is, well, just completely whacked. Not that I'm sure a pay-site would find me that 40-year old rich bastard with sardonic wit and no children that will fall prey to my tig ol' biddies, but you know, maybe throwing a few bucks on the line will up the playing field a little bit. Maybe. But because I'm notoriously Jewy with my money when it comes to things I can do myself, I went for bottom of the barrel. The dating cesspool of the interwebs.
The site is "Plentyoffish.com." I chose this one because I read words phonetically and thought it was "Plenty Offish" and figured I'd fit right in with my aloofness and irreverence towards society. I really didn't figure it out until a little green banner popped up saying "Lets Go Fishing!" (initially I just cried over the lack of apostrophe) and then it struck me like a bag of dicks and I went "EEEAAWWWWWWOOOHHH." Really loud. And maybe stamped my feet. And woke up the dog with my exasperation. If I had any sort of decency or humility, I probably would've checked myself at that point; every other person's inner conscience would be shouting "THIS IS LAME LET'S ABORT THE MISSION" but no, not me.
(I repeat: Not desperate at all.)
My first task: choose a user name and a catchphrase to encompass my awesome being. I thought long and hard (that's what she said)... a catchphrase can be the difference between finding a doucher who just wants to fuck and finding the man of my dreams (lumberjacks). Since I'm hoping to find a habitual stoner who wears bathrobes and drinks white russians, I chose "bunnylebowski" for my name - which is frankly a misnomer, because Bunny was a) skinny, b) blonde, and c) Tara Reid... none of which I am. But I love irony, so I went with it. And my catchphrase? "I'm not a prophet but I'm here to profit." Because I'm not, and I am.
Next task: Fill my profile. It's like Facebook, but with more clarifying demographic drivel like height (5'3"), how often I drink (frequently/as often as possible), and my occupation (office bitch). My profile says that I'm looking for a man, I never want children, I don't give a flying fuck about religion, and that my blood type is O-neg and I have a history of seasonal allergies and depression but no STDs and I've had human genome mapping done and have a ginormous IQ. On POF, I only have four interests: Jeff Bridges, body modification, Wisniowka, and post-grunge bitch rock. And if you know me? You know that, really, those ARE my only four interests.
POF then prompted me to put up pictures - something about how your quest to find "The One" will be 83% more successful if you appease the male appetite for eye candy. (Bonbons and boobies, anyone?) In the interest of following my ironic behavior, I chose to put up the most heinous of photos I could find in my obviously meager collection (because I'm not a ham and hate having my picture taken): a zombie face, a cheesy smile with a thumbs up, me being an asshole on stage with the Argonauts, a clinically retarded face wearing giant white spirals, and a shot from Halloween with my titties a'bursting from my pinup dress while drinking Blue Moon.
Those photos basically sum up my existence.
But POF wasn't done with the exploitation. I had to create an "About Me" section, because the data I supplied in the first section wasn't enough for their quizzical site. Finally - a chance to shine...
"People call me difficult, self-assured, intimidating, and diabolical... and I don't disagree. I'm verbose and have a dark, self-depreciating sense of humor. I enjoy lumberjacks, old people, and the Oxford comma; I hate parking garages, mayonnaise, and people who don't use Oxford commas. You should probably be highly intelligent and well-versed in the English language (hi, please know how to spell and use correct grammar) and not bother me constantly with mindless drivel. I hate mindless drivel. Obviously."
Now, if POF was a person, they would have shown me the errors of my ways. I made some key mistakes in my "About Me" section. Let me pontificate...
- Nobody knows what the fuck an Oxford comma is.
- MENSA candidates don't hang out on dating websites.
- Men think "diabolical" means "nymphomaniac."
It's okay though. I knew I was setting myself up for abject failure and wasn't about to turn back at this point; I wasted too much time already, so I might as well chalk this one up to noob status and seal the deal. The site prompted me for one more tall-tale request: Describe your first date.
Cue my perverted mind."Perhaps play a little game called "Just the Tip." Just for a second... just to see how it feels."
Well that was certainly a cardinal sin. I thought it was a well-played Vince Vaughn movie quote, but apparently nobody watches his movies anymore and it goes over most peoples' heads... or onto most guy's heads.
As soon as I published my profile, the floodgates opened - or should I say the swarm of fucking locusts began plaguing me? The messages came in, two or three at a time, all with the same subject line: "Hi." FYI, POF has an quick message feature and the subject line defaults to "Hi" and pretty soon I was knuckles deep in messages proclaiming the generic and banal greeting and I began to think that I, in fact, was the one that was high.
It probably would have made the email reading far more epic.
And because I aim to please my readers, I'll bless you with a few of my favorite messages - with commentary at no extra cost!
- Meathead frat dude in Rochester: "yo whats good? lol like your pics ;) lets smoke some salvia.lol jk"
- Fellow Bridges fan with no picture: "heya...how come i never see you on yahoo?" PROBABLY BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW YOU.
- Clingy farmer in Cicero: "did i piss u off" This comes after a decent conversation and exchange of phone numbers. In 6 hours of "knowing" him, he sent me over 50 text messages and would freak out if I didn't reply in seconds. Hellooooo obnoxious!
- 50-year old sketcher: "your sexy. we should get together i'll help you profit."
- An athletic Utican: "Just the tip is my favorite game!! and can you humor me and tell me what an oxford comma is cause i've sure as sh*tnever heard of one" Well, at least we're honest. For what it's worth, I replied, and dude is pretty chill, and we might go dancing sometime. He is, however, dumb as a stump.
And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
They haven't all been as horrendously ridiculous though... and (shock and horror!) I've actually met two people from the site already. One's a teacher from L'pool - we had a few drinks and talked about awesome music - and the other's a journalist from Utica, who I actually ran into at the Gridley Paige show last night. It wasn't harrowing and didn't make me nervous... probably because I love talking about myself so much (nobody knows that about me).
So I'll forge on. Online dating is clearly not without its faults, but it's been a fun escape from reality and the banality of CNY. I'll probably not meet the witty rich baggageless bastard or the lumberjack with Mr. Bridges' sincerity (and haircut), but if nothing else, it'll give me an endless supply of lulz and something for me to rant about.
Because for as much as I love myself, I love ranting a hell of a lot more.
But maybe I should change the opening of this entry. Because I'm clearly not desperate (oh look, I made a joke), and I'm not the only one wading the murky waters of the interweb dating lagoon. Maybe it should go a little something like this...
Destination: Unabashed Shamelessness.
Population: All of the lonely losers of the world.
...Meh, not self-depreciating enough.
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