Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Brain Rot.

And now, let's get into some of the head-shrinking BEHIND my jaded outlook on the dating scene.

It's actually pretty simple really- it's all a question of expectations management.
and I have failed SPECTACULARLY at this.

I have... the brainrot. In olden times it was thought women would get brainrot from reading too many novels. They would get ideas and hurt their poor little brains if they read romantic fiction.

I'm there.

The space between my ears is completely occupied with romantic and happy fluff.
(If you've met me- you know this. If you haven't- I'm slightly concerned that you would still be able to guess this about me from just seeing me from across the street.)

I could most likely recite every Disney princess movie- sing you every romantic ballad from a showtune in the 20th or 21st century, show you the poetry I wrote about my crushes from high school (mortifying.) I watch The Holiday and Enchanted on a seriously regular basis. I read romance novels for pete's sake. One of the final nails in the coffin? Twilight.

The countdown to New Moon's midnight release has begun.
I'm re-reading the books and drooling over the Vanity Fair pix of RPattz.
My tshirt is on order.

I gotta tell ya, even if it gives me the brainrot and therefore higher standards, I'm having too much fun to care.

Friday, November 6, 2009

The current dating scene is a sign of the apocalypse.

But seriously, if I ever have a chance of dating you- don't read this.

How long until I just retitle the blog that?

But I'm serious. The way that the genders are currently interacting has lead me to believe that our race could SERIOUSLY be at risk for extinction within a few generations.

think about it.

I feel like couples are waiting until later and later to get together, if they ever do, meaning that there are fewer reproductive years available for the women, that is if they go within normal windows, but women who have children older can be at higher risks for the health of the babies.

It is more common than ever before to have couples that just prefer to not have babies.

It is more common to have people that choose to just never be in a life-long committed relationship, married or otherwise.


So now, let's move on to the TYPE of guys who are getting into the few relationships left that are generatin offspring to continue the friggin' genome.

DARWINISM NO LONGER APPLIES! To continue the species, the females usually look for the strongest, most virile speciman available. Typically the biggest, most able to provide.


Look at the heart-throbs of today. Most of them are these diminuitive intellectuals who would look more at home in front of an X-BOX 360 with the casing off and a phillips head screwdriver in their hand than changing the oil in a soft-top, red, rugged Jeep. There is something to be said to be attracted to men with brains, because that is more important to survive in our world today, but these men don't necessarily look like wiry einsteins. And they are meant to be the shining examples of modern desires. Don't get me wrong, I love brains, but that's not the guy we're talking about. And for the love of God don't get me started on hipsters, indie rockers, and the fact that the male "skinny jean" even exists. **shudder**

Let's look at the everyman. Look at 'im. Go to any bar during a sporting event. They are barely evolved, stringy versions of our knuckle-dragging ancestors. There is a pecking order amongst their ranks based on levels of hygiene. Coordinating team jerseys for ease of recognizing other member's of one's tribe. Dribble down the shirt from imbibing too much beer. Glazed over look as the eyes slip out of focus trying to decide which big screen to focus on during commercials. And when their fellow warriors are on the path to victory? I dare you to distinguish the sound from that of a storming horde of gorillas. Roaring. Yelling. Maybe some more swearing. Charming.

Now for what should seperate us from the animals: romance.


Let's start with the premise of any of these neanderthals actually PURSUING a mate. Can you even picture it? yeah, me neither.

In times past, men actually WANTED women. It was considered a desirable thing to have a lady in your life, on your arm, and **gasp** even in your bed. And they worked to impress them, woo them, win them. Men held doors, gave flattering compliments, hell, paid for a beer. And this wasn't that long ago!

Go even further back. Musicians sang serenades. Gentlemen composed sonnets. Men gave flowers, trinkets, candies. Some fought wars, killed lovers in a jealous rage, cut off their own ears, (although I realize that's a slightly unreasonable expectation.)

We're sliding back into the primordial soup. This level of chase just doesn't exist anymore.

Let's go back to our gameday bar scene. Enter the female. She is coy. Also wearing the tribe's colors to camoflage into the tribe and catch the appropriate type of mate off-guard. She wears her jersey, but also her mascara; her warpaint. She is on the hunt.

No longer is her strategy that of an exotic hothouse flower. Before, women were to be approached, marveled at, and entertained if a man was given the pleasure of her company. Now, she must dirty her hands. She sheds her skirts for workpants and wades into the trenches. She must be beautiful, but also cunning. Flirtatious and deadly. Aloof, and yet utterly attainable. A lady on the street, but a freak in the bed, as it were.

In days of yore, an elaborate mating ritual of heavy-lidded eyes exchanging hot glances and stolen handclasps with whispered sighs is cast aside for the modern exchange. The stunning female must place herself within direct proximity of her target, lest he be required to leave his pod of companions to approach her across the playing field. She utterly ignored him for a solid hour, staring at his back when he's not looking, glancing away as he turns.
There may be a few meager exchanges of laughs or cheers if the team is winning, commiseration or beer swigging if they are doing poorly.
And then it happens- at the end of the game, and only at the end- the moment of truth.
Finally, there is direct eye contact. Our lioness offers a smile she hopes is inviting, but not-too-eager, just as she had practiced it.

Good sir, most kind gentleman, our modern romeo, Casanova a la 2009, receives her message.
He gives the most minute head-flip and gestures with his not-holding-a-beer-arm towards the exit.

They leave, and the rest is history.

Until the next morning.
She scrabbles into her clothes, furious with herself, pretending not to be.
He calls her a cab, which he mysteriously has on speed-dial.
She gives him that perfectly rehearsed smile, but this time it has a tremulous air to it that displeases him.
He says a few minor pleasantries, there is an exchange of information he has no intention of using, and she is whisked away by a yellow car in the rain as he looks for his professional team's jersey because now it's Sunday and the bar is almost open.

and this is on a successful venture.

Friggin poetry.

It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.