IN WHICH THE LOSERS TEACH ME A THING OR TWO ABOUT WASTE REMOVAL.
As I navigated the shoals of online dating, there was certainly many a wreck which amounted to nothing more than a blatant waste of energy; over time there was such a pattern of behavior, I became aware of these as types, then cut them off at their pathetic pass.
The High-Maintenance Entitled Brat:
The ones who didn’t include a photo or details on their profile. They felt they didn’t need to play by the same rules as the rest of us. Yet if we had an empty profile, they never would’ve approached us in the first place! High-maintenance — and for what? “Just ask me” they’d say, as if that were my job! In the beginning I let them, at least, email me pics and guess what? Never attractive. A couple weeks in, my M.O. changed: no pic, no details, no dice: immediate delete.
The Facially-Challenged Troll:
The ones with photos, but all wearing sunglasses! There are few people whose looks are not improved with shades — so it’s up to me to ask for a pic that shows your all-important eyes? As if you deserve that attention, punk! Sunglasses: immediate delete. PS: Baseball cap in all pics: bald.
The Time-Killing, Balls-Free Shyster:
The ones who chatted endlessly, then when there was nothing left to do but meet either:
a. Disappeared offline.
b. After a date was arranged, canceled at the last minute.
c. Stood me up.
The Bald-Faced Trickster
The ones who did actually show up for the date, but looked nothing like their photos, I mean, nothing: apparently one very fleeting moment in the time/space continuum had yielded an acceptably attractive pic. As much as I’d like to humor my shallow meter, sexual attraction to a stranger, at least, is mos def dependent first on the physical.
One of these had taken his selfie from below, so his neck looked like a buff gym rat’s, and he was looking down his nose — he was a pretty good looking thirty-year-old. When I met him, though, it turned out he had a giant, cartoon-like nose, giving the inescapable impression of an aardvark. Our date was on a bench in Central Park, and definitely aware that he was butt ugly, mainly from the front and the side, he kept his head studiously and painfully at a specific 3/4 angle the entire time we conversed, apparently his “good side.”
I heaved that ho with my usual line to get rid of young men: “I’m sorry, you just look too much like my son.” Nonetheless, he texted me for the next month before finally giving up.
I mean, as if. Hell, it would take serious juju — nothing less than Hogwarts degrees — for these lame, unhot tricksters to get the chance to “Do do that voodoo that you do to me.”
Yours truly,
