Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 9

I hate to be the bearer of good news, but my 2nd and 3rd week of online dating were a bit of a snoozefest. Not a single fucking date. Not even any sexy texts, unless it was Bobby, but I don't think so. He's busy. Busy having a private investigator make sure I'm not a black widow.

I tried to slow down and eliminate the sexy talk and just be a human being so I could tell my therapist how healed I am. This yielded jack shit. 

My woefully inadequate attempts at dating have taught me how much we are the same. People, that is. Even those of us who are obviously not like everyone else are like everyone else. So much so that I started to think every guy I almost dated this year was actually the same guy with 3 different dating profiles, phone numbers, and social media accounts. If you aren't paranoid before online dating, don't do it. Stay on your homestead. Enjoy your buttons-not-zippers. Churn butter. Make babies. Devote your life to God. Or dog. Whoever's closer.

I want a fucking man. Not a narcissist. Not an egotist. Not a wife beater or feelings creeper or cheater. I want a real man who tries to know who he is and what he's bad at and tells the truth and wants me to be the show he has no need to direct. I want to matter. I want to be pursued. I want a man. There is a shortage. Help.

Tim has his own practice in Oregon and a house near the ocean and a Porsche and midwestern roots. He appears so much like my ex I thought his pandemic mask pic actually was my ex. A shrink who is an ex-husband doppelganger? Nice choice, Ness. But I decided it was unfair to rule Tim out just because he APPEARED like someone I knew too long who was icky. But fuck. Same looks. Same field. Same car crush. Same preferred coastline. Same zodiac sign. Except Tim was superior to my ex in all matters superficial. And younger than me. And actually sweet, I think. But terminally timid. I am tired. I cannot do all the work. At this point, I am compelled only to work on myself. But fortunately, since I am apparently forever single now, I find myself perfect company. No rehab required. 

Stacey was somethin-somethin. Bigtime builder. Hot. Southern. Polite. Smart. Record geek. Outdoor freak. Interested. Until he wasn't. Busy. So busy. Oh, have you heard this before? Every moment spoken for. Then why are you in a fucking dating app, Stacey? He was even too busy to fill me in on his recent ayahuasca retreat. Stacey, after 2 weeks of chatting you should know an omission such as this is equivalent to beating me. Too busy to say "I forgot I had this account and I don't want to date you even though we've been messaging for half a month." Too busy to say "I don't know what I want right now, but it's definitely not you." Too busy to say "I'm too busy."

Pino out-texted me. Cuz he has a dexedrine problem he thinks isn't a problem. His eyes are bugging out of his head in his profile pic. But I like him. We share a passion for Plate Lunch. He's half Philipino and wants to feed me. But if I'm gonna be committed to a speed freak, I might as well continue to date myself and methylphenidate. (I take the prescribed amount. Ease up. Narc does not look good on you.)

I was so over online dating by week 4, I let my premium subscription expire and now I'm on cyber-sex welfare. You have to guess who likes you. Oh, it's a shitload of dudes. With blurry faces and presumed but unverified dubious intent. Now I just eliminate people in the non-blurry feed without even reading about them. Unless they are good candidates to carry me. Then I put them in my "like" queue and let the 24 hours run out without contacting them. 

When I cry, Daisy rushes over, puts her huge head on my shoulder hard so I know she means it, licks my ear and lovingly snorts in it to make me laugh, then spoons me 'til I feel better. I doubt the 6'5" gym rat languishng in my queue is gonna do that.

Stay close for the next installment, when I delete my dating app and marry Christ.

Until next time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness