new blog percolating

The last time I was single, I was in my 20's. It's all different now at 35. All my wingmen are gone. I'm too old for the clubs. I no longer have any sort of crew that I go out with regularly. I'm a little lost.

Enter the internets. Yes, I fear I may be at that dreaded internet dating age, where that's my only option to really meet people. It makes me feel a whole lotta old and pathetic.

I'm not really looking to date, especially not anything serious. Actually, I don't really want anything not-serious either. I'm not even at the point where I am ready to even get laid. I'm still in occasional sad mode. I've been contemplating camping trips alone to clear my head and get in touch with my soul. I've been keeping too busy to breathe, much less think about dating.

But as I mentioned in my last post, I'm considering dating for entertainment value and starting a blog dedicated to my adventures. I'm not there yet, but it's starting to look more and more promising. I can't sit around my house forever, watching everything ever posted to Hulu, listening to Bon Iver late at night and getting all emo and shit. Eventually I have to get out there and put the smack down on some free meals.

In an initial move toward this laudable goal of dating freaks and mocking them online -- I really am going to hell if there is one, aren't I? -- I perused some of the ads on craigslist. Well, I know where I need to go to find the weirdos. Look no further! And I'm beginning to wonder if this is such a good idea. It might get a little tedious, especially if I'm looking at spending an hour in a very public location with the likes of this guy:

Architectural catastrophe wrapped in a muddled beard surrounded with shining stars shaped like bright spectacled midgets lit ablaze by the lighter of God. Yes, I just said that. Bright spectacled midgets. Not the kind you bowl down the alley in a pseudo-Lebowski manner under the skirts of awaiting beauties. Those kind of midgets that only exist in ones mind.

Why, may I ask? Just why? Just why do people feel so attracted to the vision of the douche standing in front of the mirror with his camera phone a-blaze in the post “Im a fucktard” glow of another myspace photo taken? Why must people dip themselves into the shallowness of “look at all the shit I own” when they’re standing in front of a craptastic 20 dollar countertop pretending to be a thirty thousand dollar millionaire? As if that would somehow make up for their propensity to grow hair on their as and lose it from their head? What of the man sitting on his mountain bike in all his regal majesty in that “spandex fucking rocks” attire that screams that he’s making up for the lost nut that Lance purchased to replace his over used testicle. Does this make either of them better? Obviously Lance may be more balanced and aerodynamic from the winds that blow from below! Not the smelly kind of winds; well, perhaps picking up a slight tinge of unwashed ass. After all, 8 hours on the bike without taking a number 2 has to leave a skidmark here or there.

Its odd. Really odd. Im odd. Really odd.

Anyway. Be 24-35. Be balanced. Be free thinking. Be smart. Like fur faced weirdos. Don’t be furry. Picky, yet not too picky. Be aerodynamic, like the aforementioned nut-o-speed. Drive, but not too fast. Fly, but only to the scene of the crash. Decorated, with the perm. Ink, but not the ink that one gets out of a bic pen. Prison sucks, so I’ve heard. Have paper that says you’re qualified – even if it is from ebay at 10.99 shipped. Thrifty wooden nickel. Tack sharp wit. Haunted mind, stink fingered, fiddler of your own tune. Be yourself, but only you and not you-part-dooo. Scooby doo perhaps. I don’t know. Hippie, emo, rocker, showered angel dumped at the seat of us undeserving here in the great _ATX_.

Eyes are twitching both ways, and Im hitting submit. Oh, I hope I pass the test of “please input two words that appear here but are fuzzy as hell.” Craig is crazy. Does anyone read, or did _you_ skip to the picture at the bottom to figure out – should I even bother? After all, those high school beauty queens are all knocked up and gained 50 pounds and the former football players serve me beer that I enjoy with such fervor are probably still living the glory day at 8 bucks an hour.

Its Austin. Its 70 degrees and quite lovely for Feb. A bird farted somewhere. This blew a leaf. In turn, that leaf is probably piled in my yard waiting to be swept up. Indeed. Compost? Yes, it does. I think so. Go James Joyce – you inspired this one. After all, letting the mind go one and dribble into the fingers is better than the sausage fest that continues to post the “Look at me and my beautiful towels in a bathroom somewhere cause I have no friends who will take a picture of me with my shirt off.” Go shaven man boobs!

SEND!

Oh, lord.