I am the OKCupid Weirdo…

I’m the OKcupid Weirdo…

I’m in graduate school, which is a dating barren wasteland. Imagine a desert. You do not date undergrads, or I won’t. You don’t date someone in your program, chances are they’re married and if they aren’t you had better get married or it will end in disaster. You’ll continue to see one another and graduate cliques are brutal. Luckily, I learned my lesson pretty early. The person I dated in the program dropped out, ran across the country, where he moved back in with a girlfriend. Huh?
I resisted the online dating scene for a while. I wanted a cute meeting story. It sounds lame because it is lame. I once was picked up at the supermarket. Best pickup story ever. He never called.

I didn’t want to do it, but then you see two normal happy people, friends even, who met on line. Well, it worked for them? Maybe there is something to it. I decided when I relayed the meeting story I would simply leave out the internet part.

“Oh, we met at the coffee shop.”

So you join the world of online dating. You quickly learn that the happy normal couple that you know is not the rule, but the exception. It is every awkward over thought presentation of “This is me!” that you thought it was and then some.

I tried not to be judgey when I started. I let spelling mistakes go. I should not have. I don’t anymore. I mean, he was a nice enough guy. We smoked pot in his car and he explained he owned a gun and lived with his parents. Huh?

I left and we never contacted each other again. It was after that meeting I developed my theory. Okcupid, two people meet, and generally one is normal and one is a weirdo. The goal is to get two normals, or even two weirdos together. Happily ever after. I think there is generally a disparity. Here is what it looks like.

okcupidchart

Now, I met a normal at a coffee shop. Things seemed to be going well. He had a job, a driver’s license, even a bank account. He took me out to dinner. Things progressed and he conveyed his thoughts. That maybe we moved too fast and he just wanted to be clear he was keeping his options open, but we could still hang out, but not have sex.

Huh? Now, crazy/weirdo brain took over. I handled that moment fine, but continued to think. He wants me to be a girlfriend placeholder, my term not his. A girlfriend placeholder is a girl, who you treat and depend on like a girlfriend, but refuse to call your girlfriend because you think you can do better. She is just holding the place, like a zero in long division, until something better comes along, at which point you can make out with the new girl, crush your placeholder and explain you were never dating. Girlfriend placeholder. This may have not been the case, but it was where I went. I assume I will end up alone forever and should probably get more cats. No, I can’t get more cats. My one cat would kill me if I brought home more cats.

Are you catching on?

I talk to my friend a few more times, but ultimately he dumps me.

And when a friend helps me by saying, “He’s just not that into you.” I realized I was the okcupidweirdo. Oh my god. It was me all along.

Being Quirky isn’t all it’s Cracked Up to Be

I really appreciate quirky half hour television sitcoms. For example, I like New Girl, not because I have some bizarre hipster love for Zooey Deschanel. A man once told me he’d consider giving his less prominent arm to be with her, but I find her character kind of annoying. I also like Cougar Town and all of its weird quirks, like it isn’t really about a cougar, the cat or the older woman. The inside jokes are amazingly underrated. Then, there’s the HBO hit, Girls, with “selfish” oversharer Hannah, annoyingly free spirit Jessa.

I can’t help but wonder why I love these shows. Why do I feel compelled to watch week after week with predictable storylines or peeks into obnoxiously subversive culture?

The reason? I feel a sense of camaraderie. I have been described as “quirky” or “being an acquired taste.” In thirty minutes, these shows romanticize my flaws and find comedy in my neurosis. Wonderful!

I’m not quirky because I want to be. Frequently, I am confused by social guidelines. I feel everybody got a memo I never received. For example, if Jess on the New Girl set her alarm for 7:12 the male characters would make some joke, “What kind of time is that to wake up to?” Everyone would chuckle, make a “It’s OK, it’s Jess” face and move on. While, this is a thing I actually do, probably from a twinge of OCD. I set my alarm for 8:12 because that time feels safest. Zeros and fives are just too suspicious and if I have to get up earlier at six, well I have to find a whole new time, because 6:12 that’s a double and no way is that going to happen.

See, when you read that, when I was explaining it, it became much less funny and much more fucking crazy. Main and supporting characters never delve past the comedy of quirky. They don’t tell the full story. In the real world, people would not deal with Jess’ antics or being unemployed and not paying rent, regardless of how cute she was. Jules as Courtney Cox displays an entertaining amount of narcissism, but no one would want to be her friend in real life. Secondly, if someone smothered his or her child that much, I really doubt the child would continue to be in the same state. Being “quirky” can be lonely, confusing, and depressing.

Like, who cleans up all of the clothes Jess dragged out in that episode where everyone left her at home? Who pays for all the dry cleaning for those modcloth dresses?

Or on Cougar Town, who pays for all that wine?

Transitions and cleanup are not funny.

It does give me a fantasy though; a hope that one day a loft of men or a cul-de-sac full of people will deal with me. When I have a clothing break down and need to try on three outfits and make everyone late, they won’t be mad. They’ll make an amusing comment about me being neurotic, confirm my beauty, and then go in for a hug. Instead of being hours late, all of us will simply arrive fashionably late and no one will be the wiser

I’m Just a Passionate Person

“I’m just a passionate person.”

More than one person has responded this way when I display hickies, marks, or bruises from sexual escapades. Good. You’ve marred my body, asshole. I’m hoping to use the same line.

You start making out. All is well and good if you are matched kissers, which I break into the three categories of power, tongue, and adaptability. An aggressive kisser and a soft kisser could be chaos or hot in a dominant/submissive way. Tongue is imperative. If the amount of tongue is not reciprocated you might as well put your hand firmly on his chest, press away, thank him for a nice time and wish him a good night. Adaptability because intelligence is hot. Adapt, because it I am subtly or not so subtly pulling my lips back because you gnawing on them isn’t my idea of a party, pick up on that. It will mean a lot. We’ll be back on track, or on the same page of whatever.

Now, just do this. Make out with me because foreplay is important.

Que other body parts. If chemistry is flowing, it is then acceptable to include hands, arms, legs, thighs, tummies, and whatever else weird shit people are into. I am a strong supporter of guidance, as verbal communication may be difficult at this point in time. I may put your hand on my butt or if you’re getting a little too grabby I will gently slide your hand out from underneath my shirt, but let’s continue on as if everything is going well.

It is here, at this point I get overzealous. That passion kicks in. I think giving a blow job is a good idea, more so if you have on a button up shirt. I don’t know, there is something about multitasking, dividing your instinct brain, and those little buttons are hot. I assume I am straddling you on the couch struggling with those buttons, when impulsively because of years of cultural indoctrination I start sliding down, kissing your stomach, when your happy trail tickles my lips in the bad itchy way. I will one handedly undo your belt, fumble with the button using both hands, and unzip.

Pause.

I assume this pause is extremely sexy and gratifying for men. This can be for a woman too, but I should have not decided on this before seeing your penis. At this juncture, I assume I have copped a feel and generally know what I am getting into, but like boobs in a bra you don’t really know what you’re getting into until it is all out on the table, or couch, or bed, or whatever.

And the next thing I know I have a cock in my mouth. I am struggling to produce more saliva. It is here where I would like to carefully, kindly, with one nice suck, slide your penis out of my mouth. Apologize I’m not actually in the mood and just got carried away.

“I’m just a passionate person.”