Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Friday, March 27, 2009
Facebook says I may know a guy named Ironheart
For every fifty people Facebook suggests "you may know" and actually do know but have been actively trying to avoid (and who are clearly actively trying to avoid you since they're probably getting a message saying they might know you too... the door swings both ways, kids), there is one person who you do not know at all and really really really wish you did. For me, that person is a dude who goes by the name Ironheart. I refuse to click on the picture that links to his profile because I'm sure I'll be disappointed (maybe he works in Finance; perhaps he's friends with those kids I hung out with orientation week who refused to expand their social circle as college progressed - save to include Ironheart - and who would quickly look away whenever I passed them on campus for fear that we might make eye contact and they would have to deal with the sad truth that, at least for a week, they had thought I - a person who wanted to form relationships with people for reasons other than our shared experience of having our parents pay for us to attend the same scholastic institution - was cool; possibly, his name is not actually Ironheart). Nope. In exchange for repeated suggestions of people I may know that remind me of high school friendships gone sour, potentially lovely relationships gone awkward and other moments of missed opportunity, I'll keep an image of me in another world, chilling with my pal Ironheart. We'll be watching "Howard the Duck."
Friday, February 13, 2009
Valentine's Day: Some Advice
Don't be the asshole who sticks his tongue out before the kiss starts.
Also, get her a puppy or she'll probably dump you.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Hmm.
Within a period of two months, two separate friends who have never met one another sent me cards. The first card has a picture of a beagle staring up to a table with a pie resting upon it. The second card has a picture of an unidentifiable dog staring up to a table, his attention fixed on a cupcake. I don't really know why cards with dogs staring at pastry laden tables remind people of me, but I'm gonna take it in stride.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Snibben Story Series
Announcing a new Bear 'O Snark blog project! Several months ago - September 15, 2008 for those of the rigidly time-oriented among you - I was trying to come up with new ways to inspire ideas for short stories. One concept I wanted to try was to take honest answers given by a real person to random questions and then use those answers to create something that bordered between real-life and ridiculous-life. My lovely friend Hibben graciously agreed to take part in the endeavor, providing snippets of her life (Snibbens, if you will) for my creative inspiration. So, without further ado, please enjoy the first in a series of short stories based (extremely loosely) on the life of my good pal Hibben. Try to separate the reality from the fiction, if you dare.
Jewels of the Sole
"Meh, he's probably better off on his own anyway," Hibbany snarled as she caught sight of the whimpering young boy in her rear-view mirror. Her view of the lad sitting on the side of the road about 20 feet away from the now burning wreckage that had once been his family's minivan quickly grew smaller as she sped away in her green Jeep Wrangler. Hibbany typically would not have been overly bothered by a minivan cutting her off in traffic. On any other day, the traffic taboo might have provoked her to tighten her grip on the wheel and mutter something suitably road-ragey to herself (her go-to of the moment was: "I hate you, die in a fire."). Perhaps, in her most severe of moods, Hibbany might tap lightly, politely even, on the car horn, communicating the annoyance caused by the inconsiderate action at a volume that, possibly, would induce in her transgressor the urge to reform. But today was not a typical day. Today, she had committed vehicular manslaughter.
Pushing the accelerator to its limit, Hibbany's Jeep tore down the highway, eliciting stares from passersby (or, rather, those bypassed). Nearly missing her exit, Hibbany rapidly cut across 5 lanes of traffic, leaving a small 3 car pileup in her wake. She did not usually take this road; on any other Tuesday morning, Hibbany would not be on any road at all at this hour. On any other Tuesday morning,Hibanny would be at her desk scarfing down a Starbucks egg, cheese and turkeybacon sandwich. On any other Tuesday morning, Hibbany would be impeccably dressed in an outfit selected with the utmost care and patience ("I want to wear my white jacket; I bet my purple dress would look nice under it...ugh fuck the purple dress is dirty. Uhhhhh OK, I haven't worn that pink dress in awhile, that'll do. OK now gold or silver accessories? I feel like I wear a lot of gold, but my silver necklace is too long for this outfit. Fine I'll go with gold... ugh I wear this gold necklace too much. Oh I know! I haven't worn these pearls in awhile...why are my bangs doing that?") But it was not a typical Tuesday morning. On this Tuesday morning, Hibbany was still in her pajamas (flannel shorts andGW hoodie ) and semi-shoeless. That is, she had no shoes on her feet. She did, however, have a pair of adorable gold flats next to her on the passenger seat. Something was amiss.
A beam of sunlight struck the shoes and they glittered in response. This caught Hibbany's eye for a moment, further fueling her anger. The shoes, which until this Tuesday morning had been lovingly referred to as Hibbany's Princess Pumps (despite the fact that Hibbany was neither a princess nor were her flats pumps), were the source of Hibbany's seething rage on this quite atypical Tuesday morning. That was because it had been discovered on this particular Tuesday morning, as Hibbany was in the process of assembling her outfit, that the diamonds embedded in the souls of the shoes (given to Hibbany by Sir Elton John himself) had been stolen. Only one person could be responsible for this heinous offense: Duchess Myrna Minkoff.
Myrna had stolen something else from Hibbany the previous summer: her boyfriend, Thom. Thom had been a "student" in the US Naval Academy and was reasonably dreamy. Thom would write to Hibbany every day, even if they had seen each other or spoken on the phone. Despite the extensive practice, Thom was not very good at writing love letters. His vocabulary was simple, his language direct. The few times he tried to be romantic on paper, he wrote poems comparing their love to boats, the sea, harbors, various marine creatures and other aquatic entities with which he was very familiar. Still, a nice effort. After two years together, the duchess had lured Thom away with promises of his own naval command. Thom had assumed that Myrna had been referring to the Royal Navy of the United Kingdom; instead, he found himself the captain of her Myrna's father's best yacht. Sadly, with his fate already sealed following his brazen defection from the US Navy and an incredibly awkward breakup note to Hibbany (simply a postcard of DeLoutherbourg's The Defeat of the Spanish Armada), Thom had no recourse but to stay with the deceptive duchess, Myrna Minkoff. On the bright side, Myrna was always in a bathing suit.
In addition to her enjoyment of her father's yachts and her interest in ruining the careers of potential American naval heroes, Myrna had one additional pastime: jewel thievery. It wasn't about the money; her father had enough of that. It wasn't even for the thrill resulting from successfully sneaking past security systems of all varieties - in a bikini - unnoticed and emerging with a valuable treasure. Myrna's obsession: to become the duchess with the strangest and most stolen jewel collection in history. Myrna Minkoff had unique goals.
Most people would not have suspected average, everyday Hibbany to own diamonds that would be of much consequence. Most people would not have suspected average, everyday Hibbany to have interned for Sir Elton John. Most people would not have suspected average everyday Hibbany to have done such an impressive job while interning for Elton John that, upon completion of the internship, average, everyday Hibbany was given a pair of adorable gold (real gold) flats with pink diamonds cut into the shape of an E and a J, respectively, embedded in the souls. Most people, however, are not former US Naval Academy "students" who have dropped out of the US Naval Academy and now spend all their free time catering to the whims of a royal bikini-clad jewel thief. That is, Thom knew about Hibbany's shoe jewels.
Hibbany slammed on the brakes as her Jeep careened into a parking space at the marina. A quick scan of the docked boats revealed the probable yacht, a pink monstrosity yclept "Royalties." As Hibbany approached, her suspicions were all but confirmed as the air immediately surrounding the yacht permeated with the scent of liquor, perfume, marijuana and incense to cover up the smell of marijuana. Hibbany stealthily boarded the vessel, unwilling or unable to consider the dangers that could lie ahead. She presumed herself caught when she heard someone running in her direction. With nowhere to hide, Hibbany braced herself for discovery. To Hibbany's relief, the runner was simply an excessive partyer whose excessive partying had led to sudden and irrepressible sickness. Hibbany groaned as she watched the girl vomit over the side of the ship and then collapse on the deck and pass out. Approaching the unconscious wretch, Hibbany forgot her anger and purpose for a moment, leaning over to check the girl's breathing. "YOU!" Hibbany whirled around. She had not heard Myrna Minkoff emerge from below deck. "How did you get here? Security!" Before Hibbany could react, two men ascended from below and grabbed her.
Moments later, Hibbany had been redeposited on the pier and the Royalties had cast off. "No!" Hibbany shouted, vomit on her bare feet and tears streaming down her face. "No, my pink Elton John diamonds! I killed a family, and possibly others, with my reckless driving! Curse you, Myrna Minkoff ! If I ever get my hands on you, I'll choke the life out of you with your own bikini strings!" Defeated, a hunched over Hibbany slowly turned to trudge her way back to the parking lot. At the other end of the dock waiting for her, she could just make out the figures of two uniformed police officers. "Ohhhhh Jesus," Hibbany thought to herself, "I killed a family... and possibly others... and just threatened a duchess..." And with that, Hibbany dove into the water and attempted to escape almost certain incarceration.
Several weeks later, Hibbany finally made bail and was released back out into society. As she arrived home, exhausted and entirely over neon orange jumpsuit ensembles, Hibbany sulked over to her mailbox, now overflowing with bills, Victoria's Secret catalogs and, ironically, several jury summonses. Hibbany's eyes started to water as she felt the full effect of Myrna's Elton John shoe diamond theft. She was about to break down into all out sobs on her front lawn when her tear-filled eyes zoomed in on the one piece of mail that was neither bill nor lingerie catalog nor command to perform one's civic duty. Curious and sniffly , Hibbany opened the small manila envelope with no return address. A tiny Zip-lock baggie held the commandeered shoe diva diamonds! There was no note, but Hibbany knew who had returned her treasured shoe jewels. The faint aroma of salt and moisture clung to the envelope. Perhaps it was the smell of seawater. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the scent of the heartsick tears shed by a broken man taking his one last stand against a bikini clad jewel stealing duchess. Hibbany would never know for sure. But now, at least, she could use the diamonds to pay her legal fees.
Jewels of the Sole
"Meh, he's probably better off on his own anyway," Hibbany snarled as she caught sight of the whimpering young boy in her rear-view mirror. Her view of the lad sitting on the side of the road about 20 feet away from the now burning wreckage that had once been his family's minivan quickly grew smaller as she sped away in her green Jeep Wrangler. Hibbany typically would not have been overly bothered by a minivan cutting her off in traffic. On any other day, the traffic taboo might have provoked her to tighten her grip on the wheel and mutter something suitably road-ragey to herself (her go-to of the moment was: "I hate you, die in a fire."). Perhaps, in her most severe of moods, Hibbany might tap lightly, politely even, on the car horn, communicating the annoyance caused by the inconsiderate action at a volume that, possibly, would induce in her transgressor the urge to reform. But today was not a typical day. Today, she had committed vehicular manslaughter.
Pushing the accelerator to its limit, Hibbany's Jeep tore down the highway, eliciting stares from passersby (or, rather, those bypassed). Nearly missing her exit, Hibbany rapidly cut across 5 lanes of traffic, leaving a small 3 car pileup in her wake. She did not usually take this road; on any other Tuesday morning, Hibbany would not be on any road at all at this hour. On any other Tuesday morning,Hibanny would be at her desk scarfing down a Starbucks egg, cheese and turkeybacon sandwich. On any other Tuesday morning, Hibbany would be impeccably dressed in an outfit selected with the utmost care and patience ("I want to wear my white jacket; I bet my purple dress would look nice under it...ugh fuck the purple dress is dirty. Uhhhhh OK, I haven't worn that pink dress in awhile, that'll do. OK now gold or silver accessories? I feel like I wear a lot of gold, but my silver necklace is too long for this outfit. Fine I'll go with gold... ugh I wear this gold necklace too much. Oh I know! I haven't worn these pearls in awhile...why are my bangs doing that?") But it was not a typical Tuesday morning. On this Tuesday morning, Hibbany was still in her pajamas (flannel shorts andGW hoodie ) and semi-shoeless. That is, she had no shoes on her feet. She did, however, have a pair of adorable gold flats next to her on the passenger seat. Something was amiss.
A beam of sunlight struck the shoes and they glittered in response. This caught Hibbany's eye for a moment, further fueling her anger. The shoes, which until this Tuesday morning had been lovingly referred to as Hibbany's Princess Pumps (despite the fact that Hibbany was neither a princess nor were her flats pumps), were the source of Hibbany's seething rage on this quite atypical Tuesday morning. That was because it had been discovered on this particular Tuesday morning, as Hibbany was in the process of assembling her outfit, that the diamonds embedded in the souls of the shoes (given to Hibbany by Sir Elton John himself) had been stolen. Only one person could be responsible for this heinous offense: Duchess Myrna Minkoff.
Myrna had stolen something else from Hibbany the previous summer: her boyfriend, Thom. Thom had been a "student" in the US Naval Academy and was reasonably dreamy. Thom would write to Hibbany every day, even if they had seen each other or spoken on the phone. Despite the extensive practice, Thom was not very good at writing love letters. His vocabulary was simple, his language direct. The few times he tried to be romantic on paper, he wrote poems comparing their love to boats, the sea, harbors, various marine creatures and other aquatic entities with which he was very familiar. Still, a nice effort. After two years together, the duchess had lured Thom away with promises of his own naval command. Thom had assumed that Myrna had been referring to the Royal Navy of the United Kingdom; instead, he found himself the captain of her Myrna's father's best yacht. Sadly, with his fate already sealed following his brazen defection from the US Navy and an incredibly awkward breakup note to Hibbany (simply a postcard of DeLoutherbourg's The Defeat of the Spanish Armada), Thom had no recourse but to stay with the deceptive duchess, Myrna Minkoff. On the bright side, Myrna was always in a bathing suit.
In addition to her enjoyment of her father's yachts and her interest in ruining the careers of potential American naval heroes, Myrna had one additional pastime: jewel thievery. It wasn't about the money; her father had enough of that. It wasn't even for the thrill resulting from successfully sneaking past security systems of all varieties - in a bikini - unnoticed and emerging with a valuable treasure. Myrna's obsession: to become the duchess with the strangest and most stolen jewel collection in history. Myrna Minkoff had unique goals.
Most people would not have suspected average, everyday Hibbany to own diamonds that would be of much consequence. Most people would not have suspected average, everyday Hibbany to have interned for Sir Elton John. Most people would not have suspected average everyday Hibbany to have done such an impressive job while interning for Elton John that, upon completion of the internship, average, everyday Hibbany was given a pair of adorable gold (real gold) flats with pink diamonds cut into the shape of an E and a J, respectively, embedded in the souls. Most people, however, are not former US Naval Academy "students" who have dropped out of the US Naval Academy and now spend all their free time catering to the whims of a royal bikini-clad jewel thief. That is, Thom knew about Hibbany's shoe jewels.
Hibbany slammed on the brakes as her Jeep careened into a parking space at the marina. A quick scan of the docked boats revealed the probable yacht, a pink monstrosity yclept "Royalties." As Hibbany approached, her suspicions were all but confirmed as the air immediately surrounding the yacht permeated with the scent of liquor, perfume, marijuana and incense to cover up the smell of marijuana. Hibbany stealthily boarded the vessel, unwilling or unable to consider the dangers that could lie ahead. She presumed herself caught when she heard someone running in her direction. With nowhere to hide, Hibbany braced herself for discovery. To Hibbany's relief, the runner was simply an excessive partyer whose excessive partying had led to sudden and irrepressible sickness. Hibbany groaned as she watched the girl vomit over the side of the ship and then collapse on the deck and pass out. Approaching the unconscious wretch, Hibbany forgot her anger and purpose for a moment, leaning over to check the girl's breathing. "YOU!" Hibbany whirled around. She had not heard Myrna Minkoff emerge from below deck. "How did you get here? Security!" Before Hibbany could react, two men ascended from below and grabbed her.
Moments later, Hibbany had been redeposited on the pier and the Royalties had cast off. "No!" Hibbany shouted, vomit on her bare feet and tears streaming down her face. "No, my pink Elton John diamonds! I killed a family, and possibly others, with my reckless driving! Curse you, Myrna Minkoff ! If I ever get my hands on you, I'll choke the life out of you with your own bikini strings!" Defeated, a hunched over Hibbany slowly turned to trudge her way back to the parking lot. At the other end of the dock waiting for her, she could just make out the figures of two uniformed police officers. "Ohhhhh Jesus," Hibbany thought to herself, "I killed a family... and possibly others... and just threatened a duchess..." And with that, Hibbany dove into the water and attempted to escape almost certain incarceration.
Several weeks later, Hibbany finally made bail and was released back out into society. As she arrived home, exhausted and entirely over neon orange jumpsuit ensembles, Hibbany sulked over to her mailbox, now overflowing with bills, Victoria's Secret catalogs and, ironically, several jury summonses. Hibbany's eyes started to water as she felt the full effect of Myrna's Elton John shoe diamond theft. She was about to break down into all out sobs on her front lawn when her tear-filled eyes zoomed in on the one piece of mail that was neither bill nor lingerie catalog nor command to perform one's civic duty. Curious and sniffly , Hibbany opened the small manila envelope with no return address. A tiny Zip-lock baggie held the commandeered shoe diva diamonds! There was no note, but Hibbany knew who had returned her treasured shoe jewels. The faint aroma of salt and moisture clung to the envelope. Perhaps it was the smell of seawater. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the scent of the heartsick tears shed by a broken man taking his one last stand against a bikini clad jewel stealing duchess. Hibbany would never know for sure. But now, at least, she could use the diamonds to pay her legal fees.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Thursday, December 25, 2008
One time I was in a club
And this guy rated me 'an 8'. At first, I found this strategy of giving a girl a "room for improvement" rating ill-advised, or at least questionable. But then I found myself kind of admiring the guy's honesty. Point of the story: it's easy to be a dude in Manhattan.
Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas!
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
Caring is creepy?
So it turns out I'm a big jerk and it took a blog 'experiment' to really elucidate that fact for me. A bunch of time ago (Sept. 10th, if you'll scroll down a couple ticks), I decided to make fun of strangers and, to a lesser extent, my dear friend Flo's audacity in hoping to find some sort of meaningful connection with another human being on this emotionally crippling cement island I have isolated myself upon. That was douche of me. Not because Flo didn't think my idea was smashing good fun, but because I was setting literally everyone else up for failure, and in retrospect that's not all that nice. My bad, strangers. Many apologies, Flo's hopes and aspirations
I set up my profile, which was a nice blend of good-natured sarcasm, free-spiritedness and chutzpah. It also included important personal details like my aversion to wasabi (since remedied), my unnatural appreciation for the movie Independence Day and the standard list of books I provide, when requested, that is meant to impart to my judges a well-rounded literary background without actually communicating my preferences, saving me from scathing critique of the obscurity, low quality, pretentiousness or played-outtedness of my favored texts. (Just because I read Grisham on the subway doesn't mean I'm not a person, you elitist fuck.) (Nor does it imply that I consider it good literature, plebeian.) I then prepared for the grotesque responses that I would hyperbolize for my own purposes.
Who knows why I anticipated such negative fodder for my silly little blog. Perhaps it was the anonymity of the internet that I figured would allow men (or women) to saturate my inbox with messages containing the sort of depravity that would make my grandmothers weep. Maybe it was my assumption that all men (or women!) are shameless sex-fiends with an innate business sense allowing them to capitalize on a search engine capable of locating many of the loneliest of city women, starving for attention and affection, surviving on hope inspired by the matchiness of internet-based personality tests alone. Could be I had had a bad commute, the soul-crushing kind characterized not so much by the observation of human viciousness as by the depraved indifference that 98% of commuters pretend to exhibit in response. In any event, I giddily awaited the responses I would get from the assumed plethora of lecherous hooligans lurking in the tangles of the interweb, counting on the creepiness of people to supply me with ample material at a point when I was otherwise uninspired.
As the old proverb goes, "When you assume, you make an ass out of u and me." I think that's kind of unfair, because I really don't think I made an ass of anybody but myself in this situation. (I will also point out that anybody who would say that phrase in any amount of seriousness would be, for all intents and purposes, an ass.) But good news for humans: I'm an ass! I was surprised to discover that the vast majority of messages I received were... well... really nice. There were a couple chuckle-worthy attempts (dude commented on how hot I was before my picture was up; dude sent me two identical messages a month apart, both in which he professed to have just discovered my profile and to have instantly fallen in love with me), but for the most part the messages were semi-thoughtful (dudes had actually read my profile and asked questions about information found therein) and not even a little creepy (despite my darndest attempts to look at them as such).
This was unfortunate partially because it gave me a stunning lack of blog-spiration, but mostly because it made me realize I'd been being callous and drawing from an "everything sucks and has gone to hell" place, rather than a "lots of things suck, but maybe pointing them out and getting people to think about them can actually improve things" place. So I'm starting to approach, I hope, that second place with my whole comedy/writing/thinking-about-shit thing. So although the experiment failed miserably, it sort of failed super happily in the long run. Yeah, I'm sure many of those bros were just feeding lines to get some, hoping to take advantage of the fragile young thing than I am. But I'm also gonna go out on a limb and hope that some of them weren't. We'll see how that goes.
Oh yeah, and on a clearly related but causationally/correlationally questionable note: gObama!
I set up my profile, which was a nice blend of good-natured sarcasm, free-spiritedness and chutzpah. It also included important personal details like my aversion to wasabi (since remedied), my unnatural appreciation for the movie Independence Day and the standard list of books I provide, when requested, that is meant to impart to my judges a well-rounded literary background without actually communicating my preferences, saving me from scathing critique of the obscurity, low quality, pretentiousness or played-outtedness of my favored texts. (Just because I read Grisham on the subway doesn't mean I'm not a person, you elitist fuck.) (Nor does it imply that I consider it good literature, plebeian.) I then prepared for the grotesque responses that I would hyperbolize for my own purposes.
Who knows why I anticipated such negative fodder for my silly little blog. Perhaps it was the anonymity of the internet that I figured would allow men (or women) to saturate my inbox with messages containing the sort of depravity that would make my grandmothers weep. Maybe it was my assumption that all men (or women!) are shameless sex-fiends with an innate business sense allowing them to capitalize on a search engine capable of locating many of the loneliest of city women, starving for attention and affection, surviving on hope inspired by the matchiness of internet-based personality tests alone. Could be I had had a bad commute, the soul-crushing kind characterized not so much by the observation of human viciousness as by the depraved indifference that 98% of commuters pretend to exhibit in response. In any event, I giddily awaited the responses I would get from the assumed plethora of lecherous hooligans lurking in the tangles of the interweb, counting on the creepiness of people to supply me with ample material at a point when I was otherwise uninspired.
As the old proverb goes, "When you assume, you make an ass out of u and me." I think that's kind of unfair, because I really don't think I made an ass of anybody but myself in this situation. (I will also point out that anybody who would say that phrase in any amount of seriousness would be, for all intents and purposes, an ass.) But good news for humans: I'm an ass! I was surprised to discover that the vast majority of messages I received were... well... really nice. There were a couple chuckle-worthy attempts (dude commented on how hot I was before my picture was up; dude sent me two identical messages a month apart, both in which he professed to have just discovered my profile and to have instantly fallen in love with me), but for the most part the messages were semi-thoughtful (dudes had actually read my profile and asked questions about information found therein) and not even a little creepy (despite my darndest attempts to look at them as such).
This was unfortunate partially because it gave me a stunning lack of blog-spiration, but mostly because it made me realize I'd been being callous and drawing from an "everything sucks and has gone to hell" place, rather than a "lots of things suck, but maybe pointing them out and getting people to think about them can actually improve things" place. So I'm starting to approach, I hope, that second place with my whole comedy/writing/thinking-about-shit thing. So although the experiment failed miserably, it sort of failed super happily in the long run. Yeah, I'm sure many of those bros were just feeding lines to get some, hoping to take advantage of the fragile young thing than I am. But I'm also gonna go out on a limb and hope that some of them weren't. We'll see how that goes.
Oh yeah, and on a clearly related but causationally/correlationally questionable note: gObama!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
How creeped out can I get after 4 years in NYC: An Experiment
Fear not, $0.25 for 25 days shall continue on, but another investigation to add to the mix!
Inspired by my friend Flo - who is essentially me (a Euro History major at Barnard, currently a paralegal in Midtown living in Park Slope) but Asian and better at video games - I have created an account on okcupid.com, a terrifying website that attempts to predict everlasting love based on extremely scientific personality tests (ex. the "Superhero Archetype" quiz and the "Which Color M&M Are You?" quiz). Of course, this sort of relevant information in combination with the details available in my carefully constructed profile (favorite books strategically listed to appear intelligent but not too pretentious, activities in which I no longer participate, interests about which I am for the most part dispassionate, etc...) provides a completely accurate picture of myself as a person, how well my suitor and I will get along and how fantastic our sex life will be!
Now, Flo is not the only friend that inspires this blog post/experiment. My roommate, Shira, frequently posts some of the ridiculous/adorable/ hilarious emails her company receives from curious kiddies in her blog. And if we can find humor in the total inability of children to engage in logical follow-through, then it must be possible to find the hilarity in the creepy messages I am bound to receive! Since my profile's completion at 1:00am today (approx. 33 minutes ago), I have already received 3 messages and 1 "five star rating," whatever that means. As of now, the messages have been pretty mundane; but if all goes well, some really terrifying dudes will think I'm pretty and the laughs will roll. As a proud Barnard grad, I am stepping up and Taking Back the Site; I will not fear the terror - the terror will fear me! Or, like, I'll get bored and delete the account.
Confession: I am already a little in love with some dude's profile. The "I thought meeting people in real life was the way to go" romantic in me finds this sad, but I think it will ultimately make for a funny story to tell our grandkids.
Further confession: Incorporating my inspirational friends into my blog post was inspired by my friend, Hibben. Who can now die happy.
Inspired by my friend Flo - who is essentially me (a Euro History major at Barnard, currently a paralegal in Midtown living in Park Slope) but Asian and better at video games - I have created an account on okcupid.com, a terrifying website that attempts to predict everlasting love based on extremely scientific personality tests (ex. the "Superhero Archetype" quiz and the "Which Color M&M Are You?" quiz). Of course, this sort of relevant information in combination with the details available in my carefully constructed profile (favorite books strategically listed to appear intelligent but not too pretentious, activities in which I no longer participate, interests about which I am for the most part dispassionate, etc...) provides a completely accurate picture of myself as a person, how well my suitor and I will get along and how fantastic our sex life will be!
Now, Flo is not the only friend that inspires this blog post/experiment. My roommate, Shira, frequently posts some of the ridiculous/adorable/ hilarious emails her company receives from curious kiddies in her blog. And if we can find humor in the total inability of children to engage in logical follow-through, then it must be possible to find the hilarity in the creepy messages I am bound to receive! Since my profile's completion at 1:00am today (approx. 33 minutes ago), I have already received 3 messages and 1 "five star rating," whatever that means. As of now, the messages have been pretty mundane; but if all goes well, some really terrifying dudes will think I'm pretty and the laughs will roll. As a proud Barnard grad, I am stepping up and Taking Back the Site; I will not fear the terror - the terror will fear me! Or, like, I'll get bored and delete the account.
Confession: I am already a little in love with some dude's profile. The "I thought meeting people in real life was the way to go" romantic in me finds this sad, but I think it will ultimately make for a funny story to tell our grandkids.
Further confession: Incorporating my inspirational friends into my blog post was inspired by my friend, Hibben. Who can now die happy.
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