Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Call it sloth or, for a real tongue twister, communicative malfeasance, but my behavior this past week-and-a-half has been reprehensible. First and foremost, I abandoned you, only to salt the wounds by promising to return on a certain date, before abandoning you again. I apologize, deeply. The limited writing bucks I’d normally invest here have instead been spent on my day job and my other job: sailing the harrowing seas of online dating.

Bakespeare and the Professor’s dog, a beagle mix with sad, soulful eyes, is curled up next to me right now. She’s been witness zero–and an attentive, unwitting recipient–to some of my worst and best cheeseball lines, written, rewritten, and polished to a cheeseball sheen. But the reason why I’ve even needed to craft these lines, I suspect, is because of a selfie I took with Cheshire. It was wholly her idea, a gambit to capitalize on the core tenets of “mate poaching” theory, and by golly does it seem to be working.

I’m taking another leviathan-class match to dinner on Saturday–native Texan, blonde, and way the fuck out of my league. I initially suspected she hit the wrong button on her app or something, and it’s a sentiment echoed by the “She reached out to you?” refrain expressed to me not once, not twice, but three times now. My ego has sufficiently scabbed over, however, and is primed for fresh slights.

Turns out it wasn’t an app malfunction, we completed the gauntlet of questions from eHarmony, and after canvassing Earth Chick, the Chief, and the Rawketeer for counsel, here we are. Does it take a village? Not usually, no. But she’s gorgeous and she has grammatical pet peeves, particularly with dangling prepositions. Let that sink in. She would’ve let my last sentence slide, too, because select prepositions get a pass. Oh, I’m in trouble.