Self-deprecating… humour? I guess.
I lied. I’m not the ideal man I describe in my decree of eligibility. Yes, it’s true, in the course of dating and especially when painting a picture of oneself to that end, we all have a tendency to exaggerate – sometimes ridiculously so. Indeed, I was poking fun at this dishonest depiction, this disgusting vanity, this metaphorical puffing out of the chest to impress the opposite sex. Still, I feel that I’ve misled you, kind reader, and this misrepresentation must be remedied, late as it is. There is no reason to be dishonest in this anonymous forum; it is tantamount to Doublethink. Or [insert other clever Orwellian reference].
I am utterly incapable of commitment. I break into a cold sweat at restaurants when I order soup. I have to run to the bathroom, vomit, and splash water in my face at the thought of losing the possibility of having salad that night. I look at my haggard face in the mirror. I see a five-day unkempt growth of facial hair and bloodshot eyes and I taste the salty tears dripping down my nose. But I tell myself it’s okay, the salad will be there next time and, besides, it’s just salad. It’s just a loosely tossed pile of leaves and grass sprinkled with oil and a little vinegar. But I’m inconsolable and I ultimately run back to the waiter and, with spit frothing from my mouth, plead with him to change my order. What kind of salad? House? What the fuck does that mean? Whose house? Oh my god, there are dressing options? What’s thousand island dressing? Which thousand islands? The Mediterranean? The Galapagos? The Canadian Arctic? Is the dressing just a melted glacier from Baffin Island in the Canadian Arctic? This is too much. I settle on a baked potato. I suffer its arid starchiness, but at least I’m not thinking about soup or salad. I am utterly incapable of commitment.
I’m terribly selfish. If I were to go for dinner with friends and one (or all) of them was wheelchair-bound, I would suggest a restaurant that was not even remotely handicap-friendly. There would be spiral staircases and metal spikes for railings. There would be a single mile-long dirt path to the entrance; the path would be treacherous, boasting sheer cliffs and hundred-foot drops should you make a wrong step (oh sorry, you can’t make any step). Patrons would be required to limbo in order to get in. But, the food would be delicious and I would rave about it, and send out mass emails with amazing yelp reviews. When we got to the restaurant I would make a mock sad-face, and march my functioning legs up the path, under the limbo bar, and into the restaurant, while my handicapped friends stood – I mean, sat – dejected at trail head. The next day I would gloat to my handicapped compadres, comparing the food to sex – “Oh, I’m sorry, I guess cripples can’t have sex, can they? Well it was really really good, anyway”. I would stop by at their houses with leftovers from the dinner and heat up the food in their microwaves before devouring it like a duck, all while they eye me balefully. I would then declare loudly that I am stuffed, and need to work off the calories. I would suggest that we go for a run to get the blood going. I would look down at their still limbs and say “lame, dude”, before trotting out the door. I’m terribly selfish.
I am really rude. Decorum means nothing to me. I’m the kind of asshole that would start a slow clap at a funeral for no other reason than boredom. Then, I would film it and upload it to Youtube with the title “the party was dead before I got there, ROFLMAO”. I am really rude.
I’m a fat, disgusting slob. I subsist on decade-old Cheetos and Mr. Pibs I found in a museum bomb shelter. I don’t use napkins, I just rub my orange and greasy hands on any available surface. My only available surface is the sheets of my childhood twin bed, which I haven’t left since childhood. I haven’t seen my toes since I was an infant not because of my hefty slab of stomach fat, but because my chin skin is so full of lard that it resembles an inflated toad gland. I am a fat, disgusting slob.
I am two-faced. I tell the French that, as an American, I hate the French. I tell Americans that, as a Frenchman, I hate Americans. I tell Canadians that no one likes them, then I tell them to go choke on some poutine, but not before they get me some first (because I’m also a disgusting slob). I smile sweetly and nod at the substitute teacher in class History class when they lecture me about the merits of not exposing myself to other students, then drop my pants and piss on the leg of her desk when she turns around to gives me a sticker from her sticker book for being such a good listener. Gemini. I am two-faced.
I am a conceited prick. I am so conceited that I would write a blog post about all the ways in which I am a fantastic person, and how I would make the ideal mate for any woman. Later, I would delete the comments that point out my inflated ego, and masturbate to the comments (written by me and posted via a fake WordPress account with the name “Megan Fox”) that say that I’m a great writer, that any woman would be lucky to have me, that I’m a stud in bed. Then, later, I would write this sarcastic post about how I am, in fact, a horrible person, and expect people to read it, pretend they don’t agree, and laugh. I am a conceited prick.
I have no idea why anyone actually likes me.