I don’t have very many girlfriends at all, and most of the ones I *do* have don’t live in NYC (I’m talking to you, Samalie). The thing is, I can’t for the life of me figure out how to meet new girls. It’s not like I can go to a bar and pick up a friend there. That would be totally weird and like the beginning of a Lifetime movie in which I eventually end up wearing my new friend’s face and driving off of a cliff with her mom in my trunk or something.
Anyway, it’s because of my lack of girlfriends that I was super enthused when I received the following e-mail today (punctuation and capitalization intact):
I’m miss Flourence, interested in you and i wish to have you as my friend, for a friend is all about Respect, Admiration, love and passion. Also friendship is consist of sharing of ideas and planing together, i intend to send you my picture for you, if you reply me.
Thanks from Flourence.
I mean, how serendipitous is that? Miss Flourence intends to send me her picture for me if I reply her! This is huge! My only concern is that she and I disagree about whether or not a friend is all about passion. To me, that seems kind of like a sex thing, but maybe I just don’t know much about ladies. Also, I’m confused about the definition of ‘planing.’ I’m scared to death of heights, so if that’s Bratislavian code for ‘hang gliding,’ I’m not down. Fingers crossed, guys – fingers crossed.
This. Video. Is. ABSURD. I’ve never seen such an over-the-top response to a simple foot stomp. Honestly, subway foot stomps happen ALL THE TIME. Part of the fun of taking the subway is finding out how many of your toes aren’t broken at the end of the ride. The only instance in which this might be an appropriate response to the situation at hand would be if this woman had guessed Rumpelstiltskin’s name and he STILL insisted on spiriting away with her baby.
OH, SWEET CHRIST ON A CRACKER. Click on the link above this post, and you, too, can be freaked the fuck out by the absolutely horrific impact that meth has on a person’s physical appearance over time.
Somehow, the poster didn’t realize that the girl in the first photo has clearly been in a terrible fire in addition to being a meth addict. After all, it may be a nasty drug, but meth doesn’t make your face melt off like that/turn you into Sloth from “The Goonies” – unless your lab exploded while you were taking care of business, which is what I’d bet money happened to this poor lass. Her hair still looks good, though.
Moving swiftly along, I’d like you to scroll down and have a look at the second woman who is profiled. This unfortunate soul’s meth use somehow transformed her into a very bruised-looking coyote/human hybrid (a cuman). Now, let’s be honest – she was no Elle Macpherson to begin with, but DAMN, what a difference a few years of meth addiction makes. I literally screamed when I saw her photos.
The last photo set that I found profoundly disturbing is the one of of the guy who started out looking like he could have been in an Abercrombie ad. His meth addiction turned him into someone who looks like he died three months ago and is currently trying to break in through your window to eat your brains. Also, he seems to only have one little buck tooth left. It’s an unfortunate thing to lose all of your teeth except for one front tooth…but it’s probably more unfortunate to have the awful monkey of meth addiction on your back for the rest of your life.
I first joined OkCupid back in December of 2009. Back then, I was working full time, I had my own apartment, and I was more of a developed adult than I am now. The only thing that was missing from my grown-up life was a boyfriend – so one night, I created an online dating profile, and the hits started coming in.
By ‘hits,’ I definitely mean ‘weird messages from dudes who were clearly single for a reason.’ Every girl on OkCupid attracts a different sort of unsavory suitor. Mine can be described only as ‘gym-rat muscle heads with disproportionately shrunken heads,’ and there were definitely a bunch of messages from them, but there were also lots of cute guys to meet, so I started booking dates.
I went out with around 10 guys the first month I was on the site. The first one seemed like a laugh riot online, but when we met up in person, I was startled by the fact that he had an unnaturally shiny, red face and an incredibly high-pitched lady’s voice. Seeing how I have a deep voice for a woman, it was deeply unnerving to be on a date with a guy who spoke in a higher octave than me. We went to McSorley’s, where I was forced to squeeze into a seat right next to the wood-burning stove or whatever that thing is. Predictably, I managed to lean against said maybe-stove and give myself a third degree burn on my tender, fleshy bicep. Date foul, for sure. We said goodbye on the subway and I’m pretty sure he gave me a high-five to end the night, which suited me just fine, except for the fact that his hand was simultaneously clammy, cold and smaller than mine.
Even though I’m in my mid-twenties now, I still have a strong aversion to people who were known as ‘theater kids’ in high school. Don’t get me wrong – I love creative people, and I have a lot of respect for anyone who can get on stage and perform in front of an audience. There’s a certain kind of creative person, though, that annoys me to no end. You know the type – they always have to be the center of attention, they wear Porkpie hats without any trace of irony or sense of humor, and they enjoy playing improv games at parties. They’re JUST the WORST.
I had an encounter with a theater kid recently in a clothing store. An Etta James song started playing on the radio, and a girl with a Caesar cut, a nose piercing and vaguely orthopedic shoes on started singing along to it like she was auditioning for “A Chorus Line.” I wanted to turn to her and say, “Excuse me, bitch, but you’re making my eardrums bleed with your overly-confident, loud warbling. I don’t see Simon Cowell in the store with us, do you? No, right? Then SHUT your DAMN MOUTH and get the hell out of here! And PS: Linda Hunt called, and she wants her look back.”
I rarely go to bars. I don’t like the taste of alcohol, and resultantly, I have the tolerance of a flea. After two beers, I start to feel queasy and hot, and almost every time I “go out,” I end up doing that embarrassing thing where you order a pint of water at the bar and then excuse yourself to go home and take a nap on the bathroom floor (just me? Okay then).
Moreover, I can’t stand drunk people. There are few things more tedious and irritating than having to listen to someone loudly theorize about dumb shit like how her version of the color blue could be my version of the color red. Drunk people spit on you and shout, and eventually they stagger out of the bar with a mint-green face and barf on the sidewalk while you’re trying to hail a cab.
I know this from personal experience. When I lived in Scotland, there was a bar on the town’s main street called The Keys. This place was a SERIOUS “locals pub,” meaning that its clientele consisted exclusively of decrepit, cirrhotic old men who hated university students like me. Once I saw an 80-year-old gentleman in a tattered coat stagger out of The Keys at 2pm on a Monday and projectile vomit against a wall, and I still count that as one of the grossest and most depressing things I’ve ever seen.
The question is, though, where do young people hang out if not in bars? I wish bookstores would replace bars as the places to go when you want to let loose on a Saturday night. Who’s with me?
An old friend reminded me tonight of a rather disturbing thing that happened to me in a Starbucks when I was a teenager. I had been waiting innocently at the bar for my coffee, and I’d asked the barista for whipped cream on top of my drink. Overhearing my request, an older man who was also waiting for his drink leaned over to me and said, with a lecherous arch of his eyebrow and a twinkle in his eye, “So, you like your fat whipped?”
That’s right: he was trying to confirm whether or not I did, indeed, “like my fat whipped.” I’m pretty sure that the reason I had blocked this memory out until tonight was because WHAT WHO SAYS THAT. I mean, think about it. In one measly little sentence, this peculiar creep managed to be sexually inappropriate, socially inappropriate AND to make a reference to my FAT, for Christ’s sake! I’m pretty sure the words, “Well, I never!” came out of my mouth in response, mostly because I talk like an old-timey schoolmarm when I feel threatened.
Retrospectively, though? Thanks for the laugh, you greasy pervert, you. Thanks for the laugh.