Not the brand of lonely that's easily remedied by close friends, career, or the occasional hook-up. I become immune to those instant elixirs and get temporarily drunk on the idea-slash-delusion of meeting the mythical one.
The kind of lonely that makes you do passive-aggressive crap like Create Your Online Profile Today! It's Fast! It's Free! It's Fruitless!
What could be easier, right? It's a lot less humiliating than trying to meet someone at a bar or an orgy, right?
Right?
Nope. At least in person I get instant feedback and a legitimate opportunity to win them over. Most women on the interweb don't give me that chance.
The insecurity begins after the first girl doesn't return my e-mail...which is the equivalent of initiating a handshake while they just stare at you smugly. "I SAID, it's nice to MEET you. Bitch."
I fear that it all comes down to the photos. While I'm quite aware of my limited appeal, I am not an un-handsome man. But online dating makes me feel downright hideous.
I'm realistic, too. I punch my own weight. I don't bother with conventionally "hot" girls. Hot girls are fucking boring...and boring fucks. Congratulations, you were born attractive...don't be a cunt about it. You know what's worse than getting a shit-ton of attention? Getting ignored.
Oops. That slipped out.
That's another thing. I hate how online dating brings out the sour grapes teenager in me. I hate being misunderstood. I hate feeling the need to write a profile laced with justifications. "No, really, girls...I date attractive, amazing women...I swears! I'm here 'cos I'm lazy, not desperate! Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong! I am indeed in your league, I just look terrible in the uniform!"
It's not desperation, it's raw, head-shaking frustration.
Of the tens of thousands of Women Online Now!, I usually end up e-mailing only a handful of quirky, like-minded cuties. Most of whom would likely take a chance on me if we were lab partners or buddy cops. That's how it happens: attractive women only find me attractive after they get to know me.*
While I realize this about myself, I conveniently jettison this knowledge and hope that maybe this time will be different.
But it never is. In fact, my online-dating experiences are nearly mechanical:
-I join.
-I browse.
-Basic search.
-Advanced search.
-Increase distance from 10 to 50 miles.
-Write a brief hello to a few women.
-Wait.
-Wait.
-Add another photo.
-Tweak profile.
-Wait.
-Remove a photo.
-Mentally punch hole in wall.
-Delete account and promise myself never again.
And yet, here I go. Another service. Another profile. Another attempt at crafting the correct recipe of wit and sincerity to lure in equally scene-weary women.
I read and re-read it. I have female friends peruse and proofread it. But the string of non-responses have already begun. It all reminds me of a painfully accurate anecdote:
Did you hear about the guy who searched his entire life for that perfect woman, and finally found her? He rushed over, elated and excited. He promptly returned with his head hung low, shoulders slumped and said: "Turns out she's waiting for the perfect guy."
Ouch.
So ok, Cupid, I'm giving you one more shot. Please use the crossbow. And when you pull an arrow from your quiver, dip the business end in Rohypnol.
Sheesh,
md
*Note: I know the pendulum swings both ways, but this is merely my own, personal slant.
