Pop Star Dating Service

March 18, 2010

at your service.

Excellent quality. This is a real photo, ladies and gentlemen, taken only a few years before the King of Pop’s untimely death. True story. Don’t bother looking it up.

I was driving on my way to the train this morning, when The Girl Is Mine by Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney came on the radio. Remember that one?

All right, fine, no radio station in its right mind plays The Girl Is Mine; I actively chose to listen to it on my Michael Jackson History cd. Jeez. Cut me a break, yeah? So, I like music I can happily snap to in the wee hours of morning. I do. And you do, too.

But I was really listening to the song this time, and listening to the lyrics finally as an adult (Thriller came out a year before I was born, actually). And this girl they’re passively fighting over like two very lame things—I mean, what a bitch. Yeah, seriously. She’s all telling Paul he’s her forever lover (which, really, he needs to just chill about because it’s not like he doesn’t have Linda waiting at some vegetarian restaurant for him somewhere anyway) and telling Michael—whom I think we can all agree was a very confused man already—that after loving him she couldn’t love another. Can you say mixed signals? Honestly. Ditch the girl. She’s clearly a liar.

I suggest you bark up another tree, gentlemen. Hey, how’s about Olivia Newton John? I mean, she would be hopelessly devoted to you. I see some real potential there. Or, you know what—maybe Bonnie Tyler, who needs someone to warm her up a bit after her heart was totally eclipsed. Which hurts, let me tell you. She’s probably all too happy for a rebound. And that charming girl Rhianna will even let you stand under her umbrella. Ella. Ella. And hey, my girl Regina Spektor actually has a song called Fidelity. That’s a step in a more positive direction, if that’s what you’re looking for (which I assume is the case, since you clearly state you both cannot have her, that it’s one or the other—I DARE YOU TO NOT BE BOPPING ALONG TO THIS SONG NOW).

Or…hmm…who else? Yvonne Elliman, for instance, doesn’t want anyone at all if she can’t have you. How’s that for commitment? Commitment whether you’re willing or not, fellas. Damn.

And Kylie Minogue is so obsessed with you, she can’t get you out of her head, so that’s something. But then…yeah, you know what? That sounds a little clingy there. Nevermind. That’s all you need—her pulling an Australian Glenn Close on you, and then your rabbit’s dead, and it’s a big messy ordeal; no. Nevermind, nevermind, nevermind.

Okay, so, Paula Abdul is forever your girl. If you like your girl sloshy, sloppy drunk and winking at you at odd moments. Or if you’re looking for a more maintenance-free partner, Whitney Houston will just be your baby tonight. Your baby, nonetheless. You gotta respect that.

You’re going to want to steer clear of the man-eaters Daryll Hall and John Oates were dating. You’d just run into the same problem. Avoid Carly Simon, who is on to you and will call you out on all your vain bullshit (and rightly so), and that would just be embarrassing, considering the egos on both of you. And if you’re looking for a girl who really only has eyes for you, also probably avoid more sexually empowered women like Madonna, who would only end up showing you the difference between being like a virgin and being an actual virgin. Mmhmm, I’m like a virgin too, only with a much more active sex life… *high five* *high five*

Ooo, no wait—better idea. One of you can date Brandy and one can date Monica. Then they can stop fighting over the boy who’s jerking them around, and you four can collectively heal your intimacy issues together.

Or, failing that, I hear the chick from the Divinyls likes to touch herself. Rock. Don’t forget to invite Cyndi Lauper.

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This Post May Kill You

March 3, 2010

So take it on a full stomach.

Well now, the thing is, I had been writing an entry that began with a discussion of the popular phrase regarding the definition of insanity—you know the one. The one that’s been floating around in common usage since about the mid-90s, often winding up in business seminars as a means to promote other businessy things, like “thinking outside the box.” It is as follows, and note that its wording has been paraphrased many times over the years, so it possibly bears the wear and tear of conversational license: “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” Various sources will attribute it to the likes of Albert Einstein and Mark Twain. Long-dead, very learned guys with (surprisingly similar) crazy white hair seem like incredibly trustworthy originators, don’t they? (Can’t you just see the first moron to create this mix-up: “Einstein said it. Hmmmm, yes. Or was it Mark Twain? Dammit, their pictures are SO SIMILAR!   They’re pretty much the same thing.”) Other sources will say that both of these are incorrect, and that the origin is likely Rita Mae Brown in her 1983 book Sudden Death. Which puts its inception much more recently, not shockingly.

Ya see, from my tender teenage years, I was practically raised on this phrase. My dad does tend to recite it like a mantra when the situation calls for it, and while I understand how it’s a helpful reminder to try something new (calling to mind images of silly people who realize a foreigner can’t understand English, so they just continue to repeat the same English phrase at the foreigner, only louder), that particular bit of paternal dogmatic endowment always stuck in my craw. Do I have a craw? I’m not sure. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I have a craw. That is where that phrase has embedded itself.

And my profound apologies for the discrepancy, father, if you read this. I just never happened to like this one.

I had started this entry off that way, intending to make some point, and then I put this entry—half-finished—off to the side to cool for a few days. I was about to pick it back up again, when wing-nut Joseph Stack decided to do a kamikaze off his good judgment and steer his airplane into an IRS building last month, effectively killing himself and tragically one other person who worked inside the building. The reason this had tripped me up is that he had written a suicide “manifesto” before going through with his actions, as I’m sure you’re aware. In it, he had said, “I saw it written once that the definition of insanity is repeating the same process over and over and expecting the outcome to suddenly be different. I am finally ready to stop this insanity. Well, Mr. Big Brother IRS man, let’s try something different; take my pound of flesh and sleep well.”    …Mmmhmm.    O_o

Well…crap. Since this was plastered all over the news, discussing this phrase now possibly falls under the “too soon” category, or potentially will not be able to stand on its own as a separate discussion, because people are all focusing on his message. Furthermore, I am generally not in favor of giving this guy any more spotlight than was necessary to simply report the tragedy of his innocent victim, nor do I wish to seem like I’m having a rational discussion about the recent words of a kook with an airplane.

And then I decided to—you know what? Fuck it.—finish it and post it, since really the phrase is only the initial part of this entry. And furthermore, I think this guy actually illustrates why this phrase sort of sits ill with me. And that reason is that it is an over-generalized phrase which is not literally correct. “Insanity” is a strong word, and an important one, considering that it’s accepted a sound reason to completely dismiss a person’s statements or actions as unintentional or unable to be helped, ergo rendering the originator inculpable. Weighty stuff. So it somewhat irks me when it’s lobbed about to fit whatever little thing people deem silly or possessing of a low ROI. And god knows we’re a society obsessed with ROI. (Though, of course, my annoyance refers to formal or didactic uses of the word “insanity,” not when people are using conversational connotations of it. I’m not about censoring things that make language colorful; like, it really affects me very little when people are all, “Dude, did you check out the wicked hot bartender? His body is insane!” Sure, whatever. Why not. I refer to people using it when speaking with authority on something.)

Yeah. Doing the same thing over and over again but expecting to get different results is the definition of redundancy with a learning curve. Or something along those lines, not insanity. By contrast, the actual definition of insanity is, usually, unsoundness of mind often affecting legal responsibility. To illustrate—giving money you don’t wish to give to the IRS for your entire adult life and expecting the system, which you find unfavorable, to change on its own is “redundancy with probably a steep learning curve” (the “steep learning curve” bit lying in the expectation of change part, not the recurring behavior. You are, sadly, legally bound to continue paying your taxes, I am sorry to inform you). Alternatively, Mr. Stack’s assumption that the way to clearly break this dismally futile pattern is suicide/homicide with a side helping of structural demolition of a government building is “insanity.” Note the difference. (Also note that when a legally insane person utters, “I am finally ready to stop this insanity,” it means they are about to take a bath in it.)

Okay, so the real purpose of this entry, aside from my nitpicking over this modern definition not being the definition of insanity but rather an occasional indication of it, is that this definition of insanity phrase has gotten so oversaturated in popular American culture that we forget sometimes that doing the same thing over and over again is the definition of “practice.” In that, sometimes it merely makes you better at whatever behavior you’re repeating, and that leads to different results, too. I think the prevalence of this definition of insanity phrase is a great indicator of how the notion of patience has completely slipped through the cracks of our modern, instant-gratification society, but that’s neither here nor there. Really, it had me thinking about the Tower of Hanoi.     …and why wouldn’t it?

The Tower of Hanoi shows us the importance of doing something over and over again, because it illustrates that we build muscle memory. Even if our psychological process isn’t learning anything from repetition—although it often does—our physical process learns for us. Which is all kinds of neat.

https://i2.wp.com/mathworld.wolfram.com/images/eps-gif/TowersofHanoiSolution_700.gif

The Tower of Hanoi (above) is a puzzle where one has to figure out how to get the four ascending-sized pieces of a puzzle from their pyramid shape on the first nozzle (in a set of three nozzles) to the third nozzle in that same final pyramid shape, one piece at a time (see the link for an illustration of how it’s done and hopefully a less ridiculous understanding of it than I was able to give you).

This puzzle generally takes awhile for people who aren’t Good Will Hunting to figure out. What was interesting here was that they found that amnesiacs doing the puzzle day after day eventually improved their ability to solve it competently, when they didn’t ever remember doing the puzzle before, or even the person administering the puzzle. These experiments were used by psychologists to show that we have muscle memory: increased levels of physical precision through repetitive behavior, in addition to our experience-based memory. Cool.

And then a barrage of existential questions hit me (and pardon me if they twist about in a rather labyrinthine way here). Aside from building muscle memory, which we seldom do intentionally, why do we do things again and again when, the probable majority of the time, it isn’t yielding results? I assert that doing this is not insane (as some would prefer to hyperbolize) because repetition is such a common human behavior—common enough that a vague cultural definition-of-insanity phrase had to be created and reiterated ad nauseam to discourage it. Is our proclivity toward repetition derived from a desire to preserve the action in our memories, rather than from stubbornness or stupidity?

And what is the purpose of making memories, other than merely learning to avoid danger—or is that it? No, certainly there’s something having to do with a memory’s purpose that distances humans’ minds from those of mere animals, which operate on instinct. We strive so hard to preserve certain memories, even ones that are ultimately detrimental to our health (whether we do so consciously or not), so surely there’s more to our collecting of memories than the instinctual survival of the species.

I consulted an interesting article on cryonics (of all things), about how memory intertwines itself with identity and whether preserving memory is the most important part of sustaining life, in the hopes of better understanding why we make and keep memories:

“To some people, preservation of memory is the most essential task of cryonics, whereas others regard feeling as being more critical. I am somewhat skeptical of both these views, but I do not have an alternative thesis — I am searching for one. If memory is critical to identity, why do I perceive that in the last year I have added memories, but not altered my identity? If some memories are more critical for identity than others, what are those critical memories and where do they reside? It may be true that to abolish all my memories would abolish my identity — but it is also true that stopping my heart abolishes my identity. That does not prove that my heart is the essence of my identity.”

I don’t know that I agree with this person’s dismissal of the firm bond between identity and memory, but at least it got me thinking of how they were interrelated. If the reason we do something again and again actually is moreover to make a memory, as I had hypothesized, are we doing it therefore to extend or preserve our identities? Isn’t that why we say doing menial tasks again and again builds character? Or is that just a platitude to alleviate the unpleasantness of it?

Memory is altered over time, as we know, and it is often shaped by personal perception. Does this indicate that over time my identity actually shifts, and that’s what causes my memory to alter? Could be. A progressed or evolved state of personal identity yields a changed perception in me and accordingly adjusts my memories to fit that perception? Or even, adversely, if my memories simply modify over time due to other factors—and many will—will it cause my identity to correlationally shift over time if memory and identity are inseparable? I mean…my tastes change over time, and they are integral to my identity.

To give an oversimplified example, I used to like to wear lots of dangly, clanky jewelry hanging all over myself. It made me happy. It made me feel comfortable. Now I like less stuff hanging all over me. So my tastes have evolved. How I prefer to present myself has evolved. How I see myself has evolved. And ergo there’s been a slight shift in my identity, right? I would testify so. Our tastes are just an expression of who we are or who we want to be—identity. And clearly identity has the ability to evolve. Again, I realize this is over-simplified, but it accomplishes my point.

On the other hand, certain aversions which memory has taught my body to create have evolved over time. For example, I got sick once eating tuna and couldn’t eat it for about a year, even though I know that all tuna isn’t going to make me sick. It’s a common defense mechanism of your body. But now I love tuna again. This indicates to me that my unconscious memory had created a taste aversion to preserve my body from whatever in that tuna made me sick, and that the particular unconscious memory seems to have left me along with the aversion. Bam!—memory alteration. (Oh god. Did I just become the Emeril Lagasse of mind-numbing conversation topics?) So, considering that identity and memory both evolve and assuming that the two are interwoven, does identity alter memory, or the other way around? Is it the chicken or the egg?

Furthermore, assuming identity is attached to memory, if I wish and wish for a painful or uncomfortable memory to be erased from my mind, is it because I merely don’t wish to carry it with me, or is it, more deeply, because I seek to alter myself?

More importantly, can identity exist without memory? Think of amnesiacs, for instance, or Alzheimer’s patients. Are they without identity? Much of our identity has to do with how we uniquely react to circumstances, our individual process of doing things, how we learn, and how we grow. While memory strongly affects each of these, the absence of memory wouldn’t leave us without these abilities. An auditory learner who gets clunked on the head by a falling ACME anvil may become an amnesiac (…you know…if they live through the subsequent cartoon-like effect of being hammered a full meter into the ground with just their appendages sticking out in alarm, the 4-inch bald lump that later rises from their head, and, naturally, all their teeth falling out like so many piano keys), but I would wager they’ll still likely be an auditory learner (short having incurred brain damage beyond amnesia) after the anvil event, as opposed to a visual learner (on the heavy assumption that their ability to see, hear, or learn hasn’t been altered by the cranial reception of an anvil). That’s because it’s ingrained in their identity, I think, the way their genes have determined they’re neurologically wired.

Dig it:

“Spiders can weave intricate spiderwebs, but this complex behavior is not learned — it is built-in neurological machinery. A female bird that is hatched and reared in isolation from other birds is still capable of building a perfect nest…”

“Even when learning does occur, neurological wiring may dictate which experiences result in learning and which do not. Many birds learn to form a strong emotional bonding at birth to any nearby distinctive and animate object — a process known as imprinting. Many animals develop strong aversion to a tasty food following a single experience of nausea after eating it.”

Our actions are a part of who we are, and they are present whether or not our memory is. Like the Tower of Hanoi. A person who had lost their memory midway through life was able to ingrain a behavior without neurological or psychological memory—their muscles learned to do something, and to do it a certain way. The person has no accessible memory of ever doing this.

Does this person have identity? Is their identity forever stunted from altering itself after they quit making new memories? Or does a neurological wiring to perceive muscle memory show that their hard-wiring is crafting an identity for that person, accessible memory or not? Are their behaviors, reactions, and sensibilities being stored somewhere other than the “tangible” memory, thus perpetuating who they are without their consciousness? Are we then predestined to be who we are, at least somewhat? Clearly our genetics can’t account for the circumstances and events in our lives that will occur and spark a change in us, but does our hard-wiring determine which of these experiences we will learn from and which we won’t on an individualized basis—whether we’ll experience pain, pleasure, or fear from the experiences?

The answer, darling class, is I don’t know. Possibly our identities can remain somewhat intact without the aid of memory. Possibly they’re also strongly influenced by memory, and we continue to make memories or strive to memorize in order to have a more well-rounded shape to our individual selves. Perhaps doing the same thing over and over again is comfortable for us because it triggers the feeling that we’re memorizing, which gives us the psychological ease that our identities will be preserved. Or maybe we do it because practice makes perfect. Regardless, repetition is not the definition of insanity; it is very human and very common. And sometimes, it’s the only thing that yields progress.

Whew. Who needs a nap?

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During my past three years of pocket-draining adventures here in Chicago, and also likely due to our city’s charmingly constant atmospheric conditional variances (often inclement, which has frequently left me indoors to cook for myself rather than going out and braving the weather), I made the very fortunate discovery that being fantastically financially unstable will lead to many wonderful food and drink items being created out of necessity. Yes, my lovingly and laboriously concocted feasts are the veritable trash fires of the gourmet world—they do the job, they have unusual smells, and they often contain resourceful (and/or harmful) materials. And to the forcedly thrifty, they are glorious things. Objectively glorious. I mean, who could argue?

Cooking with only the odd ingredients I’ve had left in my fridge and cabinets until pay day (see my previous blog post, The Peter Pancake Syndrome, for an example of past ingredient resourcefulness), I’ve managed to pioneer for myself a whole new, exciting culinary experience using the nourishing and satisfying value of what I affectionately call “hobo meals.” True, it’s probably not technically politically correct, but anyone else who’s ever attempted la vie en rose with very limited fundage—surely you get me here, darlings.

Hobo meals: my gastronomical opus (and please allow me my moment of grandeur, here). Much like penning the elusive Great American Novel, I have perfected the thing I will leave behind as my major worldly contribution after I perish, nourishing all free-thinkers who stumble across it (thank you; that felt good).


And so, for years the kitchenette in each of my adorably dim and small (short, but not too big around) apartment hovels became a delightful bistro for … oh … remarkable originality, culinary … uh … improbability, character-building digestional challenges … and, well, satisfying solitary dining. “What the hell? You don’t want to join me for hobo Dijon tuna rice surprise? Brilliant. Leftovers! This is good for half a week’s meals. A week, actually, if I wish to test the endurance of my stomach and immune system to handle potential E. coli threats. Come on, white blood cells. Don’t crap out on me, now.”

Get it? No? Fine.

Necessity is indeed the mother of invention, as Plato quite rightly noted. My resulting cartes du jour of original, sometimes absurdly convoluted, sometimes craftily minimalist items were always an avant-garde smorgasbord of condiments. And garnishes, like sandwich pickles, canned olives, or store-bought guacamole. Or cans of non-perishables, like cans and cans and cans of tuna, condensed soups, anything Franco-American® or Chef Boyardee® (Saint Boyardee, really), or beans. And carbs that take a long time to fuzz up, like crackers. Oh, and food substitutions that were based solely on color: “No sour cream left. Damn and piss. …Hmm. But mayhap ranch dressing works.” “This calls for milk … unless there is no milk. Mayo, it is!” “Kraft macaroni and cheese. Well, last week I used the cheese powder packet for my cheese-flavored condensed mushroom soup Cornflake bake on graham crackers. So … macaroni and mustard?”

The results were innovative and not entirely unpalatable. Frequently. And despite the hearty richness of the description of these meals, my dear readers, they can be crafted for breakfast and lunch, too! Mustard sandwiches are delicious for before you run out of bread. And you can draw faces on them with the mustard. Who doesn’t want to be smiled at by something they’re about to eat? It just kind of makes my day. Or try a sliced turkey pepperoni and sun-dried tomato hummus sandwich. Treat yourself to a fancy lunch in and toast it. Or crack a fried egg on top of it. Or both! And careful not to lose yourself in the positively sinful indulgence of it all.

Now, note this, because it is tremendously profound: bacon is cheap and can be added to anything. Write that down, write that down.

Or revel in the simple brilliance of cooking up all the vegetables you have left —peppers, onions, tomatoes, Shiitake mushrooms, water chestnuts, sprouts, etc.— in any oil or non-sticky stuff you have at your disposal and some soy sauce packets from the Chinese place down the street. Add Tabasco® for a delectable kick. Want chicken with it but don’t have meat? Spice it up with chicken seasoning. Or chop up hot dogs and cook them up along with it. Same thing, really. I mean, who honestly knows what goes in hot dogs? Might as well be chicken. And then serve up this masterpiece delicately on a lettuce wrap. Put a baked potato on the side for a luxurious “full” feeling. Ketchup works beautifully on a potato when you’re out of butter, like putting ketchup on French fries… only fancy. *wink*

And then there are the hobo pastas. These work well for entertaining. Throw on a little Sinatra, light some candles, and prepare a group of like-minded individuals for some culinary sparkle. To begin with, tomato soup or medium salsa are practically the same thing as marinara, and don’t you let them tell you any different. Actually—pro tip: any condensed soup can go on pastas. And if you have any cheeses whatsoever—especially a shaker of grated Parmesan—that goes in there, too. As much as fucking possible.With enough cheese on it, people will eat a leather handbag.

Ooo. Hadn’t considered my handbags yet… Hmm.

Oh, but my favorite is probably hobo rice. Yes, gentle readers (both of you). My darling epicurean thrill-seekers, positively whatever you have in your pantry can go on hobo rice, and therein lies its genius. Pancakes, mustard, hamburger pickles—it’s all gustatory gold. Because, you know. Gold tastes awesome.

Additionally, absolutely anything goes on bread or a wrap, if you have them. And if your meal is too much of a liquid to put it on bread—like soup—never fear! Bulk it up with some crackers until it’s a solid. Now you have something that will stick with you for 12 hours. And on your hips for the rest of your life. Now that’s staying power!

Lastly, hobo drinks can even be beneficial to your health. Don’t have mixers on hand to hide the taste of your bottom-shelf liquors? Search your medicine cabinet for other flavored delights that mix well. For example, I sometimes give whiskey a boost by treating myself to a Theraflu®-toddy (note: actually very much not recommended by the American Medical Association, or my liver). But do try an Airborn® cocktail (with vodka). Who’s getting that office virus? Not you, sir. Not you. Or a Special K® pink lemonade-flavored protein mix cocktail (with gin or vodka). And you’ve got your nutrients for the entire day, my loves. Woo-hoo! Feel the health trashing about in your kidneys.

As an epilogue, I’ve since moved out of my Chicago apartment and back to my parents’ house for a bit (amazingly not due to financial reasons), where there is Oh My God always crazy amounts of food at my disposal to make more traditional meals. Still, it’s hard to break the habit. Beware that once you start out on your frugal meal-innovation experience, it is difficult to ever look at ingredients the same way. Living at my folks’ place, I still occasionally make hobo foods. And sometimes, when no one’s looking… I indulge my lusty thirst for the nostalgic taste of Airborn® cocktails.

At least I never ate a shoe.

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I’m not that kind of girl. Well, not to strangers, anyway. Probably.

So, there I was, searching back through emails I had archived from about a year ago, and I came across something I had received and entirely forgotten about, which really should be shared with the world.

“And the answer is—it is often one of the only redeeming qualities of online dating.”

“Uh, what is ‘foreign guys who know just enough English to make it creepy,’ Alex?”

For sure, because it certainly isn’t worthwhile dates, in my experience. Not by a long shot. The hidden, seldom-shared actual benefit of dating online is the amusement and oddity upon which you’re likely to stumble, not entirely unlike attending the circus. For instance, you don’t want to stay at the circus forever—dear god, the headache. The grotesque freakishness, the garish makeup, the haunting music. But going once in a great while to marvel at the strange, colorful, and unusual can be quite fun.

Likewise, I can’t hang out on the online dating sites too often, because oh my god, does the anonymity of the Internet make otherwise normal people nuttier than squirrel crap. Or complete douche bags. You know, or possibly it’s just that anonymity and a lack of face-to-face social responsibility is just a magnifying glass to qualities that already existed in a person, like flat-out psychosis, a troglodytical disregard for manners, blatant megalomania, abject cowardice, glaring narcissism, (also related) total self-esteem failure, unchecked irascibility, general mean-spiritedness, sexual repression, sexual aggression, hate-mongering xenophobia, and remarkably hyperactive one-upmanship. They all tend to come out and line themselves up on these dating sites like a little psychologically damaged parade, often whacking you in the head with sexual harassment candies.

That being said, one of the only perks I’ve found of having an online dating account with PlentyofFish or OkCupid (with the exception of a precious few genuinely interesting and enjoyable people I’ve met as a result) is the occasional hilarious reply I receive that makes all the other boring, ridiculous, offensive, spambot, attention-starved, obnoxious, downright geriatric, or mass-produced replies seem worth wading through. Unlike my long-winded sentences. Which brings us to the foreign guys I mentioned, who clearly just enter what they want to say into a free direct translation Web site and paste it exactly into their message to you.

I shall lay this here—a response I had gotten a year ago to my PlentyofFish profile (and saved, thankfully). It is unaltered, except that I changed the email and phone number, in case any of you feel compelled to stalk poor Daniel here:

“I am Daniel. I WENT INTO YOUR PROFILE AND I AM VERY TOUCHED. I LIKE YOU AND WILL LIKE TO BE YOUR DATE LEADING TO MARRIAGE VERY SOON.I AM SINGLE AND NEED A COMFORTER.CANT SAY MUCH HERE .PLEASE SEN ME YOUR YAHOO ID WHEN REPLYING BECAUSE I WANT TO CHANCE ON YOUR HANDKERCHIEF. WANT TO TELL YOU MUCH ON YAHOO. MY YAHOO ID IS XXX123@YAHOO.COM.CELLPHONE NUMBER IS +5557770000 YOU CAN CALL ME TOO.KNOW THAT LOVE SHARES NO BOUNDARIES. GOOD MOMENTS.
BYE DANIEL “

Oh, Daniel. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. Thank you for making this all so worthwhile, because that was pure poetry. I adored it. The inexplicable all-caps with the exception of the first sentence, the hasty marriage proposal, the free love advice, the desire for new bedding (he’s in need of a comforter, folks), the enigmatic signoff: “GOOD MOMENTS.” All of it, gorgeous.

I mean, I didn’t actually reply to this. Yeah, if I wanted my handkerchief chanced on, I would march it on down to a fetish club. But his reply did, nonetheless, remind me why I keep my profile on these sites amidst an incessant forum for negativity and degradation.

Complete hilarity.

You Had Me at Rhinoplasty

February 10, 2010

Well, it’s the beginning of February, and that means that holiday of Hallmark holidays is coming up this weekend. And in honor of that magical day of romance and tenderness, most newspaper, Internet, and magazine ads are telling you all the ways you can alter your appearance, act especially out of character, or spend exorbitant amounts of money in the hopes of finally satisfying that special someone in your life who—assuredly—has just been putting up with you out of sympathy and ignoring crippling disappointment until now.  And isn’t that nice of them?

Who can ignore the nigh-pornographic images on a current gym advertisement of a half-naked couple—so tightly toned, you could bounce a quarter off the newspaper ad—on the verge of bumping pretties. And that thought bubble floating up from the Ken doll-looking gentleman pondering how grateful he is that Barbie’s abstained from a normal healthy caloric intake and subjected herself to grueling daily hours at the gym instead of that pesky bookworm habit. And all for this perfect Valentine’s Day moment of passion.

And thanks to all the dental offices out there whose February advertisements remind you that tooth-colored teeth will never, never do when attempting to knock the socks off your significant other with your winning smile on this very special night. You need a blinding grin, ladies, as you indulge in sweet conversation over a rich bottle of Merlot… which will end up temporarily darkening your teeth anyway, but really it’s the thought that counts.

I think possibly the most helpful are the Valentine’s Day ads for cosmetic surgery clinics, like this one from Nu U Medspa that accommodatingly informs you it’s not too late to surprise your Valentine’s date with a new you.  *Pause to hear the majestic singing* Presumably your date asked out the old you with the intent of trading up for a better model. Nu U is here to grant you relief by letting you know that you can still have that little procedure before your big V-day date this year! You know… apparently it’s still early enough that the pussing sores from your permanent body alteration will probably have healed in time for you to limp along on your evening of unbridled romance at the steak house and subsequent Jennifer Garner feature film. Why—if you grab a week’s package with Nu U, you could be smoothed out, hairless, with the fat siphoned out of your hips and ass and joyfully pumped back into your lips and laugh lines for a truly reasonable introductory payment plan!

I especially appreciate that I can re-contour my face and plump my lips by buying one syringe and getting the second syringe half-off. God, that’s a generous offer. It actually borders on philanthropy, and I’ve been meaning to write the city to ask for a day commemorating Nu U’s altruism. Happy Valentine’s Day—here’s your (half-free) second ass-fat needle; you’ll be looking like a Real Girl in positively no time, darling! And won’t he be a lucky guy. Additionally—since any date of yours who prefers you stiff-faced and full of tiny seepage holes is such a tremendous catch to begin with, won’t you be a lucky lady? Love is in the air…hmm-mm-mmm-mmm…

This all hearkens back to a fascinating and funny (in a laughing-so-you-don’t-cry kind of way) article I read at the end of January: The 6 Weirdest Things Women Do to Their Vaginas. Somewhere along the way, some brilliant person realized that we women are completely overlooking yet another way to feel adequate and satisfied—modifying our ugly, grotesquely horrible vaginas into pink, little fluffy pelvic clouds. Because lord knows, our dates have always spent all evening thinking up ways to avoid them. In fact, I can’t tell you how often I’d hear the resounding cry of the typical male—not to mention lesbian—lamenting that dreadful moment at the end of the date when they have to try and come in contact with these awful orifices. Thankfully, women are given expensive ways to make our vaginas minty, pale, bald, and less “floppy,” “irregular,” or “unfeminine.” You know, less like freaks of nature; more like god intended when he created microdermabrasion and chemical peels.

In short, thank you to all the companies out there who have reached out to us who read your advertisements during this fine, frosty February. Your encouragement toward creating the perfect evening does not go unnoticed.

This year, however, I do believe I’m going to give a Valentine’s Day gift to myself. Selfish, I know, but whaddayagonna do?

I am going to dress the way I want. No, no, seriously. I’m going to dress the way I want. I’m going to keep company for the evening who not only thinks this is a good idea, but who is also dressed the way they want. I’m going to eat a normal-sized meal and behave in a way that’s comfortable. I’m not going to attempt to impress anyone by looking or acting in a way I normally wouldn’t. And I damn sure expect the same in return. I’m going to spend a very reasonable amount of money, and I’m going to use all the money I’m not spending trying to impress on actually worthwhile things. And to top it all off, I’m going to have the audacity to think this is the perfect way to spend an evening, and also completely memorable (or, failing that, I’m going to realize that this is just another day and go about my business like someone who hasn’t lost their goddamn mind).

And I wish the same for all those I love. This means you.

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