I saw you at Tea Lounge Saturday afternoon. I was sitting on the brown recliner near the coffee bar with my laptop, secretly masturbating to pixelated photos of Tina Yothers from "Family Ties". You were the tall blonde MILF, chatting with some dumpy brunette. Your kid was parading around the cafe, mashing chocolate frosting into clean tables and tossing half-eaten chunks of food at nearby patrons.
Your child's stroller was parked in the middle of a busy aisle, blocking my view of your bod. Thankfully, an old man tripped over one of its wheels and it rolled forward as he flailed to the ground. Then like a dream, I saw the hot pink glow of your Crocs, illuminating the bulging varicose veins in your husky, unshaven legs. It was like a Lite Brite toy, beckoning me to plug my bulbs into your peg board.
It was obvious that you were checking me out, since you failed to notice that your daughter ate a tube of lipstick and started drinking an enema bag she fished from your purse, thinking it was a Capri Sun. I saw you writing something on a piece of newspaper before you left, so I got up to check the table once you walked away. Unfortunately, amongst the massive pile of dirty napkins, crumbs, broken plates, and a puddle of spilled coffee, all I could find was a crumpled note that said, "Here's a tip for the mess", along with two quarters.
MILF, I wanna be your baby! Call me!
Monday, October 4, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tom Kruse
Recently, I've noticed that online dating sites have been advertising "free communication" trial offers to coincide with a long holiday weekend.
Sandwiched between commercials for vaginal Pine Sol and Hoverounds (the motorized strollers for people who've thrown in the towel on limb usage and dignity), these 60-second spots showcase couples engaging in adorable activities. Although these ads are nearly identical to endorsements for STD-symptom suppressants, e-dating's dynamic duos praise the miracle of the website that brought them together, rather than the cream that keeps their genital wart outbreaks apart.
Nevertheless, the promise of finding true love for free(!) sounds like a brilliant bargain. However, there are some drawbacks with subscribing to the unpaid membership...
In lieu of a profile picture of Prospective Prince Charming, there is a place-holding cartoon caricature of what my potential date could look like.
Although I possess an active imagination, I find it troublesome to fantasize about a night on the town with what looks like the chalk outline from a murder scene. Should my date appear that way at the close of the evening, is of course, a horse of a different color.
Now if I choose to upgrade my membership (for just three easy payments of $39.95) I could survey the snapshots of my future flame, posing bare-chested before a souped-up sports car, baiting a behemoth Bass, or dressed to the nine's, cuddling the carefully cropped torso of an unidentified female at a bar mitzvah.
Adjacent to the 19th century silhouette drawing of my soul mate, is a squared-off section containing "special interests".
These emoticon-laden bullet points serve as the brick and mortar base-builder of my budding romance. Unfortunately, with the costless trial, certain crucial details are omitted:
-Roger enjoys _____ his sister. :$
-One time, Roger had a ____, thankfully, no one survived ;)
-Five years ago, Roger contracted _____ from _____ :0
-Roger likes to ____ small children. :)
-The voices tell Roger to ____. :{}
Nevertheless, my membership remained at the complimentary level. I failed to connect with any of the pathetic pairings impersonally generated for me through the collaboration of a computer-buzzword matching program and a cable modem.
As time passed, I began to receive random emails from the dating site. The messages started out as gentle, hinting reminders that, "Meredith, love could still be out there waiting for you," and quickly transformed into passive-aggressive Jewish mom jeers such as, "It's okay that you don't want to find someone to spend your life with".
Once I changed my email address, I soon forgot about the time that I spent trying to sell myself on the world wide web. Although sometimes while I'm watching "The L Word" in my soiled underwear, eating a frozen dinner specially marked, "For One", a match.com ad will appear on the screen. I'll glance around the shanty of an apartment I share with my cat and various action figures, smile, shake my head and think to myself, "Tomorrow I'm going to buy a Hoveround and ride it into the Grand Canyon."
Sandwiched between commercials for vaginal Pine Sol and Hoverounds (the motorized strollers for people who've thrown in the towel on limb usage and dignity), these 60-second spots showcase couples engaging in adorable activities. Although these ads are nearly identical to endorsements for STD-symptom suppressants, e-dating's dynamic duos praise the miracle of the website that brought them together, rather than the cream that keeps their genital wart outbreaks apart.
Nevertheless, the promise of finding true love for free(!) sounds like a brilliant bargain. However, there are some drawbacks with subscribing to the unpaid membership...
In lieu of a profile picture of Prospective Prince Charming, there is a place-holding cartoon caricature of what my potential date could look like.
Although I possess an active imagination, I find it troublesome to fantasize about a night on the town with what looks like the chalk outline from a murder scene. Should my date appear that way at the close of the evening, is of course, a horse of a different color.
Now if I choose to upgrade my membership (for just three easy payments of $39.95) I could survey the snapshots of my future flame, posing bare-chested before a souped-up sports car, baiting a behemoth Bass, or dressed to the nine's, cuddling the carefully cropped torso of an unidentified female at a bar mitzvah.
Adjacent to the 19th century silhouette drawing of my soul mate, is a squared-off section containing "special interests".
These emoticon-laden bullet points serve as the brick and mortar base-builder of my budding romance. Unfortunately, with the costless trial, certain crucial details are omitted:
-Roger enjoys _____ his sister. :$
-One time, Roger had a ____, thankfully, no one survived ;)
-Five years ago, Roger contracted _____ from _____ :0
-Roger likes to ____ small children. :)
-The voices tell Roger to ____. :{}
Nevertheless, my membership remained at the complimentary level. I failed to connect with any of the pathetic pairings impersonally generated for me through the collaboration of a computer-buzzword matching program and a cable modem.
As time passed, I began to receive random emails from the dating site. The messages started out as gentle, hinting reminders that, "Meredith, love could still be out there waiting for you," and quickly transformed into passive-aggressive Jewish mom jeers such as, "It's okay that you don't want to find someone to spend your life with".
Once I changed my email address, I soon forgot about the time that I spent trying to sell myself on the world wide web. Although sometimes while I'm watching "The L Word" in my soiled underwear, eating a frozen dinner specially marked, "For One", a match.com ad will appear on the screen. I'll glance around the shanty of an apartment I share with my cat and various action figures, smile, shake my head and think to myself, "Tomorrow I'm going to buy a Hoveround and ride it into the Grand Canyon."
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Missed Connections W4M
I saw you last night on Henry Street. You were yelling at some lady, telling her that if she didn't shut up you would kill her. You had the most intense blue eyes and when you started punching that old woman, I could see how jacked your arms were. I'm not sure if you saw me, but when you were running away with that woman's bloody purse in your hand, you nearly knocked me over. I was wearing the pink Juicy velour track suit. You're super hot. Email me, let's get a drink.
Missed Connections M4W
I saw you on the Uptown 4 train this morning. You are short and blonde and were wearing a tee shirt with a giant cat's face on it. You were clutching the subway pole, trying not to fall over the homeless guy passed out behind you. That was so cute. I wanted to be closer to you, so I pressed my bloated, heaving, man breasts into your back and simultaneously allowed my sweaty, spare tire rolls to rest against your torso. When I slid my moist, clammy hand over yours on the pole, I felt electricity. You must have felt is too since you pulled your hand away like you were shocked. I could tell you were into me, but you got off the train at the next stop so fast, you must have thought I was getting out there too.
When can I see you again?
When can I see you again?
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
SuperPoke!
After watching my date check his emails, thumb his Blackberry, and refresh his Facebook status to reveal that absolutely nothing had transpired in the nanoseconds since his last update, I came to the realization that this man was a techno-junkie. Although we were ambling around Prospect Park on a luminous, unclouded afternoon, the serene setting did not distract this bloke from squinting at his iPhone screen and muttering the word "FarmVille" repeatedly.
At long last, when he was able to relinquish his handful of hand-held technology, we had an interesting discussion about life in New Jersey, genetics, and our family histories, at which time I disclosed that my father had passed away years prior.
Although no romance ever transpired between myself and this gent, we chatted briefly a few times post park date. Unfortunately, his Bluetooth headset may have obliterated his short-term memory, because each time we spoke he would never fail to ask, "And how's your dad doing?", to which I ultimately replied, "Still dead, but should that change, I'll update my Facebook status to "Dad Now Alive", and assign it a "Meredith likes this" thumbs up.
We never interacted again in either the real world or in the virtual realm, though I'm quite certain he soon forgot that I ever crossed his qwerty.
At long last, when he was able to relinquish his handful of hand-held technology, we had an interesting discussion about life in New Jersey, genetics, and our family histories, at which time I disclosed that my father had passed away years prior.
Although no romance ever transpired between myself and this gent, we chatted briefly a few times post park date. Unfortunately, his Bluetooth headset may have obliterated his short-term memory, because each time we spoke he would never fail to ask, "And how's your dad doing?", to which I ultimately replied, "Still dead, but should that change, I'll update my Facebook status to "Dad Now Alive", and assign it a "Meredith likes this" thumbs up.
We never interacted again in either the real world or in the virtual realm, though I'm quite certain he soon forgot that I ever crossed his qwerty.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Final Girl
At the end of a horror movie, after the savage slaughterer has been shot in the testicles, electrocuted, and finally beheaded, a lone heroine remains in the aftermath known as the final girl. She is the one who discovers the dismembered bodies of her friends, and is terrified and tortured for the entirety of the film. Eventually, it is the final girl who manages to find the strength to challenge and defeat the killer herself, and by the last act halts the sanguinary cycle...unless of course, there's a sequel.
Recently, I've started to wonder if being the final girl in a petrifying picture show isn't that far off from dealing with the residuum of a volatile relationship. Often, both scary movies and the bombshell breakdown of a courtship can result in scars, trauma, and the urge to check under one's bed for monsters, or in some cases, between the sheets.
Perhaps dating isn't very disparate from the drama in a slasher flick. Traditionally, there's a chase, an ephemerally false sense of security, brief nudity, a diabolical master plan, and ultimately a broken heart, and/or severed limb. Meanwhile, family and friends watch the plot unfold, as moviegoers often do, but in lieu of yelling, "Don't go in there!" or "Aw bitch gonna get killed!", they reserve their comments to, "I hope this one works out", or "Uh oh, you sound excited about him...", followed with the fretful "fffffff" sound which occurs when someone sucks air through their teeth, to further emphasize a disquietude.
Of course, just as the audience of a frightening film can surmise that a homicidal hobo is lurking in the bushes, or that the protagonist's seemingly angelic boyfriend is in actuality the bloodthirsty butcher, some non-objective onlookers in my life have the ability to recognize the red flags of a potential beau of mine. Unfortunately, like the oft ignored, kooky psychic cinema character who spouts prophecies of doom, sometimes we don't heed the messenger when blissful ignorance is the more attractive option.
One of the most notable scoundrels I've encountered to date (pun intended) is as follows:
Roy* and I had been dating for two months before he and I engaged in the dreaded discourse about past relationships. When he mentioned an ex-girlfriend named Amy, he became extremely emotional, and revealed that he would never fully heal from the fact that she had been killed in a car accident years prior.
Since going steady with a veritable widower was uncharted territory for me, I was unaware of the proper protocol when I found myself continuously compared to a dead woman. From the fetching fashion in which she would dress, to the fact that she could bowl a 110, I was in a constant state of competition with a corpse. "Amy would never mind when I smoked cigars, are you sure it bothers you?", "Maybe you could learn how to give a good back rub...Amy took a Shiatsu class". "It was really sexy when Amy would dress up like a Storm Trooper for me".
As soon as Roy was accepted into a grad school program upstate, he decided not to continue our relationship in a long-distance form, and gradually our communications ceased. One morning, after months without contact from the bloke, I opened my front door and found an envelope sitting on my welcome mat. As I retrieved the purple parcel, I discovered a small tear in the pouch opening, along with a handwritten note from my neighbor, Marni.
Meredith,
Sorry I opened your letter, it had my house number on it, and I saw it addressed to "M", so I thought it was for me.
Sorry about that.
Marni
I opened the flap and removed the typewritten letter:
Dear Meredith,
I hope you are well.
I wanted you to know that I never had a girlfriend named Amy. I made her up because I wanted to seem less happy-go-lucky and more experienced. I was a virgin when we met, and I never felt like myself, but now that I have the Lord to guide me, and a new wife, I wanted to make amends.
I hope your days are as bright as the stars,
Roy
I inspected the envelope, hoping to ferret out some proof that the entire epistle was a gag or a hoax, but no traces could be found. Not only had I been hornswoggled into believing this guy's ghost stories, but the cherry-on-top remained in the idea that my neighbor had presumably read the contents of his manic message. As time passed, the initial shock of the letter wore off, but the selfish and apathetic actions of this man still gives me the heebie-jeebies on occasion.
Nevertheless, whether he was bullied by his classmates, fell in love with a woman who cruelly rejected him, or perhaps received only evil juice and Yoo Hoos through the placenta, at the turning point in a horror movie, the motive for the psychopath's killing-spree is uncovered. However, reality serves to be more frightening when men and women who appear content in continuing in their harmful behavior towards others survive in complete oblivion to it. Ultimately while they progress through life, with a growing number of broken hearts and hurt feelings mounting behind them like the body count in a snuff film, these folks never fully realize that one day they will be at the mercy of the final girl.
*names have been changed, but incurably, the past remains the same
Recently, I've started to wonder if being the final girl in a petrifying picture show isn't that far off from dealing with the residuum of a volatile relationship. Often, both scary movies and the bombshell breakdown of a courtship can result in scars, trauma, and the urge to check under one's bed for monsters, or in some cases, between the sheets.
Perhaps dating isn't very disparate from the drama in a slasher flick. Traditionally, there's a chase, an ephemerally false sense of security, brief nudity, a diabolical master plan, and ultimately a broken heart, and/or severed limb. Meanwhile, family and friends watch the plot unfold, as moviegoers often do, but in lieu of yelling, "Don't go in there!" or "Aw bitch gonna get killed!", they reserve their comments to, "I hope this one works out", or "Uh oh, you sound excited about him...", followed with the fretful "fffffff" sound which occurs when someone sucks air through their teeth, to further emphasize a disquietude.
Of course, just as the audience of a frightening film can surmise that a homicidal hobo is lurking in the bushes, or that the protagonist's seemingly angelic boyfriend is in actuality the bloodthirsty butcher, some non-objective onlookers in my life have the ability to recognize the red flags of a potential beau of mine. Unfortunately, like the oft ignored, kooky psychic cinema character who spouts prophecies of doom, sometimes we don't heed the messenger when blissful ignorance is the more attractive option.
One of the most notable scoundrels I've encountered to date (pun intended) is as follows:
Roy* and I had been dating for two months before he and I engaged in the dreaded discourse about past relationships. When he mentioned an ex-girlfriend named Amy, he became extremely emotional, and revealed that he would never fully heal from the fact that she had been killed in a car accident years prior.
Since going steady with a veritable widower was uncharted territory for me, I was unaware of the proper protocol when I found myself continuously compared to a dead woman. From the fetching fashion in which she would dress, to the fact that she could bowl a 110, I was in a constant state of competition with a corpse. "Amy would never mind when I smoked cigars, are you sure it bothers you?", "Maybe you could learn how to give a good back rub...Amy took a Shiatsu class". "It was really sexy when Amy would dress up like a Storm Trooper for me".
As soon as Roy was accepted into a grad school program upstate, he decided not to continue our relationship in a long-distance form, and gradually our communications ceased. One morning, after months without contact from the bloke, I opened my front door and found an envelope sitting on my welcome mat. As I retrieved the purple parcel, I discovered a small tear in the pouch opening, along with a handwritten note from my neighbor, Marni.
Meredith,
Sorry I opened your letter, it had my house number on it, and I saw it addressed to "M", so I thought it was for me.
Sorry about that.
Marni
I opened the flap and removed the typewritten letter:
Dear Meredith,
I hope you are well.
I wanted you to know that I never had a girlfriend named Amy. I made her up because I wanted to seem less happy-go-lucky and more experienced. I was a virgin when we met, and I never felt like myself, but now that I have the Lord to guide me, and a new wife, I wanted to make amends.
I hope your days are as bright as the stars,
Roy
I inspected the envelope, hoping to ferret out some proof that the entire epistle was a gag or a hoax, but no traces could be found. Not only had I been hornswoggled into believing this guy's ghost stories, but the cherry-on-top remained in the idea that my neighbor had presumably read the contents of his manic message. As time passed, the initial shock of the letter wore off, but the selfish and apathetic actions of this man still gives me the heebie-jeebies on occasion.
Nevertheless, whether he was bullied by his classmates, fell in love with a woman who cruelly rejected him, or perhaps received only evil juice and Yoo Hoos through the placenta, at the turning point in a horror movie, the motive for the psychopath's killing-spree is uncovered. However, reality serves to be more frightening when men and women who appear content in continuing in their harmful behavior towards others survive in complete oblivion to it. Ultimately while they progress through life, with a growing number of broken hearts and hurt feelings mounting behind them like the body count in a snuff film, these folks never fully realize that one day they will be at the mercy of the final girl.
*names have been changed, but incurably, the past remains the same
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Wilfred Brimley
My first formal date after my last relationship was with a stand-up comic named Ted. Since the guy was supposed to be funny for a living, and I obviously have no sense of humor, a mutual friend figured we would be the perfect match.
After a brief email correspondence, Ted asked me to meet him at a pub in the West Village. That Thursday evening, I arrived early, settled myself at the bar, and ordered a gin and tonic.
Fifteen minutes later, a lanky, long-haired gent sauntered in, donning a skintight cowboy shirt, and leered at me so unctuously, that were I casting for an eighties sitcom, he would be hired immediately as the villain for "A Very Special Episode".
We exchanged greetings and sat down at a lopsided table, where I immediately inquired about his comical occupation. After a few minutes of strained and floundering chit-chat, the comedian 's comments became shamefully sleazy.
"I have to say, you have a tight little body"
"Um...thanks?"
"No, really. I think we'd have a really good time in bed."
"Yeah, that's not gonna happen."
At this point, most self-respecting ladies would have signaled the Amber Alert and hightailed it out of the bar. Since I maintained a momentary lapse of judgment, and determined that somehow the comedian would reveal that our meeting thus far was some asinine prank, I sat for a few moments, slightly stupefied.
Seconds later, Ted reached his arm behind my head and tugged a few strands of my hair.
"Your hair is too fine, I don't think I'd be able to pull it hard enough with my fingers."
"Really? That's funny because if you touch me again you won't have any fingers left." I gathered up my belongings, stepped down from the bar stool, and stated flatly, "Six words...I'm not gay, but I'll learn!".
On my subway ride home, I imagined the target audience of the stand-up's routine to be an obese, middle-aged man, who while getting busted on "To Catch A Predator", pleads to Chris Hansen, "I was just gonna take the little girl to Ted's comedy show, I swear!", as a bottle of Spongebob bubble bath and a box of condoms simultaneously drop from his trouser pockets.
Eight months later, with a few more dates under my belt, I actually look back on that squandered hour of my life, with a new found respect for that fulsome fool. Now I'm not saying that I applaud date rapists for "taking initiative", but the fact that Ted didn't enter into our meeting under the false pretense that he desired anything but to carry out his fetish fantasies, is somehow more sincere than the game-playing I've recently encountered.
Look, I'm a novice when it comes to the act of dating. Although I've been in consecutive long-term relationships over the past few years, they originated from a friendship, and only later wound up turning into vomit-inducing, tedious messes. Since the development of my former romances was more overt and forthright, luckily I had been spared from the usual pitfalls of dating communications. Unfortunately, now I find that in lieu of people expressing what they really feel, they don't say anything at all, leaving the other person to wonder what has transpired.
A few weeks ago, I even stumbled upon a passive aggressive rejection, when a guy I was seeing, flaked out on plans we made, and declared that I should have reminded him to call me.
Now I don't know about you, but to me, nothing says, "He's interested", as much as when I phone my man to inform him that "He's interested".
Please, if the simple act of telling a male to like me, would cause him to, I'd have the cast of Lord of the Rings on speed dial.
"Hey Elijah Wood, Meredith again...Yep, you still adore me. Bye."
Maybe next week I'll conference in Sawyer from Lost and Sir Paul McCartney.
Of course, it's not easy to tell someone, "I'm not keen on dating you", or "I really just want to sleep with a lot of people" or "You look like the six-fingered banjo player from 'Deliverance' and not in a good way", but I'm learning that it may be more humane than abandoning people to the inveterate analysis they may torture themselves with, in attempts to concoct a reason for your disappearance. Perhaps it's my recent inspiration from the commercials starring Wilfred Brimley, that incessantly loop during the Lifetime TV line-up, but the truth, like Quaker Oatmeal is the right thing to do...and no one benefits from "diah-beetus".
After a brief email correspondence, Ted asked me to meet him at a pub in the West Village. That Thursday evening, I arrived early, settled myself at the bar, and ordered a gin and tonic.
Fifteen minutes later, a lanky, long-haired gent sauntered in, donning a skintight cowboy shirt, and leered at me so unctuously, that were I casting for an eighties sitcom, he would be hired immediately as the villain for "A Very Special Episode".
We exchanged greetings and sat down at a lopsided table, where I immediately inquired about his comical occupation. After a few minutes of strained and floundering chit-chat, the comedian 's comments became shamefully sleazy.
"I have to say, you have a tight little body"
"Um...thanks?"
"No, really. I think we'd have a really good time in bed."
"Yeah, that's not gonna happen."
At this point, most self-respecting ladies would have signaled the Amber Alert and hightailed it out of the bar. Since I maintained a momentary lapse of judgment, and determined that somehow the comedian would reveal that our meeting thus far was some asinine prank, I sat for a few moments, slightly stupefied.
Seconds later, Ted reached his arm behind my head and tugged a few strands of my hair.
"Your hair is too fine, I don't think I'd be able to pull it hard enough with my fingers."
"Really? That's funny because if you touch me again you won't have any fingers left." I gathered up my belongings, stepped down from the bar stool, and stated flatly, "Six words...I'm not gay, but I'll learn!".
On my subway ride home, I imagined the target audience of the stand-up's routine to be an obese, middle-aged man, who while getting busted on "To Catch A Predator", pleads to Chris Hansen, "I was just gonna take the little girl to Ted's comedy show, I swear!", as a bottle of Spongebob bubble bath and a box of condoms simultaneously drop from his trouser pockets.
Eight months later, with a few more dates under my belt, I actually look back on that squandered hour of my life, with a new found respect for that fulsome fool. Now I'm not saying that I applaud date rapists for "taking initiative", but the fact that Ted didn't enter into our meeting under the false pretense that he desired anything but to carry out his fetish fantasies, is somehow more sincere than the game-playing I've recently encountered.
Look, I'm a novice when it comes to the act of dating. Although I've been in consecutive long-term relationships over the past few years, they originated from a friendship, and only later wound up turning into vomit-inducing, tedious messes. Since the development of my former romances was more overt and forthright, luckily I had been spared from the usual pitfalls of dating communications. Unfortunately, now I find that in lieu of people expressing what they really feel, they don't say anything at all, leaving the other person to wonder what has transpired.
A few weeks ago, I even stumbled upon a passive aggressive rejection, when a guy I was seeing, flaked out on plans we made, and declared that I should have reminded him to call me.
Now I don't know about you, but to me, nothing says, "He's interested", as much as when I phone my man to inform him that "He's interested".
Please, if the simple act of telling a male to like me, would cause him to, I'd have the cast of Lord of the Rings on speed dial.
"Hey Elijah Wood, Meredith again...Yep, you still adore me. Bye."
Maybe next week I'll conference in Sawyer from Lost and Sir Paul McCartney.
Of course, it's not easy to tell someone, "I'm not keen on dating you", or "I really just want to sleep with a lot of people" or "You look like the six-fingered banjo player from 'Deliverance' and not in a good way", but I'm learning that it may be more humane than abandoning people to the inveterate analysis they may torture themselves with, in attempts to concoct a reason for your disappearance. Perhaps it's my recent inspiration from the commercials starring Wilfred Brimley, that incessantly loop during the Lifetime TV line-up, but the truth, like Quaker Oatmeal is the right thing to do...and no one benefits from "diah-beetus".
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Abe Lincoln
In order to avoid becoming a complete solitarian this winter, I've been forcing myself to spend a few hours a week at a coffee shop two blocks from my apartment, where I sit amongst the living, drink overpriced herbal tea, and write these pretty words that you're currently reading.
One afternoon, the cafe was unusually crowded, so I agreed to share my table with Jim, a gentleman who was in need of a place to sit. He set his coffee mug down, settled himself into the wooden chair adjacent to the table, and complimented my Wonder Woman notebook. I thanked him, and then became engaged in a half hour-long conversation about the Beastie Boys, monster trucks, and the Yiddish language...overall a completely non-flirtatious and wholesome exchange.
As I was readying myself for a graceful exit, Jim mentioned that he was going to sell his LPs, including some Beastie Boys albums, but if I was interested, we could meet again at the coffee shop, and he would bring his unwanted records for my perusal. Since he seemed harmless enough, coupled with the fact that I find it nearly impossible to pass up free shit, I gave him my number and left quietly.
At 3 o'clock in the morning, I awoke to the grating sound my IPhone produces when I receive an incoming text message. I rolled over, tried to focus my eyes at the glowing screen, and this is what I read:
"Hey it's Jim from the coffee shop. Why don't you come to my apartment for a drink"
Now I'm no mind reader, and I have yet to receive the late night text message decoder ring I ordered off my box of Corn Pops, so I could only hypothesize that the true meaning of this guy's missive was along these lines:
"Greetings possessor of female genitalia. I struck out at the bar and/or high school I was trawling at and desperately want to get laid. I hope you maintain the same nonexistent amount of respect for yourself that I hold for you, and partake in what you will later describe to your friends as the worst five second ride of your life."
I sighed audibly, placed my phone back on the nightstand, and rubbed my forehead with the palms of my hands, frustrated, yet sadly, not surprised. This hadn't been the first time that I had received one of these bird-dog notes from a veritable stranger, and it caused me to wonder if this interaction was an indication of what is currently passed off as courtship.
Perhaps my last long-term relationship served as the equivalent of a cryogenic capsule that kept me frozen in the culture from three years ago, so now that I've awakened in futuristic 2010, I'm having difficulty adjusting to the newfangled, high-tech interpersonal relationships, where people communicate their feelings through the use of emoticons, and men email pictures of their junk in lieu of sending roses.
I'm trying to pinpoint the exact moment where romance died and the act of earning intimacy with another person became as obsolete as the eight-track. Did courtship go the way of the dinosaur or is it merely bankrupt like Nicholas Cage? Hundreds of classic poems were composed about the slow, sensual yearning for a lover, and pining after one's paramour over the span of a lifetime. Unfortunately, these days I feel like I have the amount of time it takes for the Final Jeopardy theme song to wind down to bed someone, or else they move onto the next willing female from the conveyor belt of options, while I am left to dust the large chip on my shoulder and tend to my growing garden of neuroses.
Although I can't recall when I transformed into the archaic caricature on the deck of Old Maid playing cards, up until recently, I never considered myself to be old-fashioned. I don't want to spend the remainder of my days, seated in a creaky rocking chair, muttering, "He's out there, I know it!" until one of my sixty cats eats my face, but I also cannot manage to find it flattering when a man wearing a "Trust Me I'm a Doctor" tee shirt instructs me to "Take your tits out" while I'm trying to have a drink with a friend.
Since there is no satisfying compromise to this pickle as of yet, I vow to keep myself from becoming a puritanical stick-in-the-mud by exercising, becoming a Twi-hard, and memorizing the Urban Dictionary, one word of the day at a time.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=abe+lincoln
Amazing stuff.
One afternoon, the cafe was unusually crowded, so I agreed to share my table with Jim, a gentleman who was in need of a place to sit. He set his coffee mug down, settled himself into the wooden chair adjacent to the table, and complimented my Wonder Woman notebook. I thanked him, and then became engaged in a half hour-long conversation about the Beastie Boys, monster trucks, and the Yiddish language...overall a completely non-flirtatious and wholesome exchange.
As I was readying myself for a graceful exit, Jim mentioned that he was going to sell his LPs, including some Beastie Boys albums, but if I was interested, we could meet again at the coffee shop, and he would bring his unwanted records for my perusal. Since he seemed harmless enough, coupled with the fact that I find it nearly impossible to pass up free shit, I gave him my number and left quietly.
At 3 o'clock in the morning, I awoke to the grating sound my IPhone produces when I receive an incoming text message. I rolled over, tried to focus my eyes at the glowing screen, and this is what I read:
"Hey it's Jim from the coffee shop. Why don't you come to my apartment for a drink"
Now I'm no mind reader, and I have yet to receive the late night text message decoder ring I ordered off my box of Corn Pops, so I could only hypothesize that the true meaning of this guy's missive was along these lines:
"Greetings possessor of female genitalia. I struck out at the bar and/or high school I was trawling at and desperately want to get laid. I hope you maintain the same nonexistent amount of respect for yourself that I hold for you, and partake in what you will later describe to your friends as the worst five second ride of your life."
I sighed audibly, placed my phone back on the nightstand, and rubbed my forehead with the palms of my hands, frustrated, yet sadly, not surprised. This hadn't been the first time that I had received one of these bird-dog notes from a veritable stranger, and it caused me to wonder if this interaction was an indication of what is currently passed off as courtship.
Perhaps my last long-term relationship served as the equivalent of a cryogenic capsule that kept me frozen in the culture from three years ago, so now that I've awakened in futuristic 2010, I'm having difficulty adjusting to the newfangled, high-tech interpersonal relationships, where people communicate their feelings through the use of emoticons, and men email pictures of their junk in lieu of sending roses.
I'm trying to pinpoint the exact moment where romance died and the act of earning intimacy with another person became as obsolete as the eight-track. Did courtship go the way of the dinosaur or is it merely bankrupt like Nicholas Cage? Hundreds of classic poems were composed about the slow, sensual yearning for a lover, and pining after one's paramour over the span of a lifetime. Unfortunately, these days I feel like I have the amount of time it takes for the Final Jeopardy theme song to wind down to bed someone, or else they move onto the next willing female from the conveyor belt of options, while I am left to dust the large chip on my shoulder and tend to my growing garden of neuroses.
Although I can't recall when I transformed into the archaic caricature on the deck of Old Maid playing cards, up until recently, I never considered myself to be old-fashioned. I don't want to spend the remainder of my days, seated in a creaky rocking chair, muttering, "He's out there, I know it!" until one of my sixty cats eats my face, but I also cannot manage to find it flattering when a man wearing a "Trust Me I'm a Doctor" tee shirt instructs me to "Take your tits out" while I'm trying to have a drink with a friend.
Since there is no satisfying compromise to this pickle as of yet, I vow to keep myself from becoming a puritanical stick-in-the-mud by exercising, becoming a Twi-hard, and memorizing the Urban Dictionary, one word of the day at a time.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=abe+lincoln
Amazing stuff.
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