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Valentine’s Day is my third most hated day of the year, right behind Christmas and my birthday.  I have hated Valentine’s Day ever since Kindergarten when we had to exchange those stupid little cards with everyone in the class. It didn’t make sense then and it never did, even as I got older and understood more about the meaning of the day.
Every February 14, we celebrate the death of St. Valentine, the patron saint of love. Take your pick as to which St. Valentine’s death we’re celebrating, because there were two of them. Both men were Christian martyrs and both were killed—beheaded—one year apart from each other. I know he’s the patron saint of love, but since we’re celebrating his death, shouldn’t we all be going around giving each other freshly severed human heads instead of hearts, candy, and flowers? If we had that tradition, Valentine’s Day would be my most favorite day of the year, ousting Samhain (Halloween) from its place at number one.
I know the real meaning of the day, besides for Hallmark and other companies to cash in, is to have someone out there show us that they care about us, that we are loved in some way by someone else. But what is supposed to happen to those of us that don’t have that in our lives? I, for one, want to take a sledge hammer and pound Cupid into a bloody pulp.
Deep down I really am a romantic person, if you can possibly believe that after reading what you have so far. I would love to one day be able to celebrate a traditional Valentine’s Day with all the sappy, romantic crap that’s supposed to go along with it. I dated only one guy during a Valentine’s Day and we exchanged gifts. It felt awkward for me, almost forced in a small way, to give and get the gifts. Maybe it was because I wasn’t used to it. Perhaps I hadn’t known him long enough. Then again, it could be that I knew deep down he wasn’t the right guy for me. Also, he wasn’t all that romantic to begin with. He was nice and sweet, yes, but not really romantic.
In the end, I guess it will take an extra special person to melt the iced-up lump of nuclear waste supposedly known as my heart. If this magical man can come along and restore my heart and thinking, perchance I will let Cupid live.
In the movie Dogma Alanis Morissette plays God. I thought then, when the movie first came out, and I still think now that the casting couldn’t have been more perfect.
I have loved Alanis since her debut album, Jagged Little Pill, came out in 1995. Since then, her work has become deeper and it speaks volumes to me. She searches in all places within her, including the dark places of her soul, to bring to light the things we feel inside that we may not even know we feel.
So, like Alanis in her song, Moratorium, I’m declaring a moratorium on things relationship. I’m going to keep my emotions, but until I can let go and let the gods, I’m declaring a full time-out from all things commitment.
This isn’t a bad thing at all. This time away from the worries will help me get my head and emotions back in check. I should have listened to Alanis’s music sooner, as I could’ve felt and thought this way about a month sooner. I’m doing much better now, though, thanks to her and her music. To me, she may as well be God for all her music does for me to enrich and help me through my life.
If you haven’t heard anything by Alanis since her debut album, I invite you to check out her other albums. The older I get and the more things I go through, the more I relate to almost each and every song.
In case you haven’t heard the song I mentioned above, here is a link to it, as I’m having a hard time being able to embed it in the post. My apologies.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARBLIT95Im4 – Alanis Morissette – Moratorium
When I was growing up and in grade school, I learned about proper grammar and how to use it from old teachers. Many of these teachers were so old they taught even my mom and her brothers and sisters. Being taught by old teachers is fine for many subjects like history, math, and general science, but when it comes to English, I got screwed.
I cannot and do not blame the teachers who taught me, as they were taught to teach grammar as it was when they were going to school and many of the teachers then weren’t required to keep up-to-date. Language, however, changes and evolves, yet how I was taught to speak and write proper English and grammar did not. I was taught a very out-of-date form of grammar.
That said, I am currently taking a short pause on writing my novel and other works-in-progress. I am updating my knowledge of English grammar and its current rules. I have a few books on grammar, as any good writer should have at least one, but I checked their copyright dates and the newest one is just over a decade old. The times, they have changed.
Today I bought a new book on grammar called Woe Is I by Patricia T. O’Conner. I’ve known about the book for many years and have heard and read only good reviews about it. I checked the copyright date for the current third edition and found it updated as of last year. Score for me.
While perusing the book, I found a bit of my knowledge of grammar to be so wrong and out-of-date, I began to wonder if I was taught English by Neanderthals. Sure, most things I learned years ago have not changed, but how they are used may have been. The worst part of this is I haven’t even finished reading through the first chapter.
I have won contests and awards for some of my writings. Now I wonder how the hell that is even possible. I want to go back though all my writings and update them. The pull of new knowledge for my inner editor screams to be unleashed upon my unsuspecting essays, stories, and even silly blog posts like this one. As much as my inner editor evilly grinned and laughed, brandishing about his always ultra-sharp blue pencil, I told him now is not the time. There are still things to learn and apply. He didn’t want to listen, so I had to punch him in the face and kick him in the gonads. That shut him up, the right bastard.
While all of this may mean nothing to any of you right now, it means the world to me. In the future, this will come to mean something to you as well. It will mean you’re reading something written by someone who cares enough for their audience to hone their craft and not haphazardly hack away at a keyboard, hoping for the best. As I grow and learn from writing more and applying grammar correctly, I’ll have a better shot of someday getting published somewhere, fulfilling my dream of being a professional writer.
I think I may be having the crisis you’re supposed to have when you turn 30, only I’m two years too late.
After I broke it off with my fiancé five years ago, I swore off men for three-and-a-half years. I was tired of the lies, the bullshit, and the unwillingness to compromise on their part. I only had sex three times during my downtime. It was empty, meaningless sex that left me unfulfilled in more ways than one. I had no emotions and only a spark on humanity left in me. I was a shell of a person. After one of my best friends saved me from myself and I looked back on how I used to be, I swore I never wanted to return to that state of being ever again, but I have.
This time it’s worse. After my friend saved me, I became the person I had longed to be that was buried deep inside me and silently screamed to get out. I became the strong, strong-willed, confident person who truly loved myself for the first time. Shortly after, I decided I wanted to have emotions again and that I was finally ready to start dating again. I got both a short time after that and boy was that a mistake. I immediately had second thoughts about wanting to have gotten emotions again. The pain at the very end of that relationship was unbearable to a degree I never knew existed.
Even though that relationship ended (neither of us were to blame for that. Outside forces beyond either of our control), I still wanted to try because I found out I could love somebody again. I met another guy a few months later and began dating him. We had great conversations, but that’s about all. His reclusion and severe depression from his bi-polar disorder, which he was on medication for, didn’t help the situation any. I wasn’t as hurt this time, but I still wanted to try. And then along came someone so refreshing and different than anyone else. I fell for him hard. I was deeply in love with him. My world flew into an emotional downward spiral when I found out he didn’t feel the same way, even though I thought he did.
Having emotions has caused me nothing but pain in my life. Sure, there’s the short-lived joy and happiness thrown in there occasionally, but overall, just pain. With all the guys I’ve ever dated or fell for, it seems I was only there to help them go through whatever it was they needed to go through and then it was over and they were gone. I’ve spent so much of my life helping people and the only thing I have gotten in return is to go home alone and sad at the end of the day. The guys that said they loved me didn’t and the ones I fell for couldn’t return the feeling. Emotions are what broke, shattered, and destroyed this once strong, strong-willed, confident person and caused him to be a fragile shell of his once-former self and have zero self-esteem. This gets a person thinking.
I have come to the conclusion that I am unlovable, plain and simple. I must be some kind of monster, an abomination, a waste of flesh that sucks away at the world’s precious oxygen. Really, what other explanation is there? I must be about as lovable as cancer, botulism, and the bubonic plague all rolled up into one hideous mess. I know I’m not perfect. I know I’m not the best-looking guy. I know I don’t have the biggest dick. I know I work weird hours from much of the rest of the world. But you know what I do have? I have a heart that is overflowing with love and nowhere for that love to go. I have an incredibly romantic side that is unappreciated. I have the willingness to go out of my way to compromise and help make a relationship work, even when that willingness isn’t returned. I have arms and a body made for cuddling that lay cold and dormant on long winter’s nights. I have lips made for kissing tears and pain away and making you feel good about yourself and expressing my love and care, but they grow ever more dry and chapped from inactive use. None of these things I have will ever see the light of day.
I feel like Buffy from the episode “Once More With Feeling”, the musical episode in season 6. I’m just going through the motions of life, but not living in it. I want to feel alive, but I can’t because I’ve been pulled from “heaven” and am now in hell. I have no clue if this is really me right now. I touch fire and it freezes me, not burn my skin like fire should. I troop and deal, but don’t acknowledge the million things or more I should find joy in.
So, here I am at a major crossroad in my life. Do I go back to being emotionless, having only a tiny, burning spark of humanity left in me that burns in my core so hot that I want to gut myself to get rid of it? My life was better in some ways then. I didn’t worry about being lied to, dealing with bullshit, being told “I love you, but I wish…”, etc. I didn’t feel the pain that existed within me. I didn’t feel the loneliness that surrounds me like an oversized suffocating blanket. I didn’t feel… anything. Or, do I keep my emotions, knowing that nobody out there will ever truly love me for me, allowing the pain and loneliness to build up until I can’t stand it anymore and hide away from all of humanity forevermore?
As with all things in life, this may just be a fleeting moment in time and will pass. Then again, I’ve been hurt so many times in my life and have no desire whatsoever to ever keep cycling through that pain again. Which path to choose? Only time will tell.
*Originally Written March 29, 2008*
Today I ate. 
(Well, duh! I eat everyday.)
A lot.
Too much, in fact.
When I set out for Dillar’s restaurant tonight, I didn’t plan on ordering as much as I did. I was hungry, true, but this amount of food for one person is completely ridiculous. (Unless, of course, you’re Sally Struthers, in which case it would have just been a few bites from an appetizer.) I had a cup of baked French onion soup, a four-piece chicken strip appetizer, and a half-pound bacon cheeseburger with fries. And three sodas. (Although, I had only wanted two, but the waitress filled the glass a third time without my knowledge, as I was reading.)
I am now officially terrified and this is not an emotional state I am used to being in. I keep having flashbacks to certain scenes from the movie Alien. Also, I know you can get stretch marks on the outside of your stomach on the skin (as I have a shit load of them! Oh, yeah, I’m sexy.), and I am now debating the possibility of having stretch marks on my actual stomach.
I’m pretty sure I’m either going to have an Alien moment (which would save greatly on the stomach-pump fees), or I am going to give birth to the world’s biggest piece of shit. Either way, I’m not going to enjoy the pain. This is teaching me a lesson in using the phrase “Can I get a to-go box, please?”, instead of eating everything in sight, including the other patrons. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go eat a box of Ex-lax.
*Originally Written Saturday, September 22, 2007*
I am a freak magnet. 
I have made this statement many times throughout my life and it never ceases to amaze me that I keep saying it. But, I have never actually questioned why I am a freak magnet. Until last night.
My right hip and knee were killing me last night from work. (But don’t worry - I have a spare for both!) I wanted a chance to relax, have a couple beers (read: enough to kill any and all pain I had and may have for the next several days), watch some TV, and, if the mood struck, write.
All was going well (except for the writing part, naturally), when someone clapped their hand on my shoulder. I don’t know his real name, but he introduced himself as Andy Warhol Jr. a few weeks ago. (Ok, if you’re a straight guy and you’re introducing yourself to someone with at least half a brain as Andy Warhol Jr., you’re not being funny; you’re being stupid and should expect to get questionable looks from people (me) as to any intelligence you may actually have. And also, expect to have your true sexual orientation to be questioned as well – especially when talking to an open and out homo, like myself.) He’s a decent enough looking guy (Ok, yeah, I’d blow him. I’m single and haven’t had sex in over a year. Fuck off.) and has a pretty good knowledge of music, namely metal bands and a few of the bigger-name punk bands as well. But that, it seems, is where his knowledge of anything else cuts off.
 Andy, in his sloppy, drunk way, blathered on about different bands: ones he’d seen in concert, which ones I did or did not like, the difference between music and bands from the 60’s and 70’s and the ones from the 90’s and today. I’ll admit he did make some interesting and valid points. (Either that, or I had way too much to drink as well!) (Or, I was extremely desperate and hoping one of the times he leaned in real close to me, he would kiss me. Yeah, I’m a douche.) But, after twenty minutes of his ranting, I had had enough. (And he still hadn’t kissed me…) He kept talking almost non-stop for an hour. I was too sore and tired to be bitchy (which, really, was a first for me), so I put up with it. I just made sure I was kept in beers and the yummy pink shot of whatever-the-hell-it-is. The bartender (and owner) made knowing gestures to me that I needed the drinks to deal with him, and not because I necessarily wanted them. (I always want them!) Bless her heart.
During his slurred, compulsive talking (which became more slurred and compulsive  with each passing beer he had), I got to thinking about why freaks gravitate towards me. Sure, I’m fat enough to have my own gravitational pull, but couldn’t it pull in some decent people every once in a while? I had never really questioned this before. It was always a statement; a fact. But, after an hour with him last night (and another hour the week before which he could also only talk about music – and which he didn’t kiss me, either…) and going through the list of freaks who have heaved themselves into my life – even if for a brief moment – this year, I started wondering what is it about me that these people(?) find they can interrupt my life to expose me to their insanity? Not finding an answer in my own mind, I asked a professional – the bartender.
Me: Why I am I such a freak magnet?
Bartender: (without missing a beat) Because you always sit by yourself. You look like you’re lonely and they are, too, so they strike up a conversation in hopes of alleviating both your loneliness.
Me: Crap.
 She hit it on the head. I always sit by myself, but not because I am lonely. It’s because I WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE!!! I’m not that social of a person. I haven’t been for years. Just because someone is sitting by themselves, does not always mean they are lonely. Some just prefer their own company or just want some quiet time to themselves to relax (me).
The next time Andy (fuckwad) sees me at the bar and starts up a conversation, he better switch conversation topics, or, barring that, take me back to his place so I can suck his dick. If neither occur, my Inner Bitch will be forced to come out and deal appropriately (or not) with him, in which case it will probably leave him crying and curled up in a fetal position in his beer glass. (Hey, I had to endure hours of his non-stop one-note yakking. It’s my right to issue the man a couple minutes of verbal self-esteem slicing and dicing.)
(Have I mentioned I’m a bastard at times?)
*Originally Published Monday, September 10, 2007*
I am convinced I am having one of those lifetimes that makes Murphy’s Law look like a tea party with Pollyanna and Mary Poppins. Too much crap, weird stuff, and just plain messed-up fun (can you hear the sarcasm there?) going on this past week.
Okay, so on Friday, August 31, one of my great-uncles kicks it in his driveway. We didn’t find out until the next day, though. First of all, I didn’t know I had a good uncle, let alone a great one. Turns out he had what’s called a “widow-maker” heart attack and dropped dead – face down – in his driveway. HA!
I will admit I laugh at funerals. Usually not out loud, at least. Yes, most are sad events and I am usually sad that whomever is dead. But, I still find the funny and have gotten some great comedy material from these things.
I have been busy at the writing site I go to this week. They totally changed the look and feel of the site last Monday. It’s new,  but not improved. It’s not so much slower to load just page and we have to tab to be able to see anything that was once all on the front page after logging in. I don’t like it one bit, but am staying. I have made some wonderful friends there in less than a month and also have read works by some very talented, unpublished writers. It’s called Writer’s Cafe.org. Since the site is now slower loading pages, it takes me much longer to read and get through other people’s work. Plus, instead of having a nice tree for its logo, the site now looks like some cutesy underwater-springtime version of some preschool kid’s show. I may be gay, but I’m not that gay. It used to look very adult and was very functional. It looks now like someone needed a project to finish for their college computer class and wanted to throw in all the cutesy-fun stuff they learned. Oh, well. Roll with the punches.
Last week at work was so super slow at work. I took off early everyday, except Monday, which was a paid holiday for us, and Wednesday, for the funeral. Hey, I had to get up at the butt-crack of 9a.m. and was only going on 4 1/2 hours of sleep. This week will be no different, but I will have to force myself to stay the whole night, every night. I need the money. When I left early last Friday, though, it was fun. I met a couple friends from work at a bar/restaurant about a mile from work for a couple drinks. I haven’t done this since… I can’t remember when. Fun, great conversation, laughter, and of course, drinks, were enjoyed by all.
*Originally Published Friday, September 14, 2007*
I have often wondered how so many days can be filled with such opposing emotions.  One moment, calm the next. Depressed one second and filled with uproarious laughter right after. (Hey, I rhymed.) I’m thinking this surely must be life, as we can’t all be manic-depressive or bi-polar, can we? Although, I will admit, I have taken several online and book tests to see if I am bi-polar or not, and every single one of the results is the same – 98% bi-polar. Crap. (But, bright side – great meds!)
Yesterday is a prime example for me. I was feeling pretty good. Could have been better, could have been worse. It was the second day this week I actually stayed the whole night at work – in over a week. (Yes, I took off early tonight, too. I’m sure I will kick myself when the paycheck comes, but liking my freedom right now.) Anyway, I was running around helping out as I sometimes do. After several hours, though, I was starting to feel really old. My back was killing me, as well as my right leg, namely my hip and knee. (Not to worry, though – I have a spare for a reason! ) I realized today that it’s a nerve getting pinched again, but I feel like I should be walking around with a walker, or one of those really cool super-charged, off-roading wheelchairs, the kind that will climb stairs and do everything else for you, but wipe your ass. Hell, I want one of those anyway.
 During lunch, I texted one of my best friends. To save a long story for another post, I am completely in love with the man. He has a boyfriend, now, though, and he is happy. And I am happy for him, because that’s all I want for him – to be happy. Yes, I am depressed and jealous that he doesn’t see me the same way, but there’s no use crying or agonizing over that fact. Anywho, we texted back and forth a bit, only to have him say he wanted the three of us to get together and meet and hang out. (I’d rather be beaten to a slow, bloody death with a rubber mallet than have to meet his boyfriend!) Not wanting to cause pain, I told him that sounds like fun. (Geez, I make myself wanna puke sometimes.) I have nothing against the guy, as he makes my friend the happiest I’ve seen him in a long time, but that doesn’t mean I want to meet him. I will be happy for my friend – from a distance. Childish, perhaps, especially as I love my friend and hanging out with him. It’s just that I don’t think I can handle meeting the guy and seeing first-hand the joy he brings to my friend that I am unable to. And until I am able to handle meeting him (NEVER!!! NEVER, DAMMIT!) without causing a scene, or becoming so depressed and shut-down in front of them, I will stay away. It’s better for everyone, I think.
So, after getting stupidly depressed during lunch, I thankfully was given some totes to find, thus helping to take my mind off my friend and his beau. After searching for hours, I finally found them with 15 minutes to spare until work ended. I kicked it into overqueer, pushed them to the front, running the whole way, fat flying everywhere, sweat pouring off of me, and declaring, “Totes found!”, grinning widely, like a child who got a new toy and wants to show it off, proudly. It was cause for celebration, so I went to the bar after work.
The new bartender was there, not working, though, just as a customer.  She bought me my first drink and she was sloshed. I was off in my own little world (they don’t like me in my own little world, either. Geez, what’s it gonna take?), thinking of the next humorous essay I wanted to write. I vaguely heard the new bartender say something about how arachnophobic she is. A few minutes later, I looked up at the right time to see one of the plastic spider Halloween decorations slowly descend on her head. She screamed so loud, flailed her arms wildly, and ran out the front door. I had tears from laughter. She had tears from fear. (Which made me laugh even louder. Yes, I am a bastard sometimes.) Eventually she came back in, tear-stained face and all. I spent the rest of the time avoiding eye contact, because I knew I would start laughing all over again – to her face – if I looked at her.
I know we all have days like this, where we run the gauntlet of emotions. It’s almost like the weather our here in the Midwest – if you don’t like it, wait 10 minutes – it’ll change.
UPDATE: Since I wrote this post 3 years ago, things have changed. I am no longer in love with my friend. He has been with his boyfriend for over two years and I couldn’t be happier for them! They are both really great guys and I love hanging out with them when I get the chance.
*Originally Published December 26, 2009*
I had to go grocery shopping today with my mother. I hate this. I prefer to do my shopping when I get off work, which is at one in the morning. However, I have to go shopping with her once every three weeks on Sunday in the middle of the afternoon when there are a lot of people and so-called people – aka kids (breeder mistakes) – there. Normally I love kids, but not when I am grocery shopping. During this completely abysmal chore of life, my hated for humans, especially kids (breeder mistakes), is on its highest level.
Parents, if you can’t control your fucking breeder mistakes, then I, and every other sane customer in there without kids (breeder mistakes), should have the legal right to beat you senseless with frozen products. And yes, this would include multiple face shots with a twenty-pound turkey. Here is a list of things you can do the next time the fruit of your loins (breeder mistakes) get out of hand:
1) Put NyQuil or vodka in that sippy cup or juice box. This should knock them out or at least make them be tolerable enough so I can shop in relative peace without having to hear them scream, whine, yell, or make the most obnoxious noises on the face of the planet, short of one of my exes when he ejaculated, which is the most obnoxious sound in the world.
2) Put them on a friggin’ leash! You have no idea how many kids (breeder mistakes) I almost took out or nearly maimed today with the shopping cart because they were running around, doing gymnastics (you’re not Mary Lou Retton or Keri Strug, you little Susie Ho-In-The-Making! The best you can hope for is not getting molested by the time you’re twelve, so knock it off!), and gliding around on those shoes with the wheels in the bottom. If kept on leashes, then your children (breeder mistakes) will be kept relatively safe from people and myself running them over.
 3) Put a shock collar on them. They train dogs this way, so why not kids (breeder mistakes)? When they start to cry, whine, yell, run around, or misbehave in general, just zap them and see how fast they learn to shut the fuck up and obey you at the same time! Amazing! Really, a must for every parent. Unless, of course, your kid (breeder mistake) is a complete freak and loves it, then there’s no real hope them, so get them to an S&M training camp right away.
4) Put duct tape around their mouths, arms (behind their body), and legs and throw them under the cart. If you forget duct tape at home, most grocery stores have some in a supply aisle. This will eliminate any chance of hearing them, having them run around, and grabbing useless items and throwing them into your or my cart. Although they may try to squirm and kick, so put duct tape around them and the cart. Just don’t forget about them when you leave, because, really, if you don’t want your kid (breeder mistake), nobody else will, either.
5) My personal favorite: Leave them at home – in a cage – in the basement.  Just throw them a couple biscuits or dog chew toys, and they’ll be fine! You can go out in peace and save money and time trying to find a babysitter for your underachieving idiot (breeder mistake). You may want to apply Tip #1 here as well, so they’ll be groggy enough not to scream, thus alerting the neighbors. See, I think of everything for you! It’s a win-win for everyone! Your children (breeder mistakes) are neither seen, nor heard, and everyone can go about their day blissfully unaware that you were horny and couldn’t afford an abortion.
Parents, apply the above tips the next time you go grocery shopping and we can all have a much better shopping experience.
For those of us who are single, or ever were single, our worst enemy has not been married people, like urban legend suggests, but blind dates. Almost all of us have been on at least one, and if you’re one of the lucky ones who have never had to suffer the horrors of being on a blind date, then I don’t know whether to envy you or hate you.
Other urban legends state that some blind dates go incredibly well. These stories tell us of two strangers who are set up by a common person or people. These strangers have a great first date and thus begin a series of firsts: first kiss, first time having sex, first time sleeping over at the other’s place, among many others. Everything is new and special, and they become one of the shiny, happy people. I, however, have never had the luxury. Each time I have been set up on a blind date, I lost my will to live after meeting them.
A blind date is basically an interview with drinks, and I can’t seem to want to drink enough. I have found myself hoping to spontaneously combust in an effort to get out of it. If I have a meal on the date, I end up wanting to choke on my pork chop and conveniently die. Even an alien abduction would be a blessing. Besides, I could use the anal probe.
Some of the worst blind dates I have been on involved the guy resembling an animal. I have always believed in evolution, but from the looks of these guys, I wonder if there aren’t still people out there who have a ways to go. I have been set up with a primate, a ferret, and a guy who looked – and sounded – like a rhino in heat. Because I worry I may run into them, I now avoid these sections of the zoo.
And what about the people who set us up on these nightmares? Our relatives, co-workers, and so-called friends who say “Oh, I should have you meet my other friend. I think you two would be perfect for each other.” In what alternate universe? I question these people when they try to set me up with somebody. Do they really know me? Are they tired of seeing me single and thus set me up with the next best thing to a human? Do they secretly hate me? I have grown weary and wary of people who try to play matchmaker. I would rather get the bubonic plague than be set up ever again. It would be less painful.
Of course, there’s the always-popular meeting someone online. I cannot blame anyone else for this, but myself. Perhaps I should screen them better or send out a questionnaire for them to fill out, so I don’t feel so bad about myself when I agree to meet them. From here I have met a man that looked, sounded, and acted like one of my (at the time, recent) exes – sans alcoholism, Mickey Rooney the later years, with big, thick glasses, and a man whose entire apartment was piled so full of junk, that he only had a small pathway from the front door to the bedroom and his bed, and the bathroom. The bathroom was the only room that did not have above-waist clutter in it.
 But still more urban legends tell us of people who have met on the Internet and found true love. They find their prince or princess whom they have been waiting for all their lives to sweep them off their feet. They may be living many states from each other, or just a few houses away, but when they finally meet, they get their happily ever after. The only things I have ever gotten from meeting someone online were nausea and indigestion, and it wasn’t from the meal.
If these are the only kind of men out there for me, then I quit. I’ll turn my dick over to a lesbian who wants it, scratch out the words “All Access” tattooed across my ass, replace them with the words “Exit Only”, and go be a nun. Why not? I already wear a lot of black and am already a Mary.
I know it is not just me, as I have heard the horrible tales of blind dates from many others. These tales are the truth, but is there any hope to come from them? Are we destined to spend our lives kissing a lot of bad frogs and ending up with extremely chapped lips before our prince or princess comes to our rescue? Or, do we have to have these urban legends, these fairy tales, to keep up our hope of someday getting together with Mr. or Ms. Right?
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