I’m a Damn Dirty Liar

If you read this post that I wrote in September as penance for my negligent attention to this blog, you may have expected that I would actually stay true to my word and once again begin updating with relative frequency. You would, however, have been sorely mistaken. Because I wrote that post in an attempt to spur myself into writing more and then instead I more or less abandoned the blog in favor of such activities as entering into an infinite loop of hanging up my curtains and then knocking them down in my sleep/drunk and changing all of the contact photos in my phone to pictures of my cat. (This has, though, made me more receptive of text messaging, since I have been pretending my kitty has her very own cell phone and is keeping me updated on her whereabouts and goings-on through various aliases, because I’m fairly certain that she’s an Animagus, and probably some kind of international spy, and no one will ever be able to convince me otherwise. Which I suppose makes it sort of uncomfortable for her on the rare occasion in which I have a gentleman caller over, as she hates my sister-roommate’s dog with a passion akin to Donald Trump’s aversion to the gym and seldom if ever leaves my room. Oh, the things she’s seen.) I posted that under the belief that I really would start writing more, as I have somewhat reluctantly joined the online dating world and this endeavor has given me no shortage of stories about the strange, singular population of men who tend to frequent these sites. There are many normal if not cool individuals on Tinder, of course, but there are also the guys who ask if you’d “prefer Skittles or M&M’s when locked up in [their] basement” and the delightful young charmer who proposed I “go to The Exit with Piggy and [him] to see people get spanked and whipped upstairs.” (I am not clear on if Piggy is a person I should be familiar with or a euphemism for his dangly bits, but I felt it prudent to decline. And by decline, I mean ignore him entirely and then send a screenshot of his message to everyone I know and then post it on Facebook. Though perhaps I should have just taken the leap and gone. I could have seen some freaky shit with a man whose profile picture resembled Edward Scissorhands after running a marathon in 90% humidity and a person and/or penis named Piggy.) I also had a guy tell me I was an “Iowa 10,” which is either insulting toward me in the context of Chicago attractiveness, or disparaging to the entire state of Iowa, which may or may not deserve such accolades. My only real experience with Iowans (Iowans? Is that right?) comes in the form of brief sojourns to truck stops to work out the oasis Taco Bell I thought was a good idea for an eight hour road trip, and while it is maybe the only place in the country that flaired jeans are still alive and well, I found the natives there perfectly lovely. So perhaps I should move to Des Moines and become their queen. And bring that guy with as my concubine.

So this time, I will add a caveat: I will try to post more often. I cannot make any promises, as I do not want to let my readers down again, knowing that you have all been listlessly refreshing this page and then, crestfallen, wandering aimlessly through the streets, craving new wonders from a blogger who spends most of her time complaining about bees and giving new meaning to the phrase “hot mess.” Although, I’m fairly certain my mother and aunts are the only people that actually read this blog. I apologize for the gentleman caller bit, Mom. I made that up to sound cool. I promise.

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