It’s true. I have to admit it to myself. I’m undatable. At first I thought to myself “How did this happen?” But like all things, a little reflection and thought exposes the truth.

For those that know me, you are probably rolling your eyes right now, thinking of all the platitudes that comes from talking to your single friends, assuring them that they will some day find love. But Love, like Jesus, Santa Clause and Superman, does not exist. Relationships, companionship… those exist. But Love? Not really. And if you look deep inside yourself, you’ll be forced to agree. More on that later.

So go ahead. Get it out of your system…

“You haven’t found the right girl yet.”
“Stop dating strippers.”
“You are too picky.”
“You don’t try hard enough.”
“Join a dating site.”

None of those things matter because I am undatable. The real reason? I’m just too damn old and too damn set in my ways. I have no time for these foolish games and I don’t suffer fools. I don’t take excuses, I don’t want to WORK at it (why should anyone WORK at love?) and the opposite sex infuriates me.

At some point in ALL marriages, your spouse turns from lover to best friend and companion or you end up hating them and getting a divorce. If you have the former, you can look forward to 20-50 years of a loveless marriage, filled with children to keep you busy, and antiquing in your waining years. How very special. How very special and charming and boring as fuck. Get my shotgun out now, I want to blow a giant hole through the back of my skull.

Getting the picture on why I’m undatable yet?

Sure… I love LOVE as much as the next guy. But I’ve also been know to love illegal substances, alcohol, gambling, and anything else that releases all those glorious chemicals into my brain making me “feel” something that is nothing more than a passing elation that eventually wears off, leaving me with nothing but the suckiness that is LIFE.

Now that I am a grown ass man, I realize this. I’m no longer driven by the second head below my waist. I no longer feel the NEED to bed a woman for the sake of bedding her. I like to make love, not have sex. If I wanted sex, it’s always just a mouse click and $300 away.

So I’m grown now, and old. Older than I’d ever thought I’d be. We all reach this point. A point where we are not yet in our golden years, but definitely at the point where we start complaining about “those kids today.” And with age comes wisdom, and really old habits. Too late to change! Too late to change!

Undateable.

I like my quiet time. I’m typing this in silence. Listening to the fan hum and the crickets chirp. I don’t have the time nor patience to deal with someone else yap yap yapping in my ear about some mundane thing. I’m busy here!

Undateable.

Too busy really. I’m a workaholic. I make no excuses for this. It’s who I am. It’s in my blood. I’ve put in my 40 hours this week and it’s only Wednesday. Hey, shit’s gotta get done. I don’t have time for someone else. You’re just too much work on a plate that’s already full.

Undateable.

I’m WAY too honest. I try not to be. I seriously do. I don’t think honesty is the best policy. I lay it all out there. I’m honest to a fault. Some would call me rude. Don’t tell me everything is fine when it’s not. Don’t ignore my texts because you are trying to make a point. Don’t LIE TO MY FACE. Yet there you are, reading this, saying “I don’t do that.” Yes. Yes you do. Head games are a woman’s weapon of choice. You torture your man, break him down, then hate him for being the wimp you created. Slobbering fools we men are. Why would I want that?

Undateable.

This sex thing, I don’t get it. I got it in my 20′s. I got it my early 30′s. Now? I don’t get it. Literally and figuratively. I feel for you gals, I really do. When do you give it up? When is too soon? When is too late? And why do we ask such questions? Shouldn’t sex be organic? Spontaneous? It’s just so NOT when you get older. Now there’s candles and condoms, talks and tests, and spanx and weaves. Ugh. Weaves and fake boobs and fake eyelashes and fake… everything. Then theres the men. The body building and the guns. The waxed eyebrows and the fake tans. The gold chains, the cologne and the man-scaping. I’m in the shower shaving my balls now. MY BALLS. And for what? Believe me, my right hand really doesn’t care about the jungle I may or may not have down there.

Undateable.

I hate you. Don’t worry, I hate myself ALMOST as much. You are not smart enough for me. You can’t conceive of the things in my head. I’m fucking brilliant. I’m a damn genius. I’m special. (At least that’s what mom used to say.) Don’t even get me STARTED on that 30 pounds you packed on because you got older. And any woman over 40 MUST get some sort of government postcard in the mail mandating that they get a lesbian haircut. Maybe Anne Hathaway can pull it off, but honey, you are no Anne Hathaway.

Undateable.

I’m like a damn drug addict. I get a taste of it and I keep running back for more. NO MORE! DO YOU HERE ME CHEMICAL IDUCED FEELING INSIDE MY BRAIN THAT PEOPLE CALL LOVE? NO MORE.

I’m done. I quit. Sure it’s tough to quit cold turkey, but this time I’m doing it. ALONE! ALONE I SAY! I have a cat. She’s good company. I have my work, it fulfills me. I have my comic books and my reality TV and my weekly internet show, chock full of my digital friends and I have my vodka.

So keep your babies and your white picket fences. Your vacations and your brand new Hondas and Mini-Vans. Keep your sexless marriages and your fights over money and your racking your brain to find some new set of lackluster weekend activity that you are trying to convince yourself is fun.

I’ll keep my work. She’s my lady. She’s my love. She’s my everything. I love you work. You’ll date me right? How long should I wait for that text back from you?

I’d like to sit here and say that my 10 hours of not smoking was a complete failure. I won’t. Was it a failure? Yes of course, but certainly not a “complete” failure. We all can’t write and direct “Star Wars” right out of the gate. This was my “Gigli”. (Sorry Martin Brest.)

When one decides to go on a new adventure, it’s a good idea to get to know the obstacles one might face. Think about it as going into space. A lot of research has to be done, tests have to be done, and a lot of test runs have to be made. This first attempt at quitting was a test run. A torturous test run.

So what have I learned about this first run? Let’s break it down.

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My older brother called me out of the blue last night. We haven’t always been close, but I think we both try hard to build a bridge over troubled waters, so it’s nice to hear from him. Unfortunately for us both, bad habits die hard and so do deep routed family issues. So what was supposed to be a quick ‘hey what’s up’ turned into a two hour marathon bro VS bro brawl. As much as it is emotionally draining, he IS my older brother and I DO respect his opinions, even though I don’t always agree with him… and he DOES make me think. Ugh.

My brother doesn’t look through rose colored glasses, rather a prism of his own creation. The problem is, I think a lot of people may see me through that prism. Which begs the question… Am I who I see in the mirror, or what other people see in me?

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I don’t get sick very often but when I do it hits me like Superman hitting an asteroid out of an Earth trajectory. And last week I got SICK. I could tell it was coming over me on Thursday and by Friday I was full-on-hard-core-f-ing-sick. The weekend was miserable and on Monday I hit the urgent care center.

The doctor came in and looked at my throat for about 1.2 seconds, pulled back suddenly and said “Wow! You are sick!”

“No shit” I said.
“No… you are REALL Y REALLY SICK!” he said.

After going through this exchange a couple more times, he prescribed me Amoxicillian. I rolled my eyes. Amoxicillian? Like I need a doctor for this kind of genius prescribing skills.

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Minority groups really piss me off. That’s probably because I was born a privileged white man and I have gotten everything in my life for free. Hell, everyone knows that. White people have it made and have never had to struggle. Just talk to my Ukrainian relatives who came over to America on a boat. They will tell you how easy they had it.

But back to these minorities. Always whining that they are not represented enough in movies, television and music. Old women say that there are not any roles for them in Hollywood, latin people are only cast as thugs, and let’s not forget Halle Berry! The most gorgeous woman in the world has had such a hard struggle, being african-american with a white mother has been a nightmare!

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In the first quarter of the BCS championship game, ESPN showed Alabama quarterback McCarron’s girlfriend, Katherine Webb, who was sitting near his parents. Musburger called the 23-year-old Webb, a “lovely lady” and “beautiful,” and said to his broadcast partner, Kirk Herbstreit, a former quarterback at Ohio State, “You quarterbacks get all the good-looking women.”

“A J’s doing some things right,” Herbstreit replied. Musburger, 73, then said, “If you’re a youngster in Alabama, start getting the football out and throw it around the backyard with Pop.”

Was it creepy that a 73 year old Brent Musburger was foaming at the mouth over the obviously very attractive Katherine Webb? Oh hell yes. Even though we could not see Musburger’s face during his comments, one could imagine his tongue handing out and him having to take out his old man handkerchief and wiping the drool off his chin. But it was only creepy to women. Men talk like this everyday, but just to other men.

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I was talking to a girl friend of mine and she still can’t believe that I have not seen “The Notebook”, the quintessential chick-flick that causes spontaneous outbursts of crying amongst women. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not above a good cry, but only if it’s a good cry over a GOOD thing, not a good cry over a BAD thing. In “The Notebook” the main character has Alzheimer’s and is going to die and never remember her true love. Sorry. Should have said “spoiler alert”, but let’s face it, if you haven’t seen “The Notebook” yet, you probably will never watch it. Unless you are a dude and you watch it with a woman just to get laid.

But seriously… if someone told you a movie was about a love story being told by an old guy to an old woman, and the old woman turned out to be the woman in the story, but she’s never remember it because she has Alzheimer’s… would you want to watch it? Of course not. That’s TERRIBLE! Why not make it a double feature and watch a movie about puppies being tortured.

The last time I had a rely good cry over not a BAD thing was the movie “Marly & Me.” You know, the one with the adorable yellow dog. Or golden. Whatever. The dog… spoiler alert… dies in the end. It was HORRIBLE. I mean sure, the dog lived a long life, but that doesn’t mean you don’t cry. Your grandma lived a long life, but I bet you cried at her funeral. If you didn’t then I suggest you see a therapist ASAP.

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Banning assault rifles is a good start, but using that same logic, we must also ban handguns as well. Let me explain…

The reason why we have the 2nd amendment is so the civilian population can protect themselves from their own government. The only way this works is if civilians have access to the same firepower as the government.

If the government has muskets, then the civilians must have muskets.

Of course today, the government has trained Marines, naval ships, the army, the Air Force, fighter jets, apache helicopters, assault rifles, RPGs, tanks and lets not forget nukes. Exactly what will any amount of “guns” do against that? The argument is beyond ludicrous.

Of course if you think Obama is the antichrist, then you are probably really upset that you can’t buy a personal drone and probably have an arsenal amassed that would rival any looney out there.

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