Blokay Cupid

Before we get to today's post, I have a MERCH UPDATE for you! The merch is in, orders are filled, notes are written, swag is shamelessly thrown at you, everything is in my kitchen ready to be picked up and I've been stood up TWICE now by the god damn United States Postal Service. Which is fucking infuriating on two distinct levels:

1.) You people need your shit and I need this off my plate before I have a brain aneurysm.

2.) I wasted both of my days off this week sitting in my apartment bored out of my mind, waiting for the god damn postman to come when I could have been on my roof drinking Miller High Life and attempting to become a slightly less offensive shade of white.

And I got a confirmation email both times that I scheduled a pick up! I THINK NOT. And it's from a do-not-reply email address, so I can't bitch at them. IT MAKES. NO. SENSE. I'm so frustrated. However, I'm committed to getting you your shit, so I'm waking up early Saturday morning, loading up my embarrassing old lady grocery cart with your merch orders and taking it to the post office before work. Let me repeat that: waking up early. Saturday morning. Before work. Old lady cart. So to everyone who opened a PayPal dispute with me, put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Jesus.

And now back to your regularly scheduled post.

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Every now and then, I sit down and decide that I'm going to join an online dating site. Those match.com ads that are like, "TIME'S ARE A-CHANGIN'!!!! 1 IN 5 RELATIONSHIPS START ONLINE!!!! FOOTAGE FROM ACTUAL MATCH.COM FIRST DATES!!!!" are oddly convincing and if it's good enough for Lee and Ann-Marie, it should be good enough for me, right? Not to mention the fact that well over half of everyone I know has at some point been on, or is currently on an online dating website. And for Christ's sake; I've done it before! I joined match when I lived in Brooklyn and had a really good experience with it. (Although to be fair, I also had a really bad one, but that story is specially reserved for my hypothetical book that will never be.) (Unless Olney Elementary Press mans up and invests in my proposal.) (THE AND!)

I can't tell you how many times I've sat down at my computer with every intention of creating an online dating profile for myself, but everytime I do, two things stop me. And these two things will keep away me from online dating forever.

1.) This email that Alex got from OkCupid, subject: alexpkeet, we have data on your attractiveness!

Because I'm sure that's too small to read, it says:

"We are very pleased to report that you are in the top half of OkCupid's most attractive users. The scales recently tipped in your favor, and we thought you'd like to know.

How can we say this with confidence? We've tracked click-thrus on your photo and analyzed other people's reactions to you in QuickMatch and Quiver.

Your new elite status comes with one important privilege: You will now see more attractive people in your match results.

This new status won't affect your actual match percentages, which are still based purely on your answers and desired match's answers. But the people we recommend will be more attractive. Also! You'll be shown to more attractive people in their match results."

Now, while I'm not arguing with the mathematics that Alex = good-looking (and per Alex, that dollar-sign can be removed upon request. And per me, that request costs a small fee, all proceeds going towards 2birds1blog.com.), that is the most absolutely terrifying email I have ever seen in my entire life. EVER. Because it means that if I sign up for OkCupid and don't receive that email, I am without a doubt in the "Busted McGee" tier of users and will only see photos of hunchbacks and drifters in my match results from now on. There will be no question about it. At least with match you can dilute yourself into thinking, "Oh, it's matching me with people who look inbred because I listed "The Tudors" as an interest, lolz!" but here there's really no ambiguity about it. You're busted. Ergo, you are being matched with busted people. Alex is attractive. Ergo, he gets matched with attractive people. Good day to you.

And you know what the most terrifying part of that entire email is?

And, no, we didn't just send this email to everyone on OkCupid. Go ask an ugly friend and see.

OH, COME ON!!!! Now that's just unnecessary and terrifying. Isn't the entire point of online dating like, "Everyone is gay and your job is demanding. We'll find you someone, sweetie."? It just seems sort of counter-productive to make it just as rough and competitive as real world dating. Because if I wanted to feel insecure next to my friends, I'd probably just go outside instead of joining an online dating website.

2.) The "About Me" profile section. The About Me section is the cover letter of online dating; you have to jump through these literary hoops to make yourself sound interesting and desirable when all you really want to say is: "Hi. My name is Meg. If alone in a room with me, I won't kill you. So give me a chance." and be done with it.

Not to mention the fact that I don't have a lot of confidence in my interests. Have you ever sat down and really taken an audit of your honest-to-god interests? It's a truly enlightening experience. Because let's just all agree that we, as a people and a nation, love traveling, cooking, working out, reading and hanging out with friends and family. OK? Let's just move on from those five activities. All five are fun, all five superficially make you sound like an interesting and datable person, but I truly believe it's what you enjoy besides those activities that say the most about you are. And what I discovered recently from making a painfully honest list of my interests is that I miiiiight be a douchebag.

I leave you now with the list of interests that I sat down and wrote a few months ago when I was going through one of my pro online dating phases. Enjoy. And feel better about yourself.

My Painfully Honest Lists of Interests (in no order):

- Sleeping

- Drinking

- Pugs

- 1980's high fashion

- Graphic design

- Crafting

- 1970's and 1980's soap operas

- The fictional character Randy Marsh from "South Park"

- Kashi food products

- Vampire movies (excluding the Twilight series and including Dracula 2000, starring the completely underrated Johnny Lee Miller)

- The score from Goonies

- Gold lamé

- Dr. Dre's music

- Dr. Dre as an entity

- Gangster rap in general

- Diagnosing myself with things I read about on Webmd.com

- Fantasizing about moving to Antwerp

- Religious iconography

- Skeletons

- Funk music

- Fake hair

- Mini golf

- Going to the gym drunk

- Brushing my teeth drunk

- Singing "Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" at karaoke

- Snark & sarcasm

- My Jack Daniel's pajama pants

- The unbelievably comfortable combination of thigh-high socks, booty shorts and a wife beater

- Jägermeister

- Trying to convince Jägermeister to give me money

- Researching pug harnesses and pug accessories online

- Kelly Cutrone

- Grace Coddington

- Kevin Yang

- The extreme relaxation that is taking a Klonopin and listening to Keith and the Girl on the Bolt Bus to New York

- Brunch

- Obsessively organizing my magazine collection

- Brainstorming dishes I would serve if I owned a Halloween-themed creperie called "The Creepy Creperie" (i.e.: Booberry Crepes)

- Andre Fine Sparkling Wine

- Creating fictional band names

- Plucking my eyebrows

- Blogging and Tweeting (Jesus...)

- Watching The Simpsons

- Quoting The Simpsons

- Occasionally thinking about the Ruben Studdard song "Sorry 2004" and laughing to myself

- Windexing things

- Tim Gunn

- Looking up notoriously rough neighborhoods on Google Maps street view

- Saying that I like to ironically play Risk when I just genuinely enjoy playing it

- Likewise for attending RenFest

- The television programming of NatGeo, Discovery, Discovery Health, TLC and A&E

- Every wedding show on WE except "My Fair Wedding with David Tutera"

- Looking at wedding blogs despite the fact that I have no desire to get married right now

- The frightening accuracy of Washington Post's horoscope section

- Doing New York Times' online crossword puzzles for "Young Solvers"

- Gummy foods

- Tattoos

- Playing "Trapped in a Box for 29-hours"

- Dentyne Ice spearmint gum

- Micron pens

- Quoting Wet Hot American Summer

- Quoting "Clone High"

- Larry Hagman's health

- Administering online quizzes to people while referring to myself as "The Quiz Master"

- Snuggling (which doesn't make me gay if I do it with a girl, mom)

- Defending my heterosexuality to my mother

- Gwen Stefani as an entity

- Trying to defeat Donkey Kong Country on Super Nintendo in under 1 hour and 17 minutes, a personal best achieved when I had mono in the spring of 2003

- Reorganizing my Netflix queue

- Wine flavored Black & Milds

- Crabbing

- Blue Gatorade

- Power-C Vitamin Water

- My love/hate relationship with my parent's cat, Evie

BOOM. Honestly.

Ruminations on why I'm a shitty person

I've had a rough start to old oh-10. What with, oh, you know, the infectious diarrhea, vicious head cold and endless work drama crushing my soul on a daily basis. And that's just scratching the surface! That's just the stuff I talk about on the blog! (Notice I chose not to put "infectious diarrhea" on the un-bloggable list. Unique decisions. Unique decisions all around.) Recently I was thinking about karma and how good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people. This gots me a-thinkin'...am I a bad person? So I sat myself down and really thought about who I am, what I stand for and what kind of character I have. And here's what I decided: I am a shitty person.

I mean, I don't think I'm evil or anything. I've never killed anyone and I gave a buck to the homeless guy outside CVS the other day, but I think I just sort of, for lack of a better word, suck a little bit. And here's why.

Reasons Why I'm a Shitty Person

- I find it genuinely disappointing when an addict on Intervention says they'll go to treatment after listening to just one person's letter.
Those people have to be the biggest quitters in the entire world, am I right?? I mean, put up a fight! How "addicted" can you really be if you're willing to roll over and sob your way to treatment that easily? Your entire family wrote you a letter! Aren't you at least curious to hear what everyone else has to say? I feel like if I had an intervention, the ace in the hole to get me to go to treatment would be my dad. I've never seen that man shed AN single tear in my entire life so if he were to cry and ask me to go anywhere—whether it be to treatment or clown college—I'd do it. That being said, I still think I'd feign disinterest just so I could see what everyone else has to say for themselves, and then agree to go. Just for funsies. Maybe pit people's letters against each other. See which of my friends and family can write a truly compelling letter. I just think it would be interesting. Plus, I hate it when you know someone's grandma is going to have like a really fucking heart breaking letter but the slutty cousin or something goes first and is all, "HEATHER. -Sniff, sniff- You never want to go to the gym with me any more because you're always tired!" and the meth head is like "OH MY GOD! I'LL GO! I'M SO SORRY!!!!!!1" Because you know grandma's letter was going to be so much better than that and now we'll never know what it said. Interventions like that ruin my entire week. God, addiction really is a selfish disease...

- I would rather be flayed alive than join the Peace Corps.
Please don't get me wrong; I respect the Peace Corps and anybody who is or wants to be a member. That being said, I know myself, I know my limitations and I know that I would not be capable of doing it. And that fact consistently makes me feel like a horrible human being. Do you know how many people I know who have either done Peace Corps or aspire to join? Everyone. Every single person I know. Fun fact: American University breeds the most graduates who go on to do Peace Corps than any other college or university in the United States. Bonus fun fact: I used my gopher grabber, or "pokin' stick" as I called it, so much it broke within two weeks of getting it. I am not Peace Corps material. And it's not just because I'm lazy and materialistic (although I am) it's also because I wouldn't be able to mentally handle that level of isolation for two years. I'm not agoraphobic, per se. I can be in a big, open meadow and be like, "Well this is pleasant," but I need to be close to civilization and people on a daily basis. It's why I like living in densely populated cities and want to for the rest of my life. Even DC is slightly too suburban for my liking. Although I'm not really a fan of people in general, I find it extremely comforting knowing that they're close by. I don't mind being alone, but geographical isolation makes me incredibly anxious. My family went to Hawaii for vacation during my sophomore year of college and that "vacation" was basically a week long panic attack for me. I'm not kidding. I thought Becca was going to kill me. I could not stop myself from constantly thinking about how we were on a tiny island surrounded by miles and miles and miles of open water and nothingness. It was nauseating. To this day, I have nightmares about flying to Hawaii. How fucked up is that? It's a tropical paradise! (So basically note to my future husband: we won't be going to Fiji on our honeymoon; we'll be going to Century 21 on a Saturday. Great. Look forward to a lifetime with this.) A few weeks ago I was catching up with my freshman year roommate, Rachel, who recently got back from doing the Peace Corps in Micronesia. She told me that she could run around her entire island in under eight minutes and she was a 24-hour boat ride away from the main island where the nearest phone was. AZUHWOEIF?! A 24-hour boat ride?! Just the thought of that is enough to make me want to eat a cereal bowl full of Klonopin. I can't imagine actually doing it. For two years! And I know that you're there to help people and there are less remote areas you can volunteer in, but...still. I couldn't handle it. At least I'm honest about my own personal shittiness. That's got to be worth something...right?

- I hate amusement parks.
I hate this about myself. And I hate the look people give me when I tell them about it. It's almost on par with the judgemental death glares I get when I tell people that I don't like Lost. Almost. What kind of an asshole hates a park specifically designed to provide amusement? This asshole. Because there's nothing amusing about amusement parks. And here's why: it's always the hottest day of the year when you go, no matter what month or season it is; they're crowded, uncivilized, full of lines and children and food that makes you nauseous; everything is sticky and covered in a thin layer of jam and don't even get me started about the rides! I hate rides. Mostly because of how motion sick they me. Although what doesn't make me motion sick? I am the most easily motion sick person you will ever meet and it's such a pain in my ass. Everything makes me queasy: cars, the metro, trains, boats, bicycles, trampolines...it sucks. Therefore going to a hot, crowded park full of rickety rides made to hurl you through the air and make you puke is my hell on earth. I just...I can't. The concept is emotionally draining to think about. And when I tell this to people, you'd think I just said that I eat dead babies every Christmas morning. First I get a look of shock, then that shock melts into judgement and finally ends in hate. Then everyone always says the same thing: "Are you kidding?! I love amusement parks." Well. Cool. I love my mom. I love Dynasty. I love brunch. We all love different things. It's not like I'm not physically capable of loving; I just don't love amusement parks. So keep your torches and pitchforks to yourself.

- I have no time for children.
Oh my god; I know. They're magical and tender and our future and we should treat them well and let them lead the way, but I just can't. Little kids legitimately creep me out. They're like real people...but smaller...and irritating...and they ask a lot of questions and talk it whiny voices. I feel like my disdain for little kids is a result of my very limited interaction with them. I'm the youngest in my family and was also one of the youngest in my neighborhood, so there was never any reason to be around little kids growing up. And when I am around kids, for some reason they're always the most annoying children that god has to offer. Case and point: Annie. Annie was this heinous little 8-year-old girl who went to the sports camp that Talia worked at during summers breaks from college. She had stringy hair was just so ungodly unpleasant and rude. Whenever Co-Blogger Chris came for a visit, we'd go visit Talia at work during the day (mostly because we became addicted to the arcade game Time Crisis III and Talia always gave us free tokens and snacks. It was awesome.) Annie was such an asshole to me and Chris. She hated us and was not afraid to let us know. In a letter she later wrote to Talia, she called Chris a "rhinoceros who likes everything he sees" and me a, "black-haired looser who likes something that starts with a C." When she later called me this again, Chris and I exchanged awkward glances as we both thought, "how does she know that word...?" until she cleared up that the thing I like that starts with a C is actually Chris. Yes. I like Chris. I want you to slip me a big, fat Chris late at night. You little perv. BUT! It remains that she called me a "black haired looser." Not a black haired loser, mind you, a black haired looser. First of all, fuck you, you can't even spell. Second, it's called a comb: ever heard of it? Third, what did we ever do to you?! Take your tokens? Well chill the fuck out, there's more where they came from. And finally, what sort of child of the corn writes hate letters at 8-years-old?? And these are all things that I told her to her face until Talia took me aside and explained that she's 8-years-old and I was 21 at the time and perhaps I should calm down a bit before she got fired. Point taken, point taken. But whenever I have to interact with little kids, it's always a little beast like Annie and I just can't. And I know everyone thinks their kid is the cutest and most well behaved child in the entire world, but until you can concretely prove to me that your kid isn't at camp calling strangers slutty rhinoceroses and loosers, I don't want to hear it.

- I think the guy in my office building in a wheelchair is an asshole.
I'm not really going to expound on this much more besides saying that I don't think he's an asshole because he's in a wheelchair, I think he's an asshole who happens to be in a wheelchair. Every time he's rude to me, I call him an asshole in my head and then immediately feel fucking horrible because he's handicapped and I'm walking around all fat and cocky on my own two legs. God damnit.

So there it is. I'm a shitty human being. And the worst part is, despite being more than aware of all of the above, I don't see any of it ever changing. So bring on the infectious diarrhea...