If the Love Train ever came to my station
Ack. Hey, at least I made it to the start of the second paragraph this time.
Having spent my school years on the sidelines of love, I naturally scorned anyone who was in the game. So I arrived in New York two years ago as a self-righteous anti-romantic who mocked starry-eyed idealists, considered sex a nonthinking act between two imbeciles, and pitied women who lost their identities and independence as they plummeted into that meaningless void called "love."
When it starts off that well you know it has to end badly.
After he had overstayed that welcome, he moved into my apartment without asking, and without my really noticing.
Labs and Cala will appreciate this, if they haven't seen it already. (Context).
On the contrary, and against all glaring reason, I still ache for him. Or, more accurately, I ache for that all-consuming feeling.
Wow, a column that makes one glad not to be young anymore. That's sort of new for the NYT Living section (or whatever it's called), isn't it?
I fully endorse Hawthorne's grooming, drinking, and housekeeping practices. All he has to do is ditch the analytic philosophy.
If I continue to read things like this I will become unable to formulate text, lest I produce: "the Love Train did find its way to my scowling gargoyle heart." You're ruining a generation here, Becks, Ginsberg-style.
Yeah, that "gargoyle heart" line came damned close to stopping me. Unfortunately, I read it to the end.
I cannot believe the NYT published this.
Although more happily, that same terrible line also remind me of some classic Henry Rollins: "Break and enter me like a thief! Ride me! Ride my RAGING storm-swept heart!"
3 is awesome. I am charmed by the copy of "Knowledge and Lotteries" lying on the floor near the bed.
"This song makes me love you so much I want to die."
We weren't that lucky.
10 is to some degree correct in that I doubt Coetzee could be persuaded to write Modern Love, but you do have to have a low bar. Don't you?
Batter my heart, thou three-personed God, preferably into an unconsciousness so deep as to be impervious to the creaks and splintering clauses of the Modern Love column.
What saddens me about this ML is that you could see how, if written by someone with any capacity for self-reflection, possibly with a passable prose style, this could have yielded a sort-of thoughtful column about relationships. That moment of epiphany in "Wait. Who is actually willing to date you?" is a kind of poignant moment of realization that "love" has nothing to do with intrinsic value, but is merely the totally subjective value we cover people over with until we can no longer see them for who they are. That is, she should have quoted Stendhal, and also picked a central fucking metaphor.
That is, she should have quoted Stendhal, and also picked a central fucking metaphor.
Stendhal s/b Rousseau. Iris Murdoch has written on this as well, I believe.
Stendhal has also written on this. Don't fuck with me, w-lfs-n.
Also, this is making me insane:
I now felt a kinship with the late 19th-century French romanticists. I'd gone from a stubborn Holden Caulfield to a swooning Baudelaire.
The most astonishing part of this ML:
Margaret Meehan, a writer and editor
You missed:
improbable
annoying
pathetic
Come on, Ben, this is good stuff here.
Margaret Meehan? "[M]esmerized by Kate Bush videos" and "enjoys painting decapitated figures" sounds about right.
After re-reading this sentence ("But I allowed him to feed his vices in my home and with my resources as long as it meant that he would allow me to feed my vice: him"), I have decided that it is impossible that this column was written in earnest, and that Meghan Meehan must be a clever lurker here who thought it would be hilarious to use all of the classic ML shittyisms at once to see if ML would have no choice but to print it. Way to go, MM. Way to go. Unmask yourself at any moment.
23 s/b Margaret, not Meghan. W00 coffee.
It's nice when people use heartache as an opportunity to reflect and get to know themselves.
W00 coffee.
You have unintentionally made me jealous. I have shit coffee to brew. We haven't been to TJ's in like two weeks and shit coffee is my punishment.
Another vote for Stendhal and against Baudelaire.
It always surprises me how illiterate writers let themselves be nowadays.
When I saw the title, "Who is actually willing to date you?", I assumed it would come from the narrator berating herself in a fit of loneliness.
I'm at Jammies' parents' house, and everyone else just left to go to the football game, and I can't figure out how to turn the goddamn TV off.
Right down Avenue A in a sequined dress and high heels, running like a ravenous animal.
= Ambien + furries.
Yes, I was about to beg for the love of a man who slept in a dead man's bed in a pay-by-week 8-by-8-foot room.
I'm getting why this ML thing is a feature here. Also, I don't want to have to picture Holden Caulfield schtupping a guy, even if he is Baudelaire now. He's still wearing that hunting cap.
22: Actually, I think the relevant line in the bio is "worked as a freelance editor for such publications as the Onion" -- perhaps she submitted this to the NYT after the Onion rejected it as too subtle.
That's what I'm going to keep telling myself, anyway.
The picture goes off, but not the sound. How annoying is that.
I've only ever read about Stendhal on love, never actually the stuff directly. Girard makes much of it in Deceit, Desire, and the Novel.
Assuming you don't have a .357, I mean.
34: I never read it with my eyes, but Max read all of Of Love to me when we first started dating. That's how we managed never to fall in love with each other. Recommended!!
Unplug it, dear Heebie.
But there's a hole in the bucket.
Actually, I found the stereo-thingy in a cabinet and pushed a magic on/off button. Phew.
34: I never read it with my eyes
What an extremely subtle way to admit that one is blind.
"admit" s/b "reveal" or the like.
Watch crystallization in process: The adorably nondescript and faintly rude guy who lives below me, for whom I've maintained a meaningless and undirected crush for six months, is now listening to loud gangsta rap. And, because Stendhal is correct, my brain has decided this must be yet another of his extraordinary excellencies as a person.
Don't think you can escape responsibility for this belief formation by attributing it to your brain, AWB.
41: But... listening to rap is in indicator of extraordinary excellence. Unless it's crunk. Is it crunk?
43: But everyone listens to rap. How is it in itself an indicator of excellence, except in the subjective context of crush? (Don't worry, Emerson; the crush is limited to trying to think of a cute thing to say when I run into him in the hall every few months.)
I don't think it's crunk. In fact, it might be something sorta boutiquey and underground.
Thank God for the Times. Tomorrow's edition also has this informative piece. Sally Quinn reduced to shopping at Costco. I'll be more wary there in the future.
Oh, come on. Unbutton your blouse and go down to borrow a cup of sugar. If he doesn't have sugar, ask for flour. Or salt. And so on until he succumbs.
Please. Admirations of this particular order are only delightful insofar as they are not acted on, in part because the idea is so infinitely more entertaining than any possible experience of them.
It's true; I've withdrawn icily into myself like a snail.
At tday the tale was related of an extremely awkward fellow whose awkwardness is by design: the relator said of the relatum that he enjoys the tense awkward moments before the first kiss more than any possible kiss itself, and therefore seeks to prolong and savor them. We might call him the Great Valerio, in memory of the passage in Also Sprach Richard Thompson likening man to a tightrope-walker: ein gefährliches Hinüber, ein gefährliches Auf-dem-Wege, ein gefährliches Zurückblicken, ein gefährliches Schaudern und Stehenbleiben!
Or perhaps Zeno's eternal quitting of smoking in Svevo's book, never actually quitting smoking but dedicating himself to the idea of quitting smoking.
My Cleveland roommate and I had a sly contest to say the most awkward things possible during sex (with other people, and report back). It obviously fucked both of us up forever, as now it's pretty impossible for me to do anyone without thinking of terrible things and laughing.
In college way back when one woman looked at her watch right in the heat of the action. I don't know whether she was waiting for it to be over with, running a survey, or just trying to induce performance anxiety.
Maybe she just wanted to know what time it was.
(Yes, I did that once as a joke, but it really was hilarious at the time.)
Sounds like a variation on wanting it to be over with, something like "Seinfeld's on in 15 minutes and I'm stuck with a guy who fucks like a Chinaman".
one woman looked at her watch right in the heat of the action
And that woman grew up to be Becks' mother. And now you know the rest of the story.
In bed one time, I said "I'm a Real Doll!" and went limp.
I think that the fifteen minute clock is just for rationing the scarce pie.
60: But the important thing here is your partner's reaction.
I'm stuck with a guy who fucks like a Chinaman
Eh?
From "Chinatown". Jack Nicholson is telling a crude joke when Fay Dunaway walks in looking cool and classy.
I'm stuck with a guy who fucks like a Chinaman
He's brittle?
65: An hour after you finish, you're horny again.
Not on the internet. Paraphrase:
".... So on his next date he decides to follow the counselor's advice. So first he recites a poem while sitting in the lotus position, and then he makes love while gazing at the moon, and chanting, until the girl finally asks 'Why are you fucking like a Chinaman'".
60- I know someone who was doing the deed when he announced, "I AM TURNING INTO A BEAR." He continued about the rumpty-tumpty while telling her about the act of love as experienced by a werebear. He says she did not mind, staggeringly enough.
44: But everyone listens to rap.
Not so. In particular, not everyone listens to something sorta boutiquey and underground. I think I hear the Love Train coming 'round the bend...
Also, warning flag up on 66.
69: Is this at Nerd U, Snarkout? I wouldn't be surprised. Nerd U was, after all, where playing the game in 54 seemed to make a lot of sense.
No, I think this was at Big New England State University.
60: And then he said, "I'm a real boy!" and his, uh, nose started growing.
Oh, one of the best ever was while I was having a very brief affair with this roommate's brother, who was in town. We kept it from my roommate for a day, and then told him. He was sort of horrified, but we had plans to go see Pink Narcissus that night. If you're not familiar, PN is an extraordinary silent gay porn film from 1971 with an extremely long and boring sequence in which a man with a huge erection dances while covered in strings of beads. I didn't sleep with the roommate's brother for long after that, but describing big ropes of beads never failed to produce timely guffaws.
Jesus meets an old man outside the gates of heaven and says, "Can I help you?"
The old man looks confused and says he doesn't know what's going on.
Jesus says, "Well, tell me about yourself."
The old man says, "I'm a carpenter. I'm from the mediterranean region."
Now Jesus is getting very excited. He says, "Tell me. Did you have any children?"
The old man says, "One son. But through very unusual circumstances."
With tears in his eyes, Jesus says, "FATHER?"
The old man says, "Pinnochio?"
There should be a Werebear/Carebear crossover somewhere. The CareWeres.
one woman looked at her watch right in the heat of the action
Here she was trying to allude to Tristram Shandy, and Mr. Why-Aren't-Writers-More-Literate had to go and take it personally.
John Emerson is what's wrong with the ML column.
It wasn't me, dear B, it was my friend Mr Fuck-and-Tell.
Your friend F&T is what's wrong with ML, then.
"I woke up at 8 a.m. in a sweat-drenched lovesick panic, left my apartment and rode my Schwinn Cruiser to the flophouse's front door."
Every word rings true, as if it were written on my soul.
What I want is for some woman to write a story like this unapologetically, on the theme of "the crazy ones rock in the sack."
I had a friend who was dating a guy who did that; woke up early one morning in a lovesick panic and showed up at her door at 8am on his bike, having bought flowers, terrified that he'd said something wrong and she'd break it off with him.
She immediately broke it off with him at that moment.
I define crazy as rocking-in-the-sack.
84: I do, every day, here in this space, and where's the love I get? Only mockery and derision.
I broke up with a guy when I lived in Michigan, and during Christmas break he hopped in his car and drove to Florida and showed up unannounced on my parents' doorstep.
What I want is for some woman to write a story like this unapologetically, on the theme of "the crazy ones rock in the sack."
Is there a particular variety of "crazy" for which this is true?
I thought it was quite good.
You're cute when you're contrary.
More evidence that the NYT's editors have taken the weekend off:
Australia's prime minister, John Howard, one of President Bush's staunchest allies in Asia,
Is there a particular variety of "crazy" for which this is true?
Selfish 20-something musician sounds like a good start.
90: The kind that isn't neurotic or depressed. Neuroses and depression lead to bad sex, IME, but all other kinds of crazy == hott sex. Unfortunately, in my case it also led to attempted murder, but YMMV.
I will never mock AWB again, knowing as I now do that she was raised on home-grown zucchini, though I realize that there's nothing that can undo the damage of past mockery.
Fortunately or otherwise, he didn't press charges and AWB walks free among us.
96: No joke. After someone tries to kill you a bunch of times, you eventually hatch a few plots of your own.
85: That sounds like something I'd do. I have problems dealing with anxiety. Better to fuck up a relationship then worry about whether or not it's fucked.
Huh, I would have assumed any kind of crazy that begins with "selfish" would necessarily imply bad sex.
The whole attempted murder thing sounds somewhat unappealing, though, and may be a compelling argument in favor of mediocre sane guy sex.
Most crazy guys are not murderous, though. Some are just completely unpredictable, which I find thoroughly charming.
Oh, you know who are great in bed? Ex-drug addicts. People who used to do a lot of drugs and now don't are almost always really stunningly great in bed and a lot of fun.
Okay, then, I know where to find all the neurotic and depressive crazy guys. Where do the non-murderous crazy guys who rock in the sack hang out?
You want a guy with rocks in his sack?
I would have assumed any kind of crazy that begins with "selfish" would necessarily imply bad sex.
No way, man. Because they'll do all sorts of crazy ass shit and since they're selfish bastards, you don't have to care what they think of you, and you can do crazy ass shit too.
Also 101 is correct.
Because they'll do all sorts of crazy ass shit and since they're selfish bastards, you don't have to care what they think of you, and you can do crazy ass shit too.
Mmmm, B speaks teh true.
You want a guy with rocks in his sack?
And who has the skirt to admit it, yeah.
She immediately broke it off with him at that moment.
85 could be an entry in "AWB's Little Book of Relationship Koans", with a preface by Fontana Labs and afterword by John Emerson.
"non-murderous crazy guys" = "neurotic and depressive crazy guys.", sorry to say. There are only so many varieties of crazy, and only a few of them totally exclude "murderous".
Really? You don't just wind up having stupid fights about how you did his crazy ass shit last week and he never wants to do your crazy ass shit and why does he have to be such a selfish, selfish bastard...?
Of course you have fights. It's tempestuous and crazy and then you have hot make-up sex. It's not happy, it's hot.
See, if he's really a totally selfish bastard, it's not like he's going to ask you if he can do crazy-ass shit, and you're not going to have to ask him, either. You just do it. Everyone is happy.
97: "Once a guy tries to kill you, your friendship's never the same again" -- Malcolm X.
112 crossed with 111. I am not into fights, myself, which may explain the disparity.
I have so much yet to learn. I feel there is wisdom here in this place.
Neuticles rock way more than organicles. You can get them as heavy as you want. All of the really big studs have had the operation.
Notice, Di, that B and I have all the hot-inappropriate-sex-fu one can master, but for happy-relationship-fu, you'll have to seek answers elsewhere.
What happens is you wind up having fights like normal, except that some of of them are because he's accusing you of turning all of the light switches upside down. Which is all fine and good, no worse than a regular fight, until he decides that that's part of your big plan to electrocute him in his sleep, at which point he has to take action.
112 is fair enough -- it all depends on the kind of crazy and the degree to which you are in an actual relationship with the person. I've had both varieties, and the cheerful selfish bastard who truly doesn't care if you do crazy shit is rarer, I think, but definitely a fun time. I don't enjoy fights either, but I've had some smoking hot sex with people who made me miserable otherwise, and I can't deny that the sex was genuinely hot.
We're getting close to the "nice guy" argument another fucking time. Might we just agree that sexy and nice have some overlap and a lot of non-overlap, and that niceness per se is not sexy and even detracys from certain kinds of sexiness?
Getting attacked with a paring knife is much easier when she's a 120 pound woman and you're a 170 pound man than vice-versa. The sex was good, though. Bitch was right.
117: Fortunately, I am not on any great quest for happy-relationship-fu anytime in the immediate future. Unfortunately, the thought that hot-sex-fu implicitly involves some level of inappropriate triggers my highly responsive good-girl uptightness instincts and I am left but to blush and think wistfully, "AWB and B must have soooo much fun."
attempted murder
totally selfish
Ex-drug addicts.
Why don't women go for nice guys like me, is what I want to know.
123: Well, used to have sooo much fun. I'm practically a virgin now.
AWB is not ready to commit fully to my program yet.
B and I have all the hot-inappropriate-sex-fu one can master, but for happy-relationship-fu, you'll have to seek answers elsewhere.
Hey! I've have happy relationship fu too. The common factor in both is clearsightedness: being able to acknowledge "so and so is crappy relationship material, but he's hot, so what the hell" as well as "this guy is an excellent match for me."
Wholesome girls like B have more fun. The rest of you bitches are just out of luck. Her father was a minister of the gospel, you know, and she didn't know what a penis was until she was 21. She drives men wild.
124: Philosophy.
I take it this is an addition to the list rather than an answer to the question.
The common factor in both is clearsightedness
Irregular verb. I am clearsighted, you are selfish, he is a sociopath.
You have got to be kidding me. This was one of the best Modern Love columns yet. Honest, straightforward, direct, and didn't try to squirm away from the depths of romance using psychobabble. Normally Modern Love makes me think love is dead, this one gave me hope.
That's about what I'd expect "Sin" to think. We're turning into an allegor around here.
126: I'd reassure you that you eventually get used to it, but that's a damned lie. Turns out that when your libido is no longer artificially suppressed by the depression of a soul-sucking sewage pit of a relationship, being practically a virgin gets really annoying. Also turns out that getting "back out there" can be rather disorienting when trying to simultaneously readjust to the whole enjoying sex thing while at the same time reacclimating to the bizarre cultural institution known as "dating."
"too"....should...be.........................something....
134: Yeah, it really sucks. The first few months were the worst. But now it's just sort of low-grade awful all the time. I'm not depressed, just really fucking annoyed about celibacy and way too disappointed with the mass of humanity in my locale to do anything about it. Douchebags abound.
136 - Take a chill pill. Moderation in all things, you know.
Not douchebags--wrong word--boring people. People are too boring to fuck.
Not douchebags--wrong word--boring people. People are too boring to fuck.
When you're tired of bores, you are tired of life.
I have to amend 121. I had nothing resembling good sex with one of the psychotics I dated. We could kiss, but anything beyond that she tensed up. Any kind of contact in any erogenous zone and she'd tremble and start to cry. So sex was pretty much me holding her for a few hours and telling her I didn't mind not having sex. Not hott,perhaps, but I still am fond of her and hope to hell she's ok.
Hey! I've have happy relationship fu too.
But you can't fucking spell, so there. Hah. See if I care about your happy fucking relationships. Just you see if I care.
If you want, I can tell you what you're doing wrong.
146: Um, well, yeah. If you wouldn't mind, I would appreciate the opportunity to improve!
147: "blowhardiness" is the new modern translation for Pride.
"Blowhardiness cometh before a fall." "A Blowhardiness of Lions." "Blowhardiness and Prejudice." I like it.
This thread provides yet more evidence that sex with AWB is an unusually complex and fraught activity.
the bizarre cultural institution known as "dating."
A good deal of the bizarreness comes from the two possible functions of dating -- checking out minimal conversational compatibility / personal chemistry with sex partners, or dating to find a long term relationship. Good to have pretty clearly in mind which one you want. Of course, there's a third one too, free dinners.
my highly responsive good-girl uptightness instincts
I will argue to my dying day that these are veldt-related.
Blowhardiness is not canonical.
Yes, but it gives off a certain scent.
151: How does it adjectivize, though? "I Ain't Too Blowhardy To Beg?"
134,138: I'm sure it's different for the laydeez, but I found it did get a lot better after the first few weeks. When I stopped worrying about it, it became much, much easier to deal with. Of course, I'm much more of a born-again virgin than either of you, but I suspect that desperation is unsexy regardless of gender. I get flirted with much more now when I'm not worried about sex than I did when I was.
I used to have a fine reputation. Was admired, even.
Too often, too expensively, too eagerly, and when I don't I obsess over it.
And great for patriotism! "I Blowhard To Be An American."
This thread provides yet more evidence that sex with AWB is an unusually complex and fraught activity.
Eh, not really. I like enjoying sex, as opposed to interpreting it and worrying about it and feeling guilt about it and attaching status to it all the time. What you call "complex and fraught" is what I feel as "totally divorced from complexity."
155: Be desireless, be excellent, be gone.
Good to have pretty clearly in mind which one you want.
Honestly? Honestly? Because, personally, I prefer to not have to make that call until well into a relationship. Is this unreasonable of me?
156: Everyone used to want to get into Chastity's pants. Now they don't even care any more.
I prefer to not have to make that call until well into a relationship.
Clearly, you have already made your choice.
Anyway, people aren't boring, AWB. People are fucking amazing. Like the man (Rilke) said: "If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not a poet enough to call forth its riches"
I suspect that desperation is unsexy regardless of gender.
You might suspect this, but it turns out that announcing that you really, really desparately want to get laid is an effective strategy for attracting willing men. This may not work the same way with genders reversed.
Well, Rilke had his own issues.
164: I am feeling a little misanthropic these days, especially about the NYC dating pool. I know that, deep down, each of them are unique snowflakes of individuality and magic, but they choose to present themselves in ham-fisted stereotypes and cheeseball speeches.
I have known lots and lots of incredible, amazing people, and it's only because of those people that I am so often depressed about new ones.
Obviously Rilke is blaming the victim here.
Anyway, people aren't boring, AWB. People are fucking amazing.
I think it's possible that while some people are boring, others are fucking amazing. Abortions for some, tiny American flags for others!
Did Rilke get laid? If not, he might not be the best expert on this subject.
Over the holiday my sister related how she has been on numerous dates lately, and I simultaneously felt both envy and relief, that I no longer have to deal with dating.
I am feeling a little misanthropic these days, especially about the NYC dating pool.
Is there a bigger dating pool (i.e., where there is the institution of dating, and an equivalently large number of datable people per square kilometer) in the world?
my sister related how she has been on numerous dates lately, and I simultaneously felt both envy and relief,
I totally relate to this.
171: The size may be the problem. There's a way that large populations of singles become frighteningly homogenous.
My brother got married because they both hated dating so much, but by now he wonders whether that was such a good plan after all.
Big masses people always make the right-thinking person misanthropic.
Big masses people always make the right-thinking person misanthropic.
No, they make them blasé. See Simmel for details.
167: Seems like the "easiest" solution is to mix it up a bit as far as the social circle you are meeting people in. Where exactly you meet a different set of people -- short of the advice I always seem to get about how I should go back to church so I can meet a nice young man -- I don't have the first idea.
Wait, never mind. I'm being dense -- the answer lies within! Crazy guys rock in the sack. Ex-addicts, whoa, lookout! So, clearly the solution is to go volunteer (or just hang out) at a halfway house or similar such institution.
In order to find a user, you must first become a user. Youser.
178: Now we'll see whether there were any unacknowledged conditioning variables in the discussion above.
Go to church. Just ask the pastor first "Is this a singles church or a neighborhood church?" They'll know what you mean. Tell them that you're new in town and seeking meaning in your life.
Emerson has convinced me to switch pseuds from "sin", which I only adopted because of three-letter anonymity day.
I'm not sure the crazy/good lover connection applies to women. The best lover I ever had -- who was so good that she asymptotically approached the upper limit of how good it is possible to be -- was (outside of bed) a remarkably prudent, well organized, and conservative sort of person. I think with women it's just kind of a roll of the dice on how sexuality ends up, there's a ton of natural variation.
178, 179: No joke. My sister is that it's common for non-alcoholics to use AA as a dating service, and a woman we both know is doing just that. She's on recovering alcoholic #2 now.
I had a guy friend who was a magnet for talented, attractive crazy women. From what he said they had the complete range from fantastic to awful. In many cases he just because a Platonic, conversational friend.
large populations of singles become frighteningly homogenous"/i>
So do what I do: rent a garret. Make sure that garret has a walk-in closet, and then stick your computer in the walk-in closet. Then conduct your professional life from said computer. You will then be two steps removed from humanity. When you emerge from your hole within a hole, humanity will be a strange a beautiful beast. It can glean cans like the bum, have a hot ass like the girl on the T, or look permanently pissed like the other girl on the T. Beautiful!
Thanks, Heebie. High praise coming from a master of the language such as yourself. I used to post a lot under a not-anon-enough handle and I think I have now found my final identity.
I used to be a magnet for really interesting guys, but now I can't seem to meet them no matter what I do. Am I too old for anyone with a personality?
What kind of a slut do you think I am?
What kind of a slut do you think I am?
Aren't you banging Beyonce?
173: The size may be the problem
Look, they apologized, what more do you want?
You people are fucking crazy.
No he doesn't. These people are trying to fuck the crazy.
Sex with AWB may be simple, but she herself seems to have her complexities. Although she could be on to something with this theory that people age out of having a personality.
I'm off to quite possibly get laid myself. Not sure how I feel about that.
Just got back from the buffet, what'd I miss?
Never mind, I feel good about it. It's the aftermath I'm not sure about. But that will take care of itself -- Di was wise in comment 161.
I'm off to quite possibly get laid myself. Not sure how I feel about that.
See own name?
Enjoy. Hopefully it'll be eponymous sex.
Am I too old for anyone with a personality?
Look, no matter what that jerk Rilke says, you're a smart, attractive, and funny woman. You can't go too far wrong. I don't know the NY dating scene, but everywhere else in the world attractive works, and smart and funny are used as matching criteria. I don't know what else to tell you: you have all the the cards, further praise would look even more like flattery.
Pwned by the cactus. Who presumably has prickly sex.
Later but better. Post-pwned!
Yay, PGD! (Love the new pseud, too.)
OK, how about this one?: Tell everybody that you're crazy, and that your disease is wanting to have wild sex all the time and can only be cured with wild sex. Also, have one hand in your coat pocket all the time, holding a heavy object.
Look, no matter what that jerk Rilke says, you're a smart, attractive, and funny woman.
Is it therapy time again already?
Also, have one hand in your coat pocket all the time, holding a heavy object.
Like a snow-dome.
Or just fill your pocket with gravel.
"Then you do you explain his concussion, ma'am?"
"Christmas miracle!"
As long as that pocket is weighing your coat cock-eyed, that's the key.
211: bringing out the snow-dome will establish the crazy, while still giving you a potential weapon.
Sifu is nuts. Nobody will screw him. Also, his site is down. I wanted to mention how good Randy Moss is, but no such luck.
Problem: I would want to hold the globe by the (breakable) globe part. s/b Bocce ball?
One of those blown colored glass ornaments. Be sure to refer to it as "My Palantír."
217: my moustache is crazy, but I feel a duty to stand by it. Plus, I hear it's wild in the sack.
I don't know if Bocce Ball connotes the crazy. How about a handful of cooked mac-and-cheese?
Sifu is nuts. Nobody will screw him.
Awww. There's always uDCII, Sifu.
cooked... how?
I usually just boil the macaroni, then drain and stir in the cheese.
220: don't you mean stand behind it?
Sure, that was to 22. Why do you ask?
225: yikes! Banshee! Gotta get all Fatal Attraction on us, eh?
225: yikes! Banshee! Gotta get all Fatal Attraction on us, eh?
The hamburger helper puffy white four-fingered glove will be my boyfriend. Oh yes, he will be mine.
Oh yes, he will be mine.
Party on.
Further 189: Hell, our own Tweety is interesting, if that's what you're after. You'd have to use protection of course, for eugenic reasons.
Hamburger Helper all throwing up the shocker while the onions carmelise WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE and heebie's eyes glow bright red in the shadows.
I see it, yeah. I'm with you.
Hamburger Helper all throwing up the shocker
How dare you! I'm saving myself for hammarriage.
That's a good one. Like a vibrator.
How dare you! I'm saving myself for hammarriage.
Keep plenty of coagulant on hand.
I'm saving myself for hammarriage.
You slut! He's my helper, and he's gone all the way with me!
241 exsanguinated my lolulatory system.
Heading out myself now with a spring in my step and a pocketful of macaroni -- cooked al dente, of course!
Hey Mr. Sifu, what's going on with your blog? I wanted to express my feelings about how much the Pats ROCK, but I couldn't. Is this because Kaye Grogan has finally taken her revenge?
Kaye Grogan's revenge was tricking The Editors into turning the blog into an unbroken string of Patriots. Now an angry mob of former reader have burned down Poor Man headquarter while chanting "At least the fucking dinosaur! At least the fucking dinosaur!"
Holy hell you guys, are you watching the Notre Dame/Stanford game? It's dramatic.
Watching the whole time. Fucking Irish.
That hit on Pritchards was nasty.
And the retaliation? Then they put Pritchards back in?
Two dropped in the end zone to end the game?
195: These people are trying to fuck the crazy.
Fucking the crazy's not all it's cracked up to be.
Sanity combined with a willingness to transcend boundaries in bed is perfectly possible. I mean, if that's what you want. Not everybody does.
Yeah, that huge layout was definitely a catch.
Just ugly all over.
You guys are talking about football?
Sheesh.
261.1: You must not be doing it right.
Yeah! Go football! I hope that team beats that other team!
Good lord no, parsimon. They're talking about the annual Notre Dame/Stanford gay orgy.
(In view of 265, there seems to be an extra comma in 258.)
You guys are talking about football?
Good lord no, parsimon. They're talking about the annual Notre Dame/Stanford gay orgy.
An extremely fine distinction.
179: In order to find a user, you must first become a user. Youser.
"You,Sir! Ex-drug addict?... perfect. Now hold this box of hamburger helper, and keep it where I can see it."
You don't want to know what orgy retaliation entails.
The participants studiously ignore each other?
270: that ain't no Hitler moustache!
271: the commandante gives the order: "balls to the walls!" then, complete silence ensues.
272: If I'm ever tempted to participate in an orgy with you, remind me of this moment and you'll be paid handsomely.
Beefo Meaty is familiar with the work of Terry Richardson.
261.1: You must not be doing it right.
Uh. Ha!
That's alright, my mother has just sent me my childhood teddy bear, and, well, writes: "as you can see you wore it out as a toddler-you wouldn't go to bed without it-when you were tired you would get your teddy & blanket & come to me with your thumb in your mouth & that meant you wanted to go to bed"
I am charmed beyond belief.
As you were.
176: in fact I was thinking of the work of Dustin Diamond, but that's pretty damn hilarious.
The Eagles are getting really cocky. They're taunting Moss and bragging that they'll hold him to two touchdowns and 100 yards.
276: What's that guy look so mournful for? Is this his court-ordered community service assignment or something?
He knows he's letting you down, John. All the Hitlers do, eventually.
If only Dustin had had a Sears catalog handy, Terry Richardson would get the accolades he deserves.
at which point, some people wrote to the company to complain
I love America.
281: It's art, John, of course it's serious. He's not just pussyfooting around.
285: that wasn't a foot, no sir.
His work has really taken a dive.
284: House rules violation! Block quote, man!
Meanwhile, this at 197:
this theory that people age out of having a personality.
is mildly intriguing.
My neighbor's sister in law just called from the African nation where she works for the State Department. Her husband had left here to go to their home in Wisconsin, but he hadn't arrived yet and wasn't answering his cell, so she was worried. I wanted my neighbor to point out to her that this could be serious, what with all the cannibals in Wisconsin.
AWB, if your dating pool is full of the boring, it's time for you to move to San Francisco. I'm pretty sure the standard deviation of deviation here is larger than NYC.
That is probably true, H-L. Know any unis looking for an 18cist?
Alas, I don't know anything about academia.
