T’was time to update the dating profile. Best effort for potential belles to bask in creepy weirdness. Got my mind on a starry Tennessee, you see.
My sister, Sarah, is making me be here. She said, “I read your story. You can’t sign up for a dating site and just put up a bunch of smart ass gibberish. Take this seriously.”
I replied, “You’re not my real mother. Besides, have we met? Smart ass gibberish is not a new development in my personality. It’s too late. I’ve posted my story. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
And she said, “I’ll fill your house with cats.”
I replied, “It’s a misconception I don’t like cats. I just don’t want them alive around me.”
By the by, I don’t like cats. Total deal killer. 200 shaved wombats and I’m cool. One cat, or even two thirds of a cat, and I’m out.
Anyhow, I had a tough loss a few years back and since then Sarah feels I’ve been off-and-on impulsive with my dating, and Sarah feels it’s been hurtful to me, and Sarah feels there is no such thing as two thirds of a cat. Apparently, she’s never looked on the side of the highway.
I’ve had a pair of most triumphant love connections the past couple of years, and the lasses are stellar human beings with their own life goals. Always in my heart they will be. Thusly, the adventure continues.
Sarah insists a dating site is good for me. And with this C19 hype of late, real world meet-and-greets are sparse. We might as well surrender to mating within separate airlocks via a petri dish.
Yes, my age isn’t a typo. Yes, these are all recent snaps.
Super Power: Magnetic Colon.
Kryptonite: Shrapnel factory and shovel & rake aisle at Lowes.
It’d be cool to meet a lass who enjoys smuggling rich white protestants south of the border to harvest produce. Additionally, the perfect lady enjoys geology; snowboarding; concerts; hiking; road trips; ukulele; stand up comedy; tagging cows with “Big Mac in Training.”
My political intolerance and social myopia requires sharing political preference. If you voted for either Biden or Trump, get in line for an overdue CT scan. The only sane choice to lead our country is Kanye West. And my desired pronoun is “platypus.” And while we’re at it, Facebook censorship is brilliant because when I wake up in the morning, totally unprepared for what to be pissed off about and what to be scared of, I don’t want a lot of mixed messages from opposing viewpoints. I garner my emotional well-being and guiding worldview exclusively from Facebook. It’s comforting in these crazy crazy crazy times to know Facebook holds no bias and their Fact Checkers are always available to relieve me of the burden of free thought, free-er speech, and free-est freedom from the vagaries of liberty. The perfect lass believes exactly the same without question.
Look, I enjoy getting to know folks, and if we end up digging each other, then it’s a safe wager you’re not some formulaic preconceived ideal lass who doesn’t exist except in Disney flicks and the Japanese adult film industry.
Who wants perfect? Where’s the challenge in that? Are you adorably open-minded with a kind heart and a jonsing for adventure? Parfait
Exiting a store, I rip off the C19 mask with the vigor of a Grey’s Anatomy surgeon who just killed someone in surgery, a tortured expression beneath. Today, a lady chased me down in the parking lot to lecture me. “You’re supposed to wear your mask all the way to your car!” Soon escalated to a goofy bicker-fest, getting rid of her before it jolted was key. With scholarly tone I informed her, “Miss, the CDC discovered C19 vectors from person to person via gaseous body emissions. I’ve been crop dusting since leaving the store, so I ask if you caught an unpleasant whiff because if you inhaled any of the aroma, you’re already infected. Sorry about that. And stop hitting on me.”
This is an example of a non-ideal date.
In college my physicist buddies decided it’d be fun to build a plutonium breeder reactor. Being the geochemistry dude, my job was acquiring the mineral materials for the project: Uranium 235 ore and sufficient REEs. The uranium was simple to get from several abandoned mines here in New Mexico. The REEs for our experiment were boxes full of discard Honeywell smoke detectors, and through the dark wizardry of science, we got the beast working quickly. Quicker, we drew the attention of the dean of students and subsequently law enforcement. While we were being questioned, I asked the only girl on the project, Michele, what she was doing after the questioning. Score.
This is an example of an ideal date.
I’m not too precious on what’s ideal. Let’s have an adventure. Snap.