27th July 10
Last week perhaps, or maybe last month, you sat at your laptop, leg shaking nervously as you refresh refresh refreshed your email, waiting for a missive from a man you had decided you could probably love. It had been two hours since you emailed. You had to squint to see past your hangover. Too many drinks ordered, too many hours spent discussing the distance between point A (What He Said) and point B (What He Meant), and now the gap between the two sits heavy inside of you, pushing against your gallbladder. This will be the end of you—of this you are sure.
This morning you sit at your laptop, leg shaking nervously as you refresh refresh refresh your email. It’s been two hours since you emailed. Perhaps you should write again. Refresh refresh ref—1 new email. It is him, from last week or last month. You scan quickly. Something about a play or a book, or a play based on a book, or perhaps nothing at all to do with either. You email your mother: “I am in love.” You attach photos: the clawfoot bathtub, the french doors, large windows “perfect for sheer curtains,” you write. “I’m waiting for an email from the broker. Do you think I should write him again? It’s been two hours. This will be the end of me—of this I am sure.”
25th July 10
I was sent temporary boob tattoos to test out for a blog, so I decided that lieu of sexting, I’d Myspace-angle that shit and send a photo to a couple of fellows! (WHO SAYS JOURNALISM IS DEAD? Alas, I messed up the “feeling”—it’s been about a decade and a half since I’ve applied a temporary tattoo).
So far the reaction has been mixed. Some approval, some “hahahahahhaa,” and this from my friend Andre:
“your expression is a bit eastern european refugee who has seen HORRORS BEYOND IMAGINING. If it weren’t for the cherries and cleavage one would feel compelled to donate to amnesty international”
22nd July 10
On one of my first online dates, way back in the day when Nerve.com was a little lighter on the plaid, I arrived and immediately noticed something was off. Nine inches off, to be precise. My date had tacked on almost a whole foot to his purported height, and instead of being 5-foot-10 as he claimed, there he was, eye-level to all 5-foot-1 of me. When I called him out on it, he shrugged and mumbled a non-excuse but, to my surprise, didn’t seem to think it was a big deal.
I was appalled, naïvely: Was this the norm? Are people dishonest when it comes to online dating?
It is and they are, it turns out! And now OkCupid has confirmed my years of field research with cold, hard facts and stats, using a data pool of 1.51 million of their active users to shed some light on what we’re lying about and to what extent. What they found: Online daters are shorter, poorer, older and uglier than they claim to be. And not nearly as bisexual! Let’s dig deeper…
"My goal is to gloriously intrude into a reader’s life: make them brew coffee at midnight to devour the romp, make them neglect the next day’s responsibilities—late for work, kids whisked off with unruly cowlicks, speeding tickets, irate bosses, deadlines botched, all in the name of literature."
14th July 10
Joshua Mohr in The L Magazine
13th July 10
Today is my birthday, and I’m buying myself a present.
I’ve narrowed it down to two options: either flying a plane, or jumping out of one. This is probably rife with symbolism.
12th July 10
Blogging and bubble-bathing.
My birthday is coming up on Tuesday. This is not an exciting occasion for me. I’ve spent the past week kicking my quarter-life crisis into high gear, doing a lot of this. Pictured: dark bathroom; bubble bath; candles; iPod dock. Not pictured: impending sense of doom; anxiety about Life and Decisions; Cat Power on repeat.
UPDATE: Celine Dion’s “All By Myself” came up next, and I only lingered for about seven seconds before turning it off. I think this means I’ll be okay.
