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!
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!
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.
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?
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.
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.
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?