The Worst of Online Dating: “Wanna Bang & Have Mutual Meals?”

Well, here we are.  Back to online dating.  Yikes.

While it does seem to work pretty well, online dating comes with some major annoyances, and beautifully hilarious encounters.  Women have a real advantage on these sites because men of all ages want to sleep with women in their 20s.  That means most messages are from men I have no interest in meeting, and who have very little in common with me.  Most messages just say, “how are you?” or “your beautiful.  what’s up?” and so on.

By the way, the “your” in “your beautiful” is how most of them are written.  Very few people have figured out that “your” and “you’re” are not at all the same.  

Basically, it’s mostly fine.  I don’t respond very often, but sometimes the particularly offensive messages inspire to write back.  Sometimes I just draft messages that I dream of writing, but don’t actually hit send.  Here’s my question: should I send them?

Below, I’ve sent along a beautifully bold message I received just today…  Should I send my super-weird response?  Should I just let it die?

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His beautiful message:

Hello,
I’m a full time student now doing masters, I work 40+ hrs at the Hosptial, and work occasionally in between that. So non-commitment sexual encounters with possible mutual meals is all I ever have time for this semester . As far as in the sheets go, I’m not turned on just by the mundane, gentle sex. I enjoy it time to time as a way to break up the rougher side. I’m definitely turned on the most by knowledge , intelligence and beauty which you seem to have all. If you have any questions you’d like to ask , I’ll answer anything.
Also I promise to keep things discreet .
Thanks,
Gary

My gross response:

Hey Gary,

While I am super-impressed that you have so much going on. I mean, I just have two jobs, two volunteers positions, classes, workshops, and self-respect, I can’t believe you’ve managed to stay awake long enough to write this charming message. I mean, my god, that’s impressive. If I had a job and some classes, I’d only be able to do that and sleep. Look at you, making time to troll the internet for women to screw.

It’s always nice when a complete stranger sends me a message that hints to their sexual proclivities. How unusual that you enjoy both slow and fast sex? I’ve never met a man who enjoyed different kinds of sex. You must be really deep. Personally, I’m only into completely silent, open-eyed, well-lit intercourse. I also enjoy wearing colonial dresses when I fornicate; it makes it more complicated, but it’s totally worth it.

It sounds like you are definitely turned on by intelligence. Sex is the best way for a person to express their intelligence. Before I put on my colonial sex dress, I usually give my potential sex partner a quiz on world history, algebra, and poetic forms. I only proceed with my straight-A students.

Here are some questions:
1. Has this ever worked?
2. How many women have you successfully banged? Please provide numbers for women you met online vs. women you met in person.
3. Why bother making a profile when you could just go to Rick’s or Necto?
4. What about my profile made you think I’d want to be your fuck buddy?
5. What’s your favorite color?
6. Can I call you Gare-Bear?
7. Can I please, please, please have your phone number? I can’t wait to come over!

All my love,
Ryan Gosling

Patty and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I felt invigorated this morning; I actually got up and worked out.  I’ve heard that many adults do that in the mornings, and it’s not as fun as eating cheese.  Still, I did work out.  In my adventures, which included a brief and slow run, I went to my car to grab a CD (yes, I still buy them) I bought for a friend.  To my dismay, the door handle was broken.  Until I can find the part, figure out how to take the panel off, and replace it, I’ll be climbing in from the passenger’s side.

After that fun discovery, I took a shower, did my hair, went downstairs to pick out shoes… That’s when I saw a steady stream of water coming down from the ceiling of my closet.  Nearly all my clothing was soaking wet, multiple items were ruined, and it smelled great (just kidding).

I started pulling clothes of the rod, and piling them in the next room.  I ran upstairs to grab pots and pans to catch the drips.  I removed every shoe, shirt, skirt, dress, box, that one stuffed beagle, and my carved wiseman who looks like Jafar.  I exhausted my towel reserves and paper towels while sopping up gallons of questionably-colored water.  I individually cleaned every damn shoe.  I did hours of laundry.  It was so fun… no.

In the midst of the mess, I called my landlord and he assured me that it had “never happened before” which totally helps me in this situation.  I mentioned that it was convenient that the last maintenance they’d done in my apartment had left sawdust all over my closet.  Isn’t it nice that they failed to clean up earlier in preparation of this coming disaster.

For the next few hours, I watched water leak from the ceiling, then inexplicably and inconceivably coming out of the floor.  Because this is such a high-quality apartment, the floors are uneven and so are the ceilings.  The linoleum seemed to be soaking in the water, then rejected it for being far too natural to live in the horrid floor.  Even the spiders started to run away.

When the landlord and his “boy” arrived, sans plumber, they first decided to paint one of the garage doors brown.  They never use tape around here, it’s all just nearly straight.  Upon sight, he forced me to hug him, called me “sweetheart” and said “oooooooohhhh” about seven times.  I cannot fully capture how intensely I dislike them; all the bitch in me rises up in my throat and begs to be thrust at their puny little minds.  I held back.  I needed to go buy more detergent anyway.

When I returned, they had managed to open the ceiling and promised to go get a real plumber and real parts.  I inspected the whole in the ceiling while they were out – so many spider carcasses!  Yay!

The plumber arrived, with the landlord and his boy, and they proceeded to run up and down the stairs, call me “sweetheart”, and not understand plumbing.  When they finally realized that the issue was an incorrectly installed fixture in the tub.  My landlord, being a creative deflector type, told me it was because I hung a sponge from the faucet.  He said that the water was deflecting there and going into the crack.  If I hadn’t used that sponge, no water would have gotten into the cracks and holes.  Wrong.  Water goes lots of places in showers.  The sponge wasn’t there very frequently.  I use the shower, not the bath, so the water comes out of a different spout – it’s amazing.  That’s not even a sponge, it’s shower puff, dammit.

The plumber explained that the issue was a wrongly-installed part and not the (f’ing) “sponge”.

My landlord literally said, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about this.  We’ve taken care of it.”

I repeated it back in my grown-uppiest voice, and then said, “You know that I’m a grown woman, right?  I’ll be sure to not ‘worry my pretty little head’.  I’d hate for it to get too full with ideas.  That’s for men!”

He stared blankly.  His boy laughed and appreciated the anger I was holding in.

I escaped to my computer where I was clearly working, when my landlord decided to start a very personal conversation with me.  Mostly, he was defending how great he thinks this place is, but he also wanted to push his fun opinions on me.  He asked about the guy I’d been dating when I moved in, I said that we were no longer together.  He then gave me tons of great advice.  He asked what happened, and how, and why, and so much more.  I said, “Yeah… I don’t want to talk about that with you.”  Then, it got weirder.

He said, “That’s too bad.  He seemed really successful.  You should really ask him to reconsider.  A girl would be lucky to have a successful man like that.  He seemed nice too, and he was pretty good-looking.  You should really ask him to get back together with you.  Seriously.”

With big and crazy eyes, I replied, “Wow.  That is so far over the line.  You need to stop talking.”

He said, “Oh, I’m sorry.  I just don’t want a nice girl like you to end up alone.”

That’s when I asked him to leave.

In conclusion, I hate this apartment, I hate my landlord, and I hate sexist norms about women needing men.  I just wanted to not have wet clothes.  I just wanted to have the whole in my ceiling plugged.  I just wanted them to pay for dry cleaning.  I just wanted to go to work.

Great.  What a great day.