The Laws of Attraction

Part I: The Realization 

Attraction is not subjective. There are objective guidelines of what is sexy... or at the very least I know that waking up feeling bloated surrounded by empty beef jerky bags (yes PLURAL) is not considered remotely arousing.

My online dating profile lists me as "More Independent." This is in no small part due to my answer to this question:

Which, in turn, is in no small part due to my aforementioned morning routine. No one wants to wake up to that, not even me. 

Back when I lived in Spanish Harlem there was a 24-hour White Castle one block away from my apartment. On cold nights after walking 10 blocks from the bar I would guide myself home by its neon glow, like a North Star for lazy fat fucks. I remember announcing (read: slurring) with solemn pride, "I will have four double cheeseburgers and a large onion ring," and stumbling to the table to wait for my number to be called.

Order in hand, I stumbled home with glee, my mouth watering at the prospect of unhinging, and letting all those tiny burgers just fall inside me. It wasn’t until I reached my stoop that I remembered my roommate, and the shame sunk in. Luckily the apartment was set up in such a way that I could surreptitiously sneak into my bedroom, and in darkness devour my treasure with dimly glowing light of Netflix to guide the burgers to their resting place. Unluckily there had to be a "following morning..."

Upon awakening, my first unpleasant discovery would inevitably be my surroundings: evidence of the gluttonous debauchery. This would be followed by the immediate pounding in my head, and the rather unpleasant discovery that the smell of stale mini-burgers was not coming from the empty paper bag, but from me. It was seeping out through my pores! Needless to say, the feeling of bloat and disgust at having to clean up after myself dissipated with time and drink, and soon enough I would be skipping home yet again with another big satchel full of inevitable self-loathing.

 

Part II: The Comparison

Last year I got to go to my First New York Comic Con. Though I didn’t know what to expect, I was certain that I would be among people of my "attractiveness level." I was wrong. I began to realize the mistake I had made early on when I found out that a very attractive bartender friend of mine said he would be there, and going as Tony Stark. Upon arrival I wandered around the convention, doing my best to avoid staring at half-naked ladies in elf costumes slipping and sliding on a floor soaked by their admirers’ drool. I walked past throngs of people waiting in line to play five minutes of a video game that would be out in two months and a cornucopia of people selling products I could buy cheaper online. The entire experience was reminiscent of traveling back in time to the 90s, when malls were the place to go. Only instead of goths dressed as people who hate themselves, people were dressed as their favorite Shinichirō Watanabe character. 

As I navigated the convention center aimlessly I received a text from The Bartender, telling me to meet him in "Artist's Alley," a place for comic book artists to sign their work. Upon arrival I was greeted warmly and introduced to the rest of his friends, each one (objectively) more attractive than the last. I was then given the full nerd-treatment in the form of a tour of comic book art. 

"... and he penciled Ultimate Spiderman 27-52." I remember being told before finally coming to the realization that, "FUCK, not only are they devilishly good looking gentleman but they are geekier and smarter than me." 

Instantly crushing my feelings of self-loathing into a diamond of hunger pangs I suggested we get some food before carrying on. They agreed and the entourage of demigods and I, their troll servant, proceeded to get lunch where I could more accurately assess the situation. 

A description of their appearance: 
1.) The men were typically sporting a stylish V-neck that was not knit by their mother, and showed just enough of their chest to prove that the gentlemen were aware of the concept of exercise. 
2.) Their hair did not look like it had had a morning fight with two blenders and a feral cat. 
3.) Their pants were not frayed at the bottom, baggy, or covered in stains from various previous outings. 
4.) They had eye protection from the sun, not broken prescription glasses that tilted awkwardly and made you look like a mad scientist. 

Suddenly all I could hear in my head was that Sesame Street song:

I was that thing.

Despite my negativity they were nice to me. To this point, I doubt they even perceived these obvious differences in style and appearance. In fact, it wasn't until we got back to Comic Con after lunch that the stark comparison was visible to everyone.

As we entered the arena for round two, a group of ladies working the event (read: hired to make the geeks buy horrible products they couldn't possibly need) walked over to The Bartender. Apparently these women knew him from something. He quickly went down the row introducing all of the ladies, who smiled peevishly as each gentleman cordially nodded back, and then he got to me, "and this is..." before my name was even finished the expression on the women's faces instantly changed to one of confusion.

No doubt the only logical explanation to the scenario these ladies were being subjected to was that I was from Make a Wish, and spending time with these guys was my dying request.

 

Part III: The Acceptance 

Knowing one's limitations is important. I will never be the guy that turns heads at a bar, nor someone women sit next to in the hopes he notices them. I will never be the guy that they will flirt with across the room. I am not ugly, but I am "ugly adjacent.” I remember long nights spent at The Bartender's bar watching female after female approach him order a drink and say "You know who you look like?" followed by a list of attractive male celebrities:

Robert Downey Jr.

Dave Matthews

George Clooney

Orlando Bloom (when he had long hair)

A young Tom Selleck (during Movember)

etc.

It didn't matter that these celebrities looked nothing alike. They were all the definition of hotness, and he embodies it. In my case, the lady would undoubtedly turn to me and say... "Oh, and you look like that guy... from Dazed and Confused... you know, he gets his ass kicked?"

She meant Adam Goldberg

They always mean Adam Goldberg.

Buggin' Out

Last night, I survived my nightmare. After years of living in the city, two of them being completely alone, I came home from yoga to find I had a visitor. This is worse than anything I have ever experienced in my life. You might be thinking to yourself "oh no, someone broke into her place" and you know what? You'd be right. I walked into my kitchen and there was my burglar, crawling towards the sink, eyeing me menacingly. I screamed at the top of my lungs and he ran right behind the fridge...

Ladies and gentlemen, I had my first roach. It was horrible, that little effing monster threw off my entire night. I screamed, cried, gagged, and I hadn't even begun the dramatics. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a crippling fear of roaches, I can't even buy a can of raid because they put a photo of it right where your goddamn palm goes. What marketing genius thought of that? Frozen in place with fear, I grabbed the closest object, my fire extinguisher. I was literally about to smash every bit of glassware on my drying mat to get the little effer but thankfully I was able to come out of panic just long enough to recognize that I'd be breaking the only two good wine glasses I have left. Next, as a prisoner of my irrational fear, I went ahead and did what any chick would do - I called every man in my phone. I called and screamed bloody murder as if the roach were wielding a knife and sporting gang tattoos. Finally, the ONLY one who agreed to show up did.

Steve and I had gone to high school together but weren't exactly friends. We ran in different social circles and he was a bit on the shy side so our interaction was limited to “hellos” and “goodbyes.” He was one of those nice sweet guys who could never quite match my loud, boisterous personality. 

Fast forward ten years, I was newly single and reviewing my dating options via social media. I was already wary of Match and OKCupid, so when Steve Facebook messaged me —changing my Facebook status to single is apparently the internet equivalent of throwing chum in a shark tank—  I decided to just go for it.

Our dates went well I suppose, we went to the museum where I gave my opinions on 16th century baroque art and he gave his opinion on how overpriced the gift shop was. We went out to dinner and shared everything we ordered. Well, I shared everything he ordered and he started at my plate as if I was eating hard boiled worms. OK he kind of had the palate of a six year old. Fine, the dates weren't that good, but he was still really nice!

Back to last night. I had arrived home after an intense yoga session when roach-gate happened so by the time anyone was making their way to me, I was sweaty and had gross cry face. Not a hot look. Steve had finally arrived and went right to work, searching diligently as I cried and cowered like a psychopath (no really though... why am I single??) and then he did the strangest thing. He got super affectionate. Quick aside - he is in general a touchy, lovey, tactile person whereas I am not. Don't get me wrong, I love hugs! I hug all of my friends but he likes to make constant contact and it’s just too much. So now, there I was, an hour into my panic attack when he comes at me and picks me up like a child by my ARMPITS. It sounds weird doesn't it?

Actually, it was worse than it sounds. It was super humiliating and to get out of it, I did that toddler move where they make their bodies super rigid so that you can't get them into a high chair. I ended up falling on the ground and he had the audacity to look at me and ask "WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?" Um HELLO you are picking me up and tossing me around like a two year old while more pressing issues crawl around less than a foot away! Still I let the weirdness go, get my bearings, and accept that the roach is gone (though the are never EVER truly gone). We sat down and started to watch tv. However, the affection continued. He pulled me over to cuddle, but as he did he went for a cheap feel! I was disgusted! Seriously who does this guy think he is? We’ve barely begun dating and I didn’t give him any indication that I was looking for a hot late night hook up. I had mascara and eyeliner all over my face from yoga (crying) for Christ’s sake. I yell indignantly “OH HELL NO!” and asked him to leave.

Steve: "That wasn't even that bad!.... Wait, I didn't even do anything!... Wait, why are you even mad?... ok well don't worry, I'll never talk to you ever again.... I'll never bother you ever for the rest of our lives..."

Me (in a calm and collected but stern voice):"Get out."

The nerve! I mean, in spite of his many, MANY, drawbacks he came right over to help with the roach, no questions asked, and didn’t judge my perfectly rational and normal reaction to this life threatening event. Unfortunately, while I could forgive the narrow-mindedness and a future of chicken fingers and pasta with regular old tomato sauce, I could not forgive a guy putting the moves on when I am clearly not in the right frame of mind. I mean, he didn’t even get the damn roach! 

I guess it's back to online dating for me. 

TMI Pickles

I once told a guy that I was late to our date because I had stopped at home to eat a pickle. I really liked that guy, and I really liked those pickles.

I've found that I have the most curious problem of over-sharing with the men in my life. I am completely unable to help myself when I suddenly feel compelled to share details about the giant bruise on my ass that is shaped exactly like Massachusetts (except upside down) but at the same time, I recoil in horror when the opportunity presents itself to express any genuine emotion or real honesty regarding my thoughts and feelings about our relationship. I generally get through these moments by recanting a salacious joke that involves a sailor, a gator, and a bottle of moonshine (I’ll tell it to you sometime).

Perhaps I’m trying to guard myself and my emotions with humor, perhaps I am afraid of any real genuine connection with another person, perhaps I happen to really like that joke; the world may never know (because psychiatrists are expensive). All self analysis aside though, let’s get back to that pickle.

I didn’t discover the joys of half-sour pickles until I moved up north (we don’t yet have this kind of technology in Florida!). Due to our lack of culture, I grew up thinking that all pickles were neon green, floppy, and tasting of a mix of sewer water and tide pool creatures [insert outrageous dick joke here!]. Then one day, while shopping at my local yuppie, family owned, farm to table specialty store (not an ounce of shame), I came across what looked like a quart container of fresh cucumbers floating in salt water and spices in the refrigerated section. Now, I get that this is essentially what pickles are, but to me it was a revelation!

With a mix of excitement and apprehension, I tore into the pickle package as soon as I got both feet into my kitchen. To my delight, these pickles were crunchy, garlicky, salty and just slightly tangy. They were perfect. I had another one the next morning as I was running out the door to work, they were still awesome, even for breakfast. The rest of my day was essentially spent calculating how many pickles I could eat at home before I had to leave to meet my date for margaritas that evening (and also wondering what a pickle margarita might be like).

As the day wore on though, my estimated pickle count went down by the hour. The work kept piling up and it finally became clear that I was going to have to rush straight from work to the restaurant to have any hope of making it to this date on time. That’s when I made a brash decision, the pickle was more important than the date. My house, was actually equidistant between the subway stop and the restaurant. I was going to make it work.*

When I finally arrived at the restaurant to meet my date, I started to mumble some excuse about the train being slow and, before I could help myself said, “actually, that’s not true. Between work and this restaurant, I stopped at my house to eat a pickle. It was a very good pickle and ultimately I think that it was worth it.” He however, did not seem to share my enthusiasm.

In the days to come, my date broke it off between us, citing the fact that he was not yet over his ex-girlfriend. I guess that she valued their relationship over preserved produce and I guess that I’m still looking for someone that understands the importance of a good pickle.

*As a quick side note: whenever I tell this story invariably someone says “oh, if you liked pickles so much, maybe you were pregnant.” No, idiot, I was not. While I’m on the subject though, I currently have a friend who is going into labor and posting it on Facebook. She keeps giving real time updates as to how dilated she is. That, is fucking disgusting and it is starting to become a trend. No one needs to know how gaping your soon to be floppy vagina is becoming. Gross.**

**The author does not view the beginning of a new life as a miracle. She views it as gross.

TMI Pickles

6 pickling cucumbers (the short ones that you find in spring)

4-5 cups of tap water (you want to cover the pickles completely)

¼ cup kosher salt

3 garlic cloves

1 tsp whole black peppercorns

½ tsp white mustard seeds

¼ tsp coriander seeds

2 sprigs of fresh dill

1) Wash cucumbers and place into a plastic quart container (they should fit very snugly).

2) Mix the (room temperature) water and salt together until the salt is fully dissolved.

3) While the salt is dissolving, peel and crush the garlic and add to the bowl with the cucumbers. Then add in the peppercorns, mustard, and coriander.

4) Pour the salt water over making sure to cover all cucumbers completely. They should be packed in tight enough not to float to the top.

5) Cover the top with plastic wrap secured with a rubber band and punch a few holes through it.

6) Store in a warm place away from direct sunlight (next to your stove perhaps) for three days. You should see some bubbles on the surface, this means that the pickles are fermenting. Depending on how sour you like them, you can ferment them for up to five days (they get more sour as the days go on).

7) Once they are done fermenting, store them in your refrigerator and enjoy on sandwiches, salads, or on their own before an awkward date.

The Numbers Game

Prologue:

The mirror in my hotel room is strategically positioned to catch my waddle past it toward the bathroom, which makes it a shame that Old Overholt makes me pee so much. When I look at my reflection- hunched over with a beer gut and no pants- I can't help but wonder what kind of creature would want to date this mess? I’m not particularly charismatic, and even if I was the greatest lay in the world (I'm not) you wouldn't know it from looking at me. So what the hell, ladies?! What is it you find attractive about me? Are there no other men? Are all the attractive intelligent guys gay?

These are the questions that keep me up nights. How is it that I, a somewhat (read: significantly) unattractive, long-winded, incredibly negative individual, is having success in the dating world? It seems unfathomable. My ex-roommate, a recent female convert to the city, used to say I was like a "bear with an apartment." I don’t disagree. So why the interest?

Well it turns out there is, in fact, a simple explanation: it's a numbers game. Where I live there are more women than men. It's really that simple. According to Trulia Trends, a real estate website, Boston has the third largest female-to-male ratio, with New York City a close fourth.

Now ladies, the news gets worse: while we get Washington D.C., Boston, and New York in our top five, your top five are:

When I recently informed a female colleague of this her reaction was exactly what you would expect, "Is abstinence or lesbianism an option?"

So there you have it, the only reason that I was able to get dates, while still being me, was a direct result of there being, literally, no one else. 

Part I: New York Slummin' 

After about a year since signing up for OkCupid, I noticed that my dates had been getting progressively less interesting. At first the novelty of an Amazon.com-style approach to dating —rating a person, adding them to your wish list with the intent/hope of putting them in your cart and seeing them within 2-4 days— seemed not only appealing; it was downright phenomenal. To me, their slogan ought to have been, “All the ease and convenience of online shopping, plus the chance to get laid!”

My enthusiasm was, unfortunately, short-lived as date after date started to seem identical to the last. Immediately after the initial few minutes of pleasantries she would undoubtedly ask where I worked and how many siblings I had. Though I would invariably tune out the answer, I would politely reply and ask the standard "and you?" follow ups. I understand that the act of normal human coupling involves minutia (read: life story) but recounting my own stories bores me as much as hearing yours. Sometime around the 10th consecutive date that opened with, "So… what do you do?" I knew I was in trouble.

That was when I stopped trying. Dressing up for dates became a quaint but obsolete convention, while showing up at least partially-drunk became novel. I even went so far as to go for the nuclear option, changing the venue from an uncrowded bar, to a packed Jazz club where conversation was almost impossible, thus eliminating all need for speech, and the opportunity to ask whether or not I had any pets.

Part II: Jazzin' It Up

So then I met Lucy (name changed). Lucy is from Cleveland. This was before my move to Boston and thus before my apathy when it came to checking a profile prior to asking someone out.

According to Lucy's "Personality Test": 

I was floored by the fact that she is less love-driven and romantic than I am —How the hell would that even look? Was she going to bring another date on our date?— and agreed to meet her outside the Jazz club.  

I showed up half-drunk but early enough to smoke a cigarette (nothing says "please fuck me" quite as much as smelling like a 90’s bowling alley) and open my book in the hopes that she would ask me about what I am reading rather than what I spend the 40-most-soul-sucking-hours-of-my-week doing. Lucy is punctual and overly affectionate, which is out-of-character if her profile is to be believed. She goes right in for a hug (which makes me think she is a smoker) but is awkward and doesn't quite know where to put her hands. My first take on this aborted hug-maneuver is that she was probably recently told to show more affection, and like a robot running beta software attempted to comply.

The club is loud as usual, and I order myself a scotch. In between songs, she compliments the venue and the view. Unfettered by attempts at casual conversation, my only contribution is to mention that I had previously stolen several light bulbs from the bathroom of this club because my bathroom had similarly odd bulbs that I can't seem to find in conventional stores.

As the band plays on I periodically catch a glimpse of her looking over at me, puzzled by what is going on. At which point I realize her bewilderment is directed at my body motions. In what must essentially look like a full body dry heave to the rest of the world, I am attempting to drunkenly "bop" my way along to the music. 

The band finishes their set, and I ask "Do you want to go to a nearby bar?" she mutters something about having to be up early and we head downstairs to flag her a cab. We both light up a cigarette, and she turns to me and says, "That was really fun, but I could never date someone like you."

"Like me?" I ask incredulously,

"What the fuck are you wearing?" she replies.

I suddenly am very much aware of the fact that my "Slummin' it" bravado extends to my clothing. I am wearing a ripped Nirvana T-shirt, baggy stained jeans, and a torn hoodie with some sort of insane print on it. In essence I have regressed to an outfit that even my 10th grade self might scoff at. It had not occurred to me I had sunk that low that fast.

"Shit," I say, suddenly aware of myself. "Yeah, holy garbage this is bad even for me."

"You look like shit, and you were boring all night."

"Yeah, sorry, well at least you got to see Dizzie's" I reply, opening the door to a cab that just pulled up.

"Well maybe our next date should involve some clothes shopping." She says before closing the door and driving away.

Our next date? What the hell just happened? Why would we even bother to go out again?

Part III: Negative Nancy

Over the next few weeks Lucy and I would go on several dates. Each time, the date would consist of an activity I had chosen (for which I was sure to be berated,) followed by an evening filled with admittedly creative insults at my expense. They would end with an awkward kiss goodbye and a promise by her to text me the following day to set up the next date.

Her nightly insults included (but were not limited to):

1.) You dress like a hobo.

2.) You drink too much.

3.) You talk too much.

4.) You never pick anything fun, just bars.

5.) Your friends are annoying.

And my all time favorite...

6.) You are hands-down the most annoying person I have ever met.

This may leave you to wonder, why would I go out with her? Well for one thing, she wasn't wrong, nothing she said (with the exception of the perhaps hyperbolic sixth point) was false. I was/did all of those things. For another we had yet to have sex, and I kept thinking (though I have no idea why) that it was still an option. Mostly though, it wasn't boring. In five dates I knew nothing of her family, or her life. We had discussed neither her job nor mine and there was no mention of where we went to school or what we studied there. Hell, the only reason I knew she was Jewish was because she was constantly belittling me and telling me I wasn't good enough for her. It was ideal.

But alas, it did not last. While for me the relationship was enjoyable, if confusing, for her it must have been insanely frustrating. Deep down, she probably thought that reciting my faults night after night would result in a change in my behavior.  When it didn't she just gave up.

Lucy, it appears, came to the conclusion that in a world where the odds are against her, she should grab hold of whatever she can get, and rebuke that thing (read: me) until it looks what she wanted in the first place. What she hadn't counted on was that sometimes being berated is more fun than being asked, "So, what do you do for work?" 

A Rand-y Date

Prologue

When I first started using OKCupid it was because they had a feature that allowed me to change the profile of another user I was looking at and submit it for their approval. I would entertain the idea that I was wittier than some of my lovelorn cohorts and mess around with the sections that I deemed dull. That is the kind of arrogance and asinine classlessness you should read into the following story. Over the years (yes YEARS) that I have been on OKCupid my attempts at wit have given way to laziness, and of late I have just been using their Quickmatch feature*. So color me shocked when out of the blue, a girl who’s profile I had not given the obligatory 4 or 5 stars, messaged me.

For women that are not on OKCupid I must point out that it wouldn't matter if you were unattractive, and had a yearning for a world run by Nazis, you would still be inundated with about a dozen messages a day, so for someone to read my profile and like it enough to make the first move… Well this person either really gets my pretentious internet persona, or…

Part I: The screening process

Friend: You need to do a better job of screening.

Me: why the fuck would I do that?

The following is an illustration of PRECISELY why I would (read: should) "do that":

Her first message was… cheeky?

So let’s ignore the obvious 69 joke, and the clearly sex-starved implications that go along with it, and skip straight to the fact that of all the words that she could have abbreviated, she abbreviated with. Seriously?! However, the message was not enough of a deterrent, and after a brief weather-related delay, we agreed to meet at a nearby bar.

Having long subscribed to the philosophy that alcohol is a social lubricant, and there is no such thing as too much lube, I go off to meet my date having imbibed a rather unsettling quantity of Jim Beam. As I gallantly stride (read: stumble) to the bar, I suddenly realize I know almost nothing about this lady. I haven't even bothered to look into her profile. I whip out my phone and proceed to rectify this situation. My inebriated gait, and relative proximity to our meeting spot gives me ample time to look over the finer points I had missed (read: ignored) on first glance. What I see is... rather alarming.

Her first choice of book makes me shudder to realize that what I had previously deemed as "a rather unsettling quantity of Jim Beam" was not going to be nearly enough. Even more puzzling was the fact that she not only misspelled Chuck Palahniuk, and rather than Google it (like I just did) put in an "(sp?)," but she spelled his first name CHUNK!   

I stare in abject disbelief at the phone screen before pocketing it, and entering the bar.

Part II: In the Beginning... 

Having been unpleasantly surprised by her profile, I am hoping that the actual human interaction will start off on a high note. Something to bring some much-needed levity to this debacle: 

"As I get older," I begin, "I find it more difficult to find people willing to go out for a drink at 11pm on a Monday. So, thanks for proving that my friends are all lame."
"Yeah," she replies, ignoring my smile "I guess only us desperate losers who haven't found anyone to settle down with yet are willing to do that."

Levity blown.

Instantly more parts of her profile start popping into my mind:

How is that even an option for that question?!

Today?

                         

My condom is gonna need a condom...

Like finding the missing pieces to a jigsaw puzzle of a turd, I finally begin to see the full, unnerving, picture. With nothing left to lose, and no particular necessity to keep it civil, I delve into her "beliefs."

"So you're a conservative?" I ask nonchalantly.
"Oh, is that a problem?" she responds with a bit of animosity in her tone.
"No..." I reply before being abruptly cut off.
"I'm not religious, or anything. I don't really even believe in a god" She continues, despite my puzzled expression. "I just think both are necessary."

Clearly we have shifted to an even darker secret. Something she assumed I had gleaned from her profile, but had clearly missed. I need to figure out what this nugget of info is before shifting to the leviathan that is Ayn Rand, but a bathroom break would only buy me a limited amount of time... unless... well I'm almost certainly not sleeping with her regardless...

"I have to poo, I'll be back in a few."

 4 minutes —which also left me with 5 solid bathroom minutes to get to level 111 in Candy Crush— later I had my answer: 

Teach the controversy? 

I walk out bewildered, and at a loss for words. I was prepared to argue that Rand was a psychopath who brutally murdered her antagonists in a book to make an insane and insulting point. I was not prepared to argue this.

"Are you ok?" she says, as I sit down.
"Creationism? Really?" I reply unable to contain the look of disgust creeping onto my face.
"I mean, I don't believe in it, I just believe children should be presented with a choice." She states casually.
"Between reality, and fiction?" I muttered under my breath while flagging the bartender down for another round.

Part III: Eat the Poor

Having for the most part avoided causing a scene in a bar I frequent, I decide we had reached the point in the evening when it is time to delve into the heavy arsenal. Quickly approaching a level of drunkenness that is both unappealing and inconducive to my ability to explain how much of an asshat Ayn Rand really was, I swivel around on my chair to face my victim, and...

"So your favorite book... 's Atlas Shrugged?" I slur.
"Yes, I think her characters are amazing." she blurts out enthusiastically.
"BULLSHIT!" I bellow. "Her characters are one dimensional, all of her villains are the kind you expect to see in a 1920s silent movie about bank heists."
"Maybe, but her protagonists are brilliantly depicted, with a lot of depth."
"NO! They are just all beautiful people." I snort. "That is how you know the difference between a good character and an evil one in her stupid book, all the Atlas's are spitting images of the Hitler youth while all the other characters vary in degree of ugliness comparative to how complicit they are in the downfall of the society..."

I'm pretty sure what I said is not nearly (read: at all) that well phrased. However the point does manage to get across, and soon she is agreeing with me that not only were the characters looks integral to what role they played, but that Ayn Rand was, at least slightly, psychotic.

The barback begins to collect the Bicardi spill mats, and the bartender is doing last call. I order one last whiskey, as my date continues to extol the virtues of Rand, rebuffing my previous points only slightly in her own Randian fantasy. I interject again stating that "Rand had a simplistic world view that can best be described under the Gordon Gecko moniker 'Greed is Good.'" She insists that I am simplifying and that in fact her message was that the "common good, and the personal good are never mutually exclusive."

As I reach the end of my final drink, with her explanation having veered entirely off course and into the argument that the poor "bring it on themselves." I finally begin to tune out.

Between the Randian bullshit, the over eagerness to be married with kids, and the desire to have creationism taught in schools I can see why this person (especially in Cambridge, MA) had to forcefully pursue dates. I begin to feel sorry for her. She isn't my type, and her belief system is entirely fucked, but she isn't inherently evil. In that moment I think, "Maybe I could look past her personality, seeing her only as a fairly attractive yoga student who had drunk just enough to find me attractive and not abrasive." I realize that if I play it right I could still get sex out of this giant mess...

"Do you want to..." I begin, only to realize she was in mid sentence.
"... she was a Guru in that way. Way ahead of her time." she finished.
"NO SHE FUCKING WASN'T! SHE WAS A FUCKING PSYCHOPATHIC GODDAMN NIGHTMARE, WHO EXCOMMUNICATED PEOPLE FROM HER FUCKING INSANE CULT IF THEY WOULDN'T FUCK HER! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" I yelled, as I grabbed my jacket and left the bar alone.

*A brief note on Quickmatch. Quickmatch is designed to quickly and easily rate the person’s profile. It also generally means that I will not look past the picture part of the potential match unless she finds me appealing too. It might be shallow, but I am struggling to find time to read books from my reading list two years I ago, and I highly doubt that your profile is as pithy as Infinite Jest.