Because a day filled with 3 hour meetings left me feeling depleted, irritable and slightly mopey, I subwayed home with my tail between my legs and sat down in front of my computer. This isn’t how things were supposed to be. I’d been planning to go to a Spiceworld screening/junkfood potluck with my flatmate. I’d borrowed a pair of her trackpants to complete a Sporty Spice ensemble and picked up a packet of biscuits to round out the junk food ensemble. As soon as I walked into the subway car though, my energy and enthusiasm was squeezed out of my normally porous brain. Devoid of the batshit insane stimulation of an absurd vehicle for an unbelievably popular 90s girlband (and the potluck sugar rush), I had no choice but to fill that brain up with the equally insane contents of the internet.
Firstly, I need to do a shoutout to the eternal mood salve known as r/childrenfallingover. I don’t know if this makes me a bad person. I don’t know if this makes me a bad future father. I don’t know if this just makes me an all around schadenfreude enthusiast. Maybe I’m just normal and everyone likes this kind of stuff. Either way, seeing children hurt themselves due to their own stupidity (lack of knowledge, to be fair) has me guffawing every time. Do you want to see children slipping? Running into glass doors? Falling onto tables? Getting on the wrong side of animals? If you’re as cruel-hearted as me, this place is your Mecca.
Secondly, I learned that I’ve been shit at doing ordinary things my whole life. Apparently I’ve had no idea how to brush my teeth this whole time. I was always taught to do small circles, so that you’re not brushing too heavily. This place and jiggle thing is a game-changer. Of course that’d rustle little crumbs and bits out from between the crevasses. Flossing I was more or less ok on, but less ok than more. It’s gotten me to the point where I almost want to go right away and clean my teeth, if not for the fact that I still want to hold out the possibility of eating. Because food is delicious. That being said, more of my brain power right now is being devoted to staving off cravings to eat those cookies I bought for the potluck. I’m a rational, mature adult-sized child. I can beat a box of biscuits. I hope.
I’ve been flicking between my unholy trinity of Facebook, Reddit and OkCupid. It seems whenever I’m focused on actually sitting down to watch some TV, I get distracted by these three sinister sites’ siren song. In doing my rounds (rotations?) I discovered a tremendously enticing profile on the OkCupes. Gross, I can’t even pretend to call it that in jest (I heard someone refer to Google as “the googs” recently. It left a misanthropic taste in my mouth). Anyway, I looked through her write-up. It was witty, self-effacing and straight-up cool. She’d travelled, obviously loved to laugh without explicitly having to state it and seemed to be down to earth, sex positive and intrigued by the world around her. Looking at the pictures, she was pretty, but not in a posed fashion. I was all ready to send in an embarassingly neck-beardy opening message when I noticed that the box under her name was grey. I’d already messaged her. Weird, I thought, I couldn’t recall her. No matter though, I could always send an affable second message referencing the first. I could’ve until I read the following:
After reading your profile I was all “oh, I should send her a message just to let her know I don’t wear suits made of women’s skin” but then I realised that I’d already messaged you. So instead I resolved not to bother.
Shit. The last message was in 2013, but still, drat. There’s no way a third message could be in any way appealing to a prospective date. No course of action could justify digging a third hole. At that point it’s just abusive. Pity, she seemed cool. I went back to read the initial message I sent just to see how bad it was.
It was bad. Not appallingly bad, but not acceptable either. It was too long, had no real hook and make me seem in every way like an eager labrador. Great dogs, but not the kind of personality that brings with it a sense of collected calm. In a fit of familiar narcissism, I immediately started chuckling at little jokes I’d embedded throughout. If she didn’t like me, at least I still would. At the end of the day, isn’t that what it’s all about?
No. Because masturbation is something you can/should do without messaging people online.