Table for One

Note: I started writing this entry several weeks ago and was never able to finish it, and I think I figured out why that's the case. I realized the magnitude of the self-fulfilling prophecy of the blog and how this is honestly another grain of sand on Internet Beach, destined to be passed over by Internet metal detectors and no doubt end up clinging to the testicles inside of some web browser's unfortunate Internet boardshorts. In fact, the prophecy continues to be fulfilled by the mere typing of these words, though not by you reading them. Your reading them provides this blog ultimately with some sort of worth, because at the very least, you expended the calories to click the mouse to this page. Thanks for using up the energy you got from that 33rd Goldfish cracker you ate. I appreciate it, as I realize I am no better than the other persons, places, things, or blogs I herald or criticize here, because they have just as much worth or are just as worthless as my secondhand smug. With this epiphany of self awareness, here is "Table for One," written from December 16th, 2007 to January 7th, 2008.

"I make the heartiest attempts to not air any of my dirty laundry over the Internet. A friend of mine once told me that the blog is the watermark of a psychopath, and his words still resonate with me several years after he said this in the dining hall of our school, no doubt over recycled chili and half-digested dessert that had seen far too many tours of duty beneath fingerprint-glazed sneeze guards and fluorescent lighting. He was no doubt discussing the character of a questionable young woman who will naturally remain anonymous as the next patron at Ann Taylor Loft or what have you. However, my remembrance of his notorious quote is twofold, for this dumpster of decomposed thought, rotten stories, and other base intellectual refuse and worthless ruminations is my own little trash heap, and in it I have uncovered an appropriate topic that I have chosen to broadcast as we lurch closer and closer to the holidays: dating.

It's around this time that one can feel truly alone, even though spending an exorbitant amount of money on someone who might dump you before MLK Day is not a tableau I wish to see arranged. If you have been cryogenically single as I have since the Bronze Age, you might be numb to all of the holiday goings-on that shine a light on your failures, shortcomings, faults, and character defects. You have no significant other to buy presents for, so you end up either 1) blowing it all on obscure family members 2) buying yourself several gifts to fill that gaping void in your life or 3) opting to double up on gifts for your immediate family, in some halfhearted way of repaying them for years of tolerating your unreasonable requests and overall ungrateful attitude for your comfortable life. Furthermore, you take no dates to Christmas or New Year's Eve parties. I would know; last week I stood under a sparse mistletoe, watching it wilt from the laughter of others as my forlorn gaze cut across the party crowd. On New Year's, I won't be locking lips with any fetching bird as the ball drops, but instead craning my neck skyward so that my face will be as far away from both the happy and the spur-of-the-moment-booze-fueled couples as well. Will I be bitter as the calendar rolls over and I come closer to crossing the bar? Certainly not in that particular ticker-tape covered instance, but I do not let my awkward digits prowl this keyboard in some serene sentimental manner, not in the slightest.

Once January 2nd rolls around, a much larger problem, in my opinion of my life, will be illuminated. Admittedly, it's an incidental issue. Should I be more concerned with my 401(k) and paying students loans off and paying my rent and getting my life straight with the Flying Spaghetti Monster? There is no doubt in my mind; however, why not pontificate on matters of the heart while I sit collecting dust, getting older and more worthless as the sun sets and the moon rises.

What is there to say? One might accuse me of copping out when I blame the environment, but really, hear my take on this one. Once you're out of college, it's virtually impossible to meet members of the opposite sex your own age who are either too healthy, too religious, or too drunk for you.

Maybe the grocery store?

No thank you, I am not trying to be judged by some femme fatale whilst I choose between the discounted Lean Cuisines.

Perhaps work.

Are you kidding? Having an age and a tax bracket handicap does not help me out too much. Neither does driving my mother's old car to work. I'm not exactly the cock of the walk around the workplace, if you will. Maybe if I stopped carrying my lunch in a plastic grocery bag, that might cause a meteoric rise in the pecking order.

Fine. Let's isolate the gym, ecclesiastical establishments, bars, the grocery store, and the workplace from view. What about house parties?

When's the last time you found an acceptable member of the opposite sex to pick up at a house party? Everyone there is linked by such easily soluble social networks that by the end of the evening, everything looks like a bleached watercolor painting and you still don't know anyone's name. Not exactly.

However, let's say, for example, that by some stroke of genius, I channel some caveman instinct and with all deliberate force and speed, knock a young lady out and take her out. Have you ever seen an eight-year-old drive stick shift? I'd imagine it would be like that; there's so much rust to knock off of me the Tin Man would accuse me of being shiftless. I am so far removed from the dating world it's completely alien to me; I would serve myself better by learning a foreign language (lol Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus references LOL LOLOLOLOLOLOLLLLLLL) or taking up that craft of putting ships into bottles. A dying art, really.

We can joke all we want about a sad scene or my lack of game, but I think what's the most depressing thing out of all of this(here is where I am a huge, hyperbolic prick!) rock-bottom diatribe are the dudes that young ladies actually accept as legitimate boyfriends. They're out there, ladies of America. They can't speak English well. They can't dress themselves; hair gel is the only steady product they purchase. They will ignore your interests, they will bro out instead. They will pick fights and get tossed from establishments. They will forget your birthday. They will. forget. your. birthday.

Honestly, the only thing that I am proud of from this one is the boon of self-actualization I received from trudging through this lackadaisically lugubrious lament. It was shameless. It was low. Am I sorry for it? No. Will I do something along these lines again? Chances are pretty slim. Will you be a loyal reader after this entry? I can already sense you clicking the right hand corner."