Stupid things

The Duncan Trussel Family Hour Podcast

This was a podcast that was recommended to me by a friend of a friend that I didn’t know yet, but I knew the guy was a podcast listener. Something I’ve recently noticed about podcast listeners: they’re my favorite people. There’s a quality about them that I can’t instantly attribute to podcasts, but I always like them pretty quickly, I assume because they listen to likable people talk for several hours a week. Anyway, about the podcast: I’m glad it was recommended to me, and I’d be glad to recommend it to others, because Duncan seems especially good at reaching a great point of advice or wisdom from the guest every episode. Plus he interviewed Pendleton Ward and Jesse Alarcon, creators of Adventure Time. It’s all good!

Anyway, I guess the main point of Duncan’s show, and ultimately every podcast and piece of media I consume, is to provide an alternative to focusing on all the negative aspects of our lives and being miserable. The way he did this on the episode with Pendleton and Jesse was highlighting the fact that there’s nothing more precious and valuable than the time we spend alone doing anything we want to do, and the idea that we need constant romantic companionship might actually be as destructive as not. Duncan iterated that from the three girls he’s lived with, he doesn’t recommend it to others unless there’s plans to have kids.

Why did this three minutes of a podcast get to me? Probably because this entire year has revolved around potential girl partners that fell through. Am I surrendering to a bitter college-type “relationships are dumb and I’m now asexual out of spite” resolution to this? Kind of. This particular podcast was one of a number of things that happened on Friday that pushed me in the direction of not caring as much about that whole side of life, and I feel like I’ve been happier for it.

I’ve complained recently about life becoming some weird meat market where living and enjoying the moment has been hampered by my new sense of perception where I can see myself and others all doing this stupid thing. This weekend, that didn’t happen. I didn’t see it; I wasn’t trying to see it. I hope I can continue not seeing it, because it’s been nice. Also, I don’t have time for girls right now. Yeah, that excuse. Of course there’s never any time, and no time is ever great for anything, and of course I’ll take opportunities as I see them, but what I mean is that I can’t focus on that stuff anymore. I’m in debt, but I just met my boss about a raise at work, and my bands are starting to do well, and I’d really love to focus on all of that stuff instead of some weird lifelong lottery that assumes we’ll somehow find a partner forever and ever. Does that sound right? It’s been right for me recently. Hopefully that keeps up.

Unfinished basement

“Unfinished” is really an understatement for this area. I mean it’s probably as finished as it’s ever going to get, as this house has been around for over a decade and our landlord filed for bankruptcy this year, but dear god is it a serial killer’s dream down here. If you’re looking for uneven off-gray cement walls sparsely stained with colors of unknown origin, you’re in the right place. Random clothing and boxes filled with waterlogged trash? Sure. This is the perfect place to set up a desk, put on some first wave ska, and write a blog.

Okay, truth be told, this really isn’t the perfect place for anything. I have been practicing down here for the past few days, though, because I’m filling in for a band that requires me to be better than bad at trombone. The problem is that I feel like I haven’t practiced the damn thing in a couple of months, and my learning curve for getting it back has been far too gradual. The show is tomorrow, 4/20, at a house, if you wanted to come and get second-hand high from whatever kind of people come to something like that.

There’s probably going to be a girl at the show. Ooh, @temptathumor on Twitter, who’s the girl? Well, Twitter mom, you sound just like my manager at work, who asked just the same question. I said girls in this city seem to not take much interest in me because I’m 26 and haven’t really made any efforts to pull my life together. I mean, I have, but I’ve got three roommates, and all of this debt I’ve collected isn’t going anywhere any time soon. And I couldn’t tell you if I even know what I want with a girl right now.

The girl I’ve thought I had something for the whole year, the same one that I’ve been repeatedly advised to not get too deep into, finally managed to get the point across to me tonight. I went on another “friends date” with the group of men and women that usually convenes when I see her and watches us pathetically try to breach boundaries with one another and make physical contact for little to no reason. Great people all, of them. Tonight, they were joined by one extra person.

I’ll call him Mike, because he had kind of a Mike feel to him. He was great in a lot of ways, but spectacular and memorable in few, and not a particularly deep thinker or profound statement-maker. He’s into a lot of the same comedians that I am, and I found it strange that his jokes lacked a transcendent “I’m past the basics” quality that I was expecting. It wasn’t a matter of crowd-pleasing; I can speak to that as the resident expert on the subject. He’s just a Mike. He’s got some character, but fits into the background of most situations well. Tonight, he was with my something-girl. I couldn’t give any details of what the specifics are on that relationship, but the guy came into the event with her, and had no issues breaking personal bubble and regular comfort boundaries.

Seeing all of this, I knew I should have felt crushed. And I did, a little bit. But, more than that, I felt relieved. I’ve been freaked out about the situation with something-girl for forever. How could I possibly match up to a girl I’ve only seen be perfect? Well, tonight took care of that. It was uneven and splotchy and weird, like this weird basement and it’s incessant electric hum. My right brain knows that most people have their individual quirks and aren’t objectively better or worse than me, but it’s hard to convince the left brain, especially when those people are really really attractive. 

I’m not freaked out anymore. I’ll talk to the 4/20 girl. I accept that it could be a real disappointment for me, but my expectations really aren’t that high. I’ve messaged back and forth with her long enough to know we can hold a conversation, and that’s a start. We’ll see where it goes. Every basement starts with something; I should be fine as long as I don’t let the shit just sit around and pile up.

Make A Joke About The Goddamn Weather

I’ve made a few quasi-anti-feminist rants on this thing before, and while I’ve never had any intention of taking that stance before, I might have been pushed to it today. An editorial article from Jezebel showed up in my news feed, not because a friend shared it, or because I was subscribed to it, but because it was SPONSORED. Jezebel paid Facebook to show one of their editorial articles presumably to my demographic of twenty-somethings. Let’s get right into it:

The More Weight I Lose, The More Fat Jokes I Hear: A Dating Story

This is the article Jezebel chose to sponsor. It’s the harrowing tale of a middle class white girl who used to be fat, got more fit, and has now found herself out OKCupid-ing with men, hearing jokes about the fat girls they’ve come across in their previous experiences with internet dating. Quick note for those of you who aren’t male or are smart enough to have not visited OKCupid: there are a LOT of overweight and dumpy girls on the site. You can sometimes recognize them by the old Myspace standby photo angles and self descriptions, but the art of deceit has really improved over time, and it’s crazy how little a human being can match their pictures these days in this brave new world.

Back to the article: this white girl from Brooklyn is of course appalled with what she’s hearing, because her feminist writing job basically requires being appalled with everything at all times. She refuses to let these men off the hook for their rude jokes, confronting them about their treatment of fat Americans and proudly stating the number of relationships she’s closed at the first date because of these sorts of statements. Here’s the paragraph that really pulls it all together:

“I felt like I was suddenly part of a club that I didn’t know existed prior: People who were small enough to not get offended by fat jokes. Was this their roundabout, cruel way of assuring to me that they didn’t think I was fat? Was it meant to be some sort of compliment to me, that I was part of an arbitrarily decided weight class that they had deemed acceptable for dating purposes?”

Yes! It is meant to be a compliment to you, that you’re part of an arbitrarily decided weight class that they have deemed acceptable for dating purposes! Being fat is an unattractive and unhealthy thing, remember? And it’s preventable! These men weren’t talking about how gross their previous dates were because they had cancer, but because they chose to eat so much and were likely lousy dates. They’re allowed to not like people for those reasons!

I could go on, but you get it. This promoted Facebook post has 238 likes and over 30 comments from women that are on board with the writer’s way of thinking. I guess the Facebook sponsorship went well. It needs to stop.

Not just Jezebel’s sponsorship with Facebook, not just Jezebel, not even just feminism, but the whole trend of publishing our insecurities and blaming them on the world. Sorry you used to be fat and get hyper-sensitive when you hear people mention others who are, but that is your problem. Why would you PROMOTE your problem? Spread it around? The last two sentences of the article are my favorite, and explain exactly why: “We stealth fatties are lurking behind more sizes than you think. Make a joke about the goddamn weather.”

You’re reaching out to all of us terrible people who have standards and don’t mind saying what’s on our mind, and imploring us not to. You’re asking to police and homogenize the world into only discussions about the weather and our pets. Those things won’t get offended! I don’t know how to make this behavior pattern stop, but I think it’s a worthwhile cause to try. Our efforts to choke all controversial thoughts and opinions out of people in the past twenty years have led to a few positive things I could point to, but more prominently a more depressed and less productive society. Self-worth, deserved or imaginary, can not conquer all obstacles. What’s more, you can’t outsmart your brain about whether you deserve respect or not. Live up to people’s expectations, be a part of the world around you, and see if life doesn’t get dramatically better.

Low Battery

I’ve been playing a lot of music in my room to drown stuff out lately. My roommates partying with friends outside, my low energy levels, some of my thoughts, and, oh yeah, the fire alarm. No, my house isn’t on fire, but the fire alarm has been making plenty of noise to let us know it needs batteries. It beeps loudly enough to be heard from anywhere, but somehow not obnoxiously, every 20 seconds. I’ve been listening to it from the moment I get home to the moment I head to work in the morning for the past three days. It’s in my dreams, I’m sure. I could replace the batteries, or even dismantle the damn thing, but it’s tough to get to and we all know our roommate Dave doesn’t really want us doing anything house renovation-related without making it a full-day event. So we listen to the beep.

Life’s been okay. Work is going well. Beep. I’ve been playing a game call Recceatear, which was a delightful sale piece on Steam that involves running a fantasy RPG item shop. It started out a little slow and weird, but now I’m a fan. Beep. Speaking of fantasy games, I also bought a card game called DrunkQuest recently, and am happy to say that I’m a pretty big card enthusiast now, as long as alcohol is involved. Neither of the two bands have practiced in a while. Beep. I came home pretty drunk from playing that card game the other night and expounded to my ex-girlfriend for over an hour on Facebook chat about the finer points of life.

Beep.

What the hell was I talking to my ex-girlfriend for? And what about? Don’t I hate exes? Well, hold on. She needs someone to talk to as much as anyone ever has. She basically admitted to having been bratty and pushed all of her friends away. Beep. Her boyfriend has become the only person who she feels cares about her, and she doesn’t really feel the same way about him. Given all of this sad information, it would make sense that she initiated this conversation. But she didn’t. Beep. I did.

The truth is that my situation isn’t all that different from hers. I didn’t push my friends away, though; I just stayed in one place while they tried to move on and become adults. Beep. I toyed around with that idea for a bit recently, but I’m really in no place. It’s not something I want to do while I’m still in Philadelphia. And I ideally want to still be in Philadelphia for the next three years. Beep. I need this job I’m working to go somewhere and lead to a point B, which at the moment I’m thinking will be a nice warm friendly comfortable city south of here. I don’t want to specify exactly where until I do some window shopping, but I’ve got ideas.

This is what I talked to the ex about. Beep. I’m so scared of the world around me, and confronting anyone, mostly because I know they’re scared too. Everyone’s accepting poor treatment, bad food, jobs they don’t want, and lives they didn’t ask for, and they’re too scared to say anything about any of it. Beep.We set our focus on gay marriage, or sheltered animals, or the new iPhone release, and do everything we can to ignore the world in front of us. The wealthiest Americans rate the same on a happiness scale as the poorest communities in India. Beep. My fantasy of the south is a community where people say whatever they’re thinking, aren’t afraid to wave to strangers, and live open fulfilling lives. Nothing’s ever exactly what we want it to be, but hey, I survived my last disappointing move, right?

I’ve got to replace the batteries in that damn alarm.

Hey Caitlin

Hey, what happened to this blog thing, huh? Well, for one, Tumblr put in this weird java interface that may actually be designed to make me feel uncomfortable typing lengthy entries. Secondly, I’ve been boring. So goddamn boring there’s nothing to talk about. I go to work, pulling an extra hour each night until 7:00, come home, cook a modestly-sized dinner, and fall asleep at a time that fits into hour and a half sleep cycles because it makes you wake up more refreshed. On the weekends I plan “quirky” events like St Patrick’s day beach-themed parties/thinly-veiled excuses to drink excessively that always end in people falling asleep or bailing out right as I’m starting to have fun. I’ve been interested in a girl for a month and a half, flirting from a safe and casual distance that trust fund Harvard graduates would probably find to be very fun.

Did adulthood take over while I wasn’t looking? What the hell is all of this? Was my broke drunken journey through Brooklyn’s streets with degenerates really so bad? Seems like I had a lot to say about it. Better yet, I REMEMBER that stuff. I remember Ralphy jumping directly into a mailbox, playing a show in my girlfriend’s apartment while people did nitrous upstairs, drinking and eating hamburgers on a roof while fireworks went off over Manhattan. Come to think of it, that kind of stuff happened here in Philly, too. I played trombone out of a car window on New Year’s Eve, went directly to a show at a children’s moonbounce center after work, and took a random blind date out to olde city to harass historical actors and sticker things we weren’t supposed to. I haven’t made memories like that in a while. There’s one memory in particular that might have contributed to that, and I might as well tell the story.

I dated a girl for the last week of January. Well, we weren’t dating, but we hung out for the last week of January. She met me at a dive bar called Connie’s Ric-Rac at a miserable show where everybody was trashed. My band played and she called me her spirit animal. Then she asked if I was gay or single. I said just the latter part. So she gave me her number written on a ripped up piece of bar napkin and texted her until the next night when she came back to my neighborhood for margaritas and conversation. She turned out to be very funny and a lot of fun, until the end of the week. That was another show, one where she got really drunk for the fourth time in the four times that I had seen her. She got drunk enough to talk to everyone at the bar about everything. My friends, random guys, whoever. All of her life’s decisions and sexual history was an open book, and you didn’t even have to ask. Just bring up a place she used to visit on amateur stripper night. I ended the night looking uncomfortable, and she ended the night walking away from our car, her only ride home, because I looked uncomfortable. Apparently I’m uptight.

Yeah, I left a trashy girl out on the street to die. Or, more accurately, she refused to accept a warm safe ride away from the cold and dangerous streets of Fishtown. I don’t know if this affected me in the “I need to evaluate my life in morals” way that the girl was maybe hoping for, but it did make me want to stay away from unwholesome girls for a while. So, predictably enough, I started honing in on a friend-of-friend target that I’d only ever observed from afar before. She freelances making designs for a textile design company, has worked with autistic children, and only seems to know really nice cool people, none of whom are creepy around her or have any sort of obvious sexual history. She’s also gorgeous. And, as I understand it, has found me attractive at some point in her past. She’s just not ready for a relationship. Just got out of a very long-term thing with an all-American military guy who cheated. I’m getting really into other people’s lives here, so hopefully nobody reads this.

The point is, this new interest doesn’t know what she wants. I think this is fair. I don’t know what I want either. But I definitely want something to happen, and it seems like my month+ wooing process hasn’t really done much in that direction. I’m pretty sure there’s no distance to be gained on that front, but I’m also pretty sure it won’t make this girl happy if I randomly start dating others out of boredom. Who’s to say she won’t do the same to me if I don’t, though? I mean I guess the simple solution is just to talk to this girl directly and clearly about all of this, but that’s kind of completely insane. Plus I risk sabotaging a lot of things socially if I put her/us in an awkward place. I’m going to have to sabotage something soon, though. I’m ready to break something. Life’s too short to spend in between events. Time to insert a plot point. Could be a bad one. We’ll see.

More Cold

Oh man, I was almost free of being sick today. Almost. If I had chosen to go to sleep at a decent hour, I would still be on that path. Except there was really no choice about it. I left work half an hour late because of an end-of-day E-mail flood, which left me with just enough time to get home and make two five-minute phone calls to my academic advisor and property law consultant before band practice, which led straight to drinks with my old roommate at New Deck. He’s been trying to see Zach and I for about a week now, and the reunion was fairly enjoyable, but it had to end around midnight, at which point I was able to come home and finish an assignment for college, only one day behind schedule. Another one is due tomorrow. And I’m three assignments behind in the other course. And another girl who I’ve messed up with my bullshit in the past texted me today about a meet-up that I don’t want to deal with. Oops. Hopefully I catch up with all of that at some point. Not tomorrow, though. Tomorrow’s busy.

I can see the thought forming in your head right now: “attemptathumor, 50% of your supposed obligations appear to be purely social and unneccesary. You didn’t have to do band practice or go to a bar. Also your blog is not funny.” If you’re thinking those things,you’re right. But I don’t know if we should be cutting things out of our lives simply because they aren’t necessary. Or maybe I’m just having problems with the concept of necessity in general.

Case in point: as cluttered, messy, and frustrating as my life is right now, I wasn’t the worst off by a long shot. Two members of the band I was practicing with recently lost their fiancee/wife in a fairly dramatic way, and are forcing smiles while they suffer through the aftermath. Of the various forms of pain I’ve felt in the past few years, I can’t say I’ve gone through anything that can compare to that, and that’s something to be thankful for. I need a girl, though, right? I need a wife. That’s what my mom and popular culture tell me!

The point I seem to be meandering in the direction of right now is not that any girl I commit to will put me through an enormous amount of pain, and that’s not really what I’m trying to say. I just don’t know that I need a girl, an education, a steady job, a car, a mortgage, a Roth IRA, a nest egg, or any other buzz words I heard on a banking commercial once. Everyone seems convinced that fun has to end in their lives at some point or another and boil down to work, and I’m having trouble figuring out why that is. There’s certainly no biological factor pulling me toward that mindset, and the logic behind it seems completely absent.

If I sound like a petulant hipster trying to stay in Neverland and be a kid forever, well, maybe that’s accurate, but it doesn’t mean I’m wrong. I’m concerned that all of humanity is forming lifestyles out of routines and rituals formed centuries ago, and I don’t know that it holds up anymore now that we aren’t throwing rocks at our own shadows and cursing the gods for rain anymore. Everyone’s quick to agree that happiness comes from within, and equally quick to go out looking for it in a job, a house, a spouse, a mouse, a blouse, or a grouse. Okay I’m drunk, go home.

Live From a Sunday Afternoon Hangover

Here’s an issue I’ve had thrown my way recently: I haven’t been very apologetic or lenient with the girls I’ve seen in the past year and a half. Why just the past year and a half? It probably goes back to a conscious decision I made about a year and a half ago. I was having trouble with my emotions around the girls I was dating because I couldn’t reconcile the fact that they had slept with other guys, usually in and out of relationships. Was it hypocritical? Kind of, but at that point in my life I had never had sexual relations with anybody I didn’t at least have some notion of spending the rest of my life with. I wasn’t religious, feminist, or running for public office, I was just imposing a puritanical lifestyle on myself without reason.

Near the end of my stay in Philadelphia, when I broke up with the girl I was dating, I made a conscious decision to break the puritanical cycle. I was going to sleep with girls even if I could see no future with them at all, and it was going to break my insane hypocritical mental block about my partners’ pasts. Sure, some part of me saw the plan as messy, flawed, and unlikely to work, but I was also fairly bored and it was something to do. The crazy part: it worked. I did the aggressively single thing, I became more laid back, I got fairly secure with my personality, and I feel that everyone liked me more because of it.

Then I found a girlfriend. Well, I was sort of ensnared by a girlfriend. I was trying to do the aggressively single (read: sex) thing and have fun and not care in the morning, but I was hurting her in trying to do that, and I didn’t want to hurt her, so…then I had a girlfriend. I was better with this one, but the insecurity about her past did occasionally creep in and make me look and feel like a lousy partner. When that relationship ended (as it had to, because I had no place being in a relationship at the time), I started to get very crazy with the aggressive singleness thing.

Eventually, I started dating another girl, because it seemed right in some way. No matter how bitter I get about relationships and romance, I feel like I’m always going to come back to them. It’s how I’m wired. This relationship was different, though. I cared about her, and not her past, and focused on the things I could control. But there was another darker and more subversive element this time: always, in the back of my mind, I knew I could go back to the freedom and fun of being aggressively single. And if that’s an option, why put up with “old ball and chain”-type bullshit? I’ve got the key to unlock the ball and chain, and it’s as simple as a phone call. “Nothing against you, babe, you’re just not as good with me as I am.” And now I hold all prospective partners to that standard. Will a life partnership with another person ever be as good as a life sole proprietorship with myself? I don’t know, but I think it’s the right way to make the decision. Maybe that clarifies last night’s rant a little bit.

2013 Good Guy

I underwent another great series of stories tonight as I drank liquor, talked to people I didn’t know, played trombone in about 5 south Philly bars, lost the $15 in my pocket, made about $15 in free drinks and shots, moderated a number of drunken disputes in my house, and eventually closed and locked my door panting heavily like you see cartoon characters do in Hannah Barbera’s shows. It was intense. Do I ever want to do it again? No. Not really. But I think I kind of have to. Because the alternative is worse.

Occasionally I’ll hear about someone my age or younger that “made it”: they’re a doctor, or a lawyer, or something universally successful, they found a spouse, they had a child, they live in an area that’s accepted as pleasant and valuable. I don’t deny their happiness, but they lack one thing I have: autonomy. How far does that benefit go? Apparently to the extent that I still have to hang out in my house and moderate other people’s altercations in order to hopefully get recognized by everyone as the good guy. Oh man, it’s great to be the good guy, though.

I can’t commit to another person for life right now. I can’t even commit to a TV show for more than a few weeks. What I can do is act within a self-defined moral code and be thankful that I at least get to define those boundaries. I get to choose how I want to end each day after work, to go home, or squander my paycheck at the bar, or walk around the block until I get tired. Whatever. It’s my life. That much is good. And for that, I’ve got stuff to be happy for in this new year. This is important when you’re expected to be the good guy. Have I built expectations? Happy New Years, everybody.

Nice Guys of OKCupid

For the most part, I don’t have all that many opinions that I really feel strongly enough about to not concede a bit to the other side. I’m not a huge fan of arguments in general. I am, however, very exhausted from a late night of work, and am maybe in a bit of a controversial mood. I’m definitely giving this whole thing too much of a prologue. I wanted to say something about “The Nice Guys of OKCupid” Tumblr pictures that keep showing up on my feed, and I’m not sure if people are going to like it, but I feel strongly enough to take a hard stance on it.

For everyone in the dark, “niceguysofokc” takes pictures from guys’ OKCupid profiles, throws over some text from their profiles about how nice they are, and then at the end shows a sentiment that would maybe prove them to be not so nice, such as “I hate Jewish women.” In theory, I love it. It’s funny to knock people down a peg when they toot their own horn. What’s not funny are some of the reasons these guys are being dismissed, and the trend that’s led up to it. The most frequent reason I see that these “nice guys” aren’t nice is because they answer “yes” to the OKC question “do you think women have an obligation to keep their legs shaved?” Oh no! You ready for me to say something really controversial? They’re right.

We grew up in The Simpsons/Family Guy generation, where a family consists of an underachiever son, a smart but under-recognized daughter, an outspoken clever wife, and a dumb putz of a husband. The original intention of this model was an ironic jab at the traditional male head of household model, but it now seems to be shifting towards becoming the traditional model, at least in women’s minds. Calling men as a whole “simple,” “dumb,” or even “gross” is completely acceptable, whereas any blanket statement about women is instantly demonized as chauvinism. There are websites and blogs such as “niceguysokc” completely dedicated to the stupidity and grossness of men, right down to uploading cellphone pictures of penises to laugh at.

It’s gone too far. We’ve hit the bottom of a slope that we should have met in the middle of. Not all evils in the world are the fault of men, and men are not always wrong. I would say close to 100% of men don’t want to see hairy legs on girls, and find girls more attractive when they smile and say nice things. It’s not sexist. It’s just the way we feel. Everyone on Earth has an obligation to be nice, attractive, and pleasant to be around as they can be, and it’s nobody’s fault but theirs if they refuse to meet the world’s expectations on those points. It’s unfair to demand the best of others while making no efforts to better yourself. Be good! It’s good for everyone! That’s a positive thing to say, right?

Casanova Frankenstein

I’ve been out of my goddamn mind lately. I can’t figure out why. Right now, for example, I’m listening to a pop punk station on Pandora, hearing endless songs about high school breakups that probably never actually happened and thinking “wow, I wish I could feel that kind of heartbreak for someone again.” What a stupid thought! I’m somehow convincing myself that I’ve been cursed with the inability to be ignorant and enter the same kind of throw-caution-to-the-wind-type relationship that the people around me seem to do so easily. I only have one solid point to the validity of this curse, but it’s a pretty strong one: I’m hurting people.

Ugh, that looks pretty bad when I write it out all blunt like that. To be clear, there’s no physical violence coming out of me. I’m just out in the dating world, doing dating stuff. It turns out I’m a pretty attractive casanova-type guy through the lens of “I’m a woman over 25 and there’s no man in my life” desperation. I’m a healthy-looking male living on his own with a full-time job and no drug or gambling dependencies! Nevermind the part where I’m also codependent, mostly broke, bitter, and living in a house that hosts semiweekly coke parties. I do my best to push these girls away with that latter part, but they’re too focused on the former. They put too much stock in me way too early, and for that, I guess they’re really hurting themselves. And I’m not responsible for that. Right?

None of these girls are “the one.” I’m sure of it. And when I mention “these girls,” I’m going back quite a ways. I dated some of them for months, or even over a year, with no lifetime potential in sight. Just about everyone thinks I’m being too picky. Maybe they’re right. Pete Holmes talks about “Frankensteining” the ideal girlfriend on his podcast, a process that involves molding together your favorite traits of all of your past relationships and creating a girl that could never exist. I’ve got a little bit of that going on for sure, but I don’t think I’m being completely irresponsible with my expectations. My opinion is of course that everyone else has it wrong.

Everything’s felt way too rushed lately. Yes, I’m on the latter half of my twenties. I don’t know what makes this a good excuse to muck up the other 2/3rds of my life I have left. I’ve found my Frankenstein girl more than once in the past few years, and they are always otherwise occupied with some other guy that they settled for. The whole system is broken. I don’t believe in the concept of soul mates, but I think most people only truly work as a couple with a small percentage of others, maybe around .1% of the population. Less if they will only settle for one gender or another. So let’s take my straight-guy-females-only .05% and assume about 80% of them are already married, engaged, or dating, and I’m looking at .01%, 1 out of every 10,000 people, that I could potentially pursue a future with. That’s not too picky, right?

That’s the other thing I’ve been doing lately. Breaking everything down to numbers and statistics. It’s a side-effect of my new corporate job, but also something a little more insidious and uncomfortable: adulthood. It’s tough to get excited about things when it’s all numbers. I’ve got to get them out of my head, at least as far as this dating thing goes. It’s supposed to be fun. Everyone stop being hurt, okay? We’re getting old. We can still have fun.