Online Soulmates: Sociopath Edition

Dear Sweet Lord and Everloving Jesus, we have found the Holy Grail of OkCupid profiles.

Here I was (W), just minding my own business, eating leftover alfredo sauce from a jar, cruising for dick on the internet. Ya know, typical Wednesday evening shit, wondering why I can't get laid... And suddenly, the sad little computer algorithm gods bestowed this gem on me.

Not only is this possibly the greatest thing I've seen online EVER (well, if you don't count Rick Perry deep-throating a corn dog -- that is pure internet gold), but also this man was SUGGESTED TO ME. Like, "Hey you, put down the cream sauce. You're gonna need to see."

Without further ado, we present the man* of our internet dreams.

*photo has been removed in the fear we may get arrested and/or murdered

Profile name

fuck_ok_c

27 / M / Straight / Single

My self-summary

fuck this site
fuck this site
fuck this site
no, seriously, fuck okc.

p.s., ladies, just so you can see how it is on the other side, I will not initiate any contact with anyone under any circumstances. If you actually want to talk, you have to IM me. fuck you.

What I'm doing with my life
being bitter, grumpy, a super-intelligent smartass (trust me on this one).

I'm really good at
sending messages drunkenly to girls late at night that i'm DTF.

being ABYSMALLY DISAPPOINTED with every single goddamn chick I've met on here. no offense. sorry. bored out of my gourd. Had enough of smiling people with nothing to say. (and, actually, believe it or not, i'm an optimist.)

The first things people usually notice about me

i'm tall and awkward

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
Garcia Marquez / Borges / Moby Dick / Jill Ker Conway / Steven Pinker / Harry Potter / Kazuo Ishiguro / Ethan Canin... etc. etc... but you know what, what's the FUCKING POINT? All anyone else on here has read are the same goddamn "adult trend" shitty mass-produced corporate bullshit poorly written shit shows. WTF why should I even waste my time pretending to be on your level.

shows, TV is useless, except for chapelle (canceled), party down (canceled), and a few other sundry things. learn that fucking word, dipshits. so TIRED of people with poor vocabs... and no I'm not judging, but i'm tired of dealing with sad sad ignorance. there i said it.

music, i'm not really into either. lame i know. sorry hipster kids, you're right, i don't know any of your goddamn bands. i like a healthy mix of jazz, grunge, classical, various pop crap, random recs from friends.

food, i'll eat whatever the hell i want. a lot of times it's sushi. stuff white people like, wouldn't you know.

The six things I could never do without

1. the NYT online (i know, right? i wouldn't have guessed that either)
2. my internal memory of every Family Guy episode ever
3. optimism (i know my profile gives absolutely no reason to believe this, but it's true.)
4. family (ditto, see 3)
5. sex. i love boning more than any of you. unfortunately everyone else on here sucks at it.
6. being a douchebag, except for the first few dates when i have to pretend to be nice.

I spend a lot of time thinking about
fucking

On a typical Friday night I am

drunk and angry on this site

The most private thing I'm willing to admit

dude, who the fuck cares? you are all retarded and i'm sick of dealing with you.

You should message me if
you don't suck at math (which is NOT cute, it's fucking annoying), you're liberal, you actually care about politics/the world/have something to say, you have read a book other than Nicholas Sparks or some chick lit shit within the last year, you're not a hipster, you actually have a surprisingly positive view of humanity, you are willing to put up with angry dorks like me. emphasizing the dork part pretty heavily.

Things That Are Not Normal, A Series: Part One

Standing over the sink
Fully sober at 11pm.
And upon first bite of a burrito
Saying to your dog,
"Something just blossomed inside me."

#help

Why B and W Should Just Date Each Other

An actual conversation over texts between The Bitches: tonight, the Friday of a three-day weekend, 1:18 am.

W: Why is dating so goddamn impossible?
B: Ooh deet me
W: I just don't like people sober. I think it's a problem
B: No it makes sense. I totally agree. Booze makes the world go round.
W: Like what the fuck
B: And what are these sober freaks doing in nyc? Go back to utah.
W: I mean. I played pool sober tonight.
B: Gross! You have my sympathies.
W: And I hope condolences to my vagina
B: I'm virtually bringing your vag flowers and a card
W: How was your night?
B: I'm watching my so called life and eating caramels. Soooo yeah.
W: At least you have Jordan catelano

How W is Coug-ing Her Way Out of a Cooter Sabbatical

Last week I turned 27. Little did I know that would be the year I lost my dignity.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am now officially a coug.

Apparently my body told my brain it's been dried up for too damn long, and out of nowhere, like fucking Teen Wolf or something, I spontaneously sprouted a velour track suit and freckled tits. Which is the literary metaphor for inappropriately touching a 22-year-old in a bathroom. Basically.

So let's back up here a bit. As a rule, I like older dudes. I've been dating guys in their 30s since I was 21. I practically draw the line at a decade age difference. You have to be this old to ride. Clearly this is working out REALLY well for me, as I've had a long list of serious, healthy, nurturing, responsible relationships come out of that...ahem.

Alright, so in reality, I haven't had sex in a year. AN ACTUAL FUCKING YEAR. (Or should I say, non-fucking year.) And I can't believe I'm admitting this in public, or even in public anonymity. Because that hurts your pubes just to think about it. But yeah. In January of 2010 I found out my ex (who remained my best friend) was fucking a functionally retarded mutual acquaintance, while on the side telling me he still loved me. If that's not enough to throw you into a suicidally slutty rage fest, then I don't know what will. Therefore, I dove vag first into online dating, otherwise known as legal prostitution. For the better part of February, March and April, I was pulling ass like a boss. Latin ass. African ass. Rich ass. Freaky ass. Trust me, I was cleaning up.

But even I knew I was about to reach slut overload. So sometime around early May when I met this lovely, polite, kind college professor, I thought I could maybe slow things down a bit and enjoy going to movies and museums and ya know, normal date-y shit. Thennnnn came the sex. How could such a seemingly attractive guy have so much hair on his back? Or have generated enough sweat in 30 seconds to sufficiently shower my face? We awkwardly fumbled around for a good 20 minutes or so before bursting into laughter at how horrifically incompatible we were.

And that was the last time I had sex. Your genitals are crying for me, I know.

Fast forward 12 months, 15 pounds and approximately 65 AAA batteries later...

I walk into my friend's going-away party in my finest skeleton t-shirt and thick black glasses (my standard dick-repellant uniform these days). A few whiskeys in, this incredibly cute (read: dumb) guy starts chatting me up at the bar. He wants to be a rock star (duhhhhhhh) but is mowing lawns and getting his community college associate's degree in the meantime. Hot. He's also the younger brother of my friend's best friend. Hmmm...

The more we all drink, the more we all dance. And the more we dance, the less I care about the consequences of fucking my friend's little brother. The party heads back to my friend's house, and when you're about seven whiskeys down and someone tells you you're pretty...you pull them in a bathroom. It happens.

I have no idea how much we really did in there... or how I managed to get home at 5 am... or just how much of my bank account I parted with for that car from Brooklyn... But I do know I woke up projectile vomiting and getting texts from friends recounting the sounds heard from the living room. I believe one actually used the words "Animal Planet shit." Oops.

But despite my initial mortification, I can't think of a better way for my cooter to get her groove back. Maybe I'll look good in velour.

Bitches Get Stuff Done

Oldie but goodie.

Ummm. Hi. Remember us?

It's okay. We wouldn't either.

Well, it's been nearly a year. Fuck. We've clearly gotten lazier -- even for us. And fatter. Although you can't really tell that part via the blogosphere. But trust us. W's doctor and B's latest bridesmaid dress confirm such facts. The anxiety-induced anorexia appears to have transformed into full-blown macaroni-and-cheese-inflicted depression. Whatever, cellulite is hot for '11.

Other than that... Looking back... Nothing else has really changed.

W still has awkwardly inappropriate run-ins with HOBG at the fridge. B still gets regularly harassed by / infuriated with G (although they haven't dated in...oh yeah...a year). W is still a coffee-lugging, copy-wenching assistant... Oh! Here's something new -- B has a new job! She markets things that keep you from shitting your pants! No really, she must say the word "diarrhea" approximately 47 times a day. And you think we make these things up. B also may or may not have experienced slight penetration from a recent bikini wax...which is the most action either of us have received in months. Real talk.

So what spawned the bitch resurrection? Need we repeat the coffee-lugging and pants-shitting part? We needed some creative outlet. And by creative we mean whining. But that's why we started this thing in the first place. And you're obviously still reading it. So eat our macaroni asses.

Now. Where to start? Given that we have a year of aggression pent up in us, we'll just start listing things in life that have been annoying us lately and see where the next few posts take us...

1. Dear Open Letters in Twitter: You are not clever anymore. Once fashion publicists and illiterate teenagers catch on, your once witty phrasing is retired. Sincerely, Us.

2. Messages on dating sites are just as much a first impression as meeting someone in public. You cannot compare us to a Spice Girl and expect a reply...no matter how many times you've read I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.

3. If you are several years younger than us with better jobs than us, you are never allowed to comment on pop culture. Ever. Say for instance, you're utterly perplexed to why Reese Witherspoon is posing with elephants for Vogue May. Keep it to yourself. You'll just end up embarrassing yourself and pissing us off.

4. The deafening crescendo of our neighbor's new girlfriend's orgasms went from being once a weekend...to once an hour. Have we sufficiently touched upon W's cooter sabbatical?

5. Words of wisdom: Dirty hippie college boyfriends can (and do) eventually clean their shit up. Give them a chance before you toss them aside and they turn out to suddenly have Ph.D.s and rolled-up dress shirts and horn-rim glasses and, ya know, haircuts...and you're the psychotic, sweaty loser with a dead-end job. It happens.

Glad to be back, guys. We promise to keep it up this time, and (god help us) we hope it gets funnier for all our sakes.

Following the Rant

I'll make this brief. But following my recent meltdown a few interesting developments have surfaced. And I figured, why stop there? Let's explore this self-loathing. Let's see where it takes us.

Sooo... The writer who fawned over the 24-year-old Parisian ingénue in Bazaar? The one who is flown around the world to interview society's elite? The one whose career I wish I had? Yeah, that guy. He just put this out into the world: "My #polo dates are having a disagreement: Tom Guinness says Nacho is his real name, and @ByrdieBell thinks its short for something. Anyone?"

If I have to explain why I'm upset, then you don't deserve to know. However, I'm thrilled the mastheads of Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, V and Interview (FOR FUCK'S SAKE!) call him their own. He can make The New York Times best-sellers list, and I can barely afford to feed my dog? Right.

Next.

The ex, the love, the one?

Thanks to the miracles of the internet and the demise of our ability to escape people (I swear to God, Facebook, one day I will ruin you), I found out on Friday he's on a serene tropical vacation. With the girl he was fucking on the side.

The one he took to the New Year's Eve party this year -- before texting me at 10 am the next morning to tell me how much he loves me. The one I thought could only be a meaningless fling, indiscretion, mistake. The reason I cut him out of my life, hoping he would realize how utterly beneath him she was.

Nope, she's the one who after only six months gets to travel halfway across the Pacific with him. Not the one who nurtured and edified him for three years. Not the one who was kept in the dark on a string and pulled out whenever his ego needed stroking. No, no, no. The one who I'm 99 percent sure is tittering off which sunless tanning cream is her, like, omg, fave. She's the one he chose.

**End note: Thank you to the few who have encouraged my need to vent and share. I don't feel less of an asshole, but I do feel relieved.**