Nicole

The reality is that I do not have enough money to appease women who want to breed. I have very grudgingly accepted this reality. My date with Nicole was a product of my new dating agenda. I would no longer seek women who wanted children, and in fact I now lie in my profile and no longer designate that I want children. Now I only seek women who have no desire for children I don’t know why they don’t want children. Maybe they are selfish, do not see the beauty of children, are too old to conceive .. who knows? … but this is what I’m stuck with.

Nicole is one of the rare women who solicited me. This is what she wrote:

I thought your profile and posts were very entertaining. It is refreshing to see someone state he is sloppy and lazy. Sometimes I wonder, who are these strange people constantly kayaking and hiking and switching between jeans and a tux. There seems to be a lot of tux-wearing going on when nobody is looking. I rarely meet these people in real life. I must admit that I finally succumbed to the pressure myself (nobody seemed interested in me when I admitted I watch reality tv) and changed my original profile today into the one I've posted now, but I could not bring myself to write "little black dress" or "partner in crime" or "..all that Boston has to offer." Just couldn't do it.

So are you having any luck on this website? I have not done this in awhile and am finding it harder than I remember.

Nicole

I wrote her back:

 

Hi Nicole,

I don't read men's profiles, but women also like to boast their versatility in being able to go from formal to casual clothing almost instantaneously. There is the "partner in crime" stand by, and my personal favorite, "I see the glass as half full." I love the women who are looking for men to fly off to Paris on a whim for the weekend. It's a severely recessed economy. Shouldn't these people be putting all that traveling money into an emergency fund?

I'm having a lot of luck on Okay Cupid as evidenced by the fact that you wrote me. Would you like to meet for coffee or a drink?

-Dickie

I saw Nicole in a Starbucks inside of a Barnes & Nobles coffee shop in Braintree. I took my 5 mg of Valium in order to survive the drive as per orders of my medicine man.

Nicole was 43 years old. She looked her age. While she was not ugly she was physically very unimpressive. She might have subtracted a little from her height also, but perhaps her clogs made her appear taller.

What I couldn’t get over was the big gulp she carried with her. She said it was diet Pepsi. She assured me it wasn’t spiked. This was a joke. She was a lame joker. I said I didn’t care if it was spiked, which was the truth. But I could not get over that big gulp. I couldn’t see what the big gulp cup was. She had napkins around the big gulp cup. I’m not sure why. To sop up the condensation? Who knows? I asked her if she wanted anything. She said no, she had her diet Pepsi. “Are you sure? I can buy you a cup of coffee? Something to eat?” “No.” she said. “I’m fine.” She wasn’t going to actually sit down in that place without ordering anything and suck on a big gulp? This isn’t a bus depot. It’s Starbucks inside of a Barnes & Nobles.

This was one of those dates where the topic of conversation is dating. And it wasn’t my idea. I never like to talk about dating on dates. Nicole had some astute observations about dating and people. She wasn’t as sophisticated as me, but I saw a real potential for creative thought, observation, and insight. She seemed to view the world from the unique perspective of an outsider just as me. I believe I was dealing with someone unique and interesting yet this woman was wearing me down with her progressive onslaught of questions. “How long have you dated?” “Do you like dating?” “How often do you date?” “What is the worst date you’ve ever had?” She even asked me if she was asking me too many questions. I of course denied this. She said at one point, one of her dates told her that she was too intense and that she should stop asking him questions. She claimed she was a socialist, but I doubt if she had ever even read Marx. She seemed to have a very trivial understanding of politics.

Maybe an hour, hour and a half into the date I took a bathroom break and ordered some gruesome tasting lemonade/strawberry concoction from Starbucks. So many dates have ended abruptly after I’ve drank something from Starbucks that made me ill. I asked her again if I could buy her something. No. She was fine. She held up her big gulp.

She started making her move. She started talking about how she didn’t like friends. She was “anti-social.” She wasn’t into that. She liked to be with one person. I had no problem with this. She said that she was looking for someone who was financially independent. (Socialist my ass!) She was officially axed as a potential mate right there. I didn’t meet her criteria of financial independence. Why had she not stated this on her profile and saved me a lot of trouble? And then she said, “I hate debt. How do you feel about debt?” I didn’t know how to answer this. She helped me. She said, “If I was with a woman who had acquired a lot of debt, how would you feel about paying her bills?” I told her “I don’t have any money.” She said, “Well, hypothetically.” I had no idea how to answer the question and my mind was too mushy to think. The Starbucks concoction was officially make my stomach queasy. She had mentally exhausted me. I said I had to go.

I hugged her. Our cars were parked side by side in the back of the lot. We walked to our cars together. Her car was not a car, it was the biggest SUV I have ever seen. What the fuck was she doing with that thing, using it to haul bodies?

Nicole wanted her cake and eat it to. She wanted someone cool like me who rejected sameness and cliché and triteness yet she wanted that person to be a part of the animal factory. Can you have both? I’m not sure. If I were part of the animal factory I’m sure I would be an ordinary boring asshole like everyone else, like all the boring men she complained about that she dates and sees on personals. It’s being apart from the factory that gives me the qualities that she was attracted to. And she was attracted to me. I had no doubt about that. Women want too much. She is 43 years old. She is not beautiful. What does she think she is going to find?

Density

Depression makes the world much more dense. You’re no longer operating in the free environment of air, but of liquid. You cannot cut through liquid as you can air. It takes force to move through liquid. The smallest movement takes energy and the body goes into a sort of starvation mode. It refuses to waste energy. It refuses to move. Only through the sheer will of the mind can the body carry out actions, and even then willpower often fails you. The more severe the depression, the more viscous the fluid is that you are stuck in, and the less will you have to move in it. You can’t fight the increased weight of existence. To do this is to invite more weight. The only thing you could do is be one with it. Go with the liquid’s current, as if it were a riptide and hope for an opening so that you could make it back to shore.

I cannot travel anymore without freaking out. I freaked out in the middle lane driving on Route 128 this weekend. There was a lot of traffic. My heart was racing. I was afraid I was going to have a heart-attack. The more I thought about it the more I panicked. The madness was seeping in something bad. I needed to get into the slow lane. But there wasn’t an opening. If I could get into the slow lane I would be alright. I was trapped in the middle line. I was going to have a heart-attack in the middle lane at 65 miles per hour, and lose control. I white-knuckled it for a mile. What the fuck? Where is an opening in the traffic? GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF THIS LANE! Another mile of sheer madness and terror. Fuck this, I was switching lanes. I could not take this anymore. The cocksucker in the slow lane would either have to let me in or there was going to be a multiple car pile up. I have seen drivers bully their way in front of me like I was going to attempt to do. They expect you to apply your brakes in order for them to pass into your lane. Most of them probably live out their natural lives playing chicken with other drivers. It’s still insane. It’s still horribly dangerous. It’s something I would never ever dream of doing. I put my right signal on. I gave plenty of warning that I was switching lines and proceeded to switch into the slow lane. There was no problems, but what I did was horribly dangerous. It would be okay in the slow lane. I would be okay.

My heart was still racing twenty minutes later when I got to my destination. My friend was upset because I needed to take a Valium. She had work to do. I needed to be gone in three hours. She kept asking how long the drug was going to last? I did not answer her. I did not agree with the question. I cut 1/4 of 5 mg of Valium, not enough to take the edge off a mouse. I cut the pill with my pen knife. I cut my finger cutting the pill. My friend didn’t see that. She was too busy wigging about the Valium. I should of left right then. I never want to make a scene because I never want to be like my mother.

I told my psychopharmacologist that I might be having panic attacks. He seemed very familiar with my symptoms of freaking out on highways. He told me many of his patients report this. I didn’t exhibit all the classic symptoms of a panic attack, though racing heart was one of them. He wasn’t sure if I was having panic attacks. He suggested citalopram, an anti-depressant to be used for anxiety. I asked him if I didn’t take this drug if what I was experiencing might go away. He said, yes, but it will come back. He also said I should take 5 mg. of Valium 90 minutes before I drive. I decided to follow the doctor’s recommendations.

He said the citalopram may cause me to have reduced interest in sex, make it more difficult to climax and have less firm erections. He assured me though that it would not effect my ability to reproduce. I felt like laughing and saying, “Shit man, I can’t even get a woman to fuck me let alone reproduce with me.”

My pissing ground

"And you make fun of people who work at Walmart and have bad teeth? You should be ashamed of yourself."

This is a portion of the third comment left to my last blog entry. I have supplied a photo of my teeth as evidence that this commenter is entirely wrong about my teeth. My teeth are perfectly fine. As you can see, it is my head which is the problem, not my teeth. This commenter, who is probably a former friend of mine with the initials C.R., is completely clueless about me, and has none of his facts right. None. He is also a megalomaniac. But I will not get into that or him as I don't want to stir up memories of this annoying person who I had blissfully forgotten up until he started to reappear as an anonymous commenter, pushing a volunteerism religion.

Volunteerism is a right-wing plot to divert attention away from the horrendous inequities that exist in our society. It is not the obligation of individuals to take care of the needy. It is the obligation of society to collectively take care of the needy, but more importantly, to intact legislation to protect people from becoming needy to begin with. People reading this will probably accuse me of being a Marxist. And you know something, that's okay. Perhaps I am a Marxist after all. Why do I have to be embarrassed by this label when I am in agreement with so many of Marx's views? Volunteerism is really part of the religion of right-wing greed and backwardness. My personal experience with volunteerism is that people who receive your volunteer help are indifferent about it at best. Institutions who hire volunteer labor, in my experience, treat volunteer labor like shit. They're just as exploitative as capitalists and perhaps even worse. To suggest that I am some selfish, cold-hearted person is really pure shit. I probably give more money to the homeless than most people reading this. I do a lot of good things that go completely off the record. One good thing that is still on the record is my defiance of Bush's war. While the whole country was waving their flags and the left went into hiding, I was out there with my podcast and my blog blasting the right-wing neo-con fuckers who perpetrated this war. I was putting my ass on the line to do this. People forget "Freedom Fries," and how crazy this country became after 9/11. Did I single-handedly save the government from being taken over by neo-fascists? Of course not. But I did what I could to demonstrate to people that you do not have to shut the fuck up. Obviously the anti-war movement failed and continues to fail, but at least now, dissent is acceptable. I was a very small part of the I-don't-have-to-shut-the-fuck-up movement and I'm proud of that. I refused to wave flags around unlike most of the people reading this. I can live with myself. I'm not sure how you my readers can live with themselves after supporting this fucking heinous atrocity of a war, either overtly or passively by shutting the fuck up.

Like many other people, this commenter solicits simplistic advice about what I need to do in order to improve myself as if I'm interested in his or anyone's advice. When I want advice I fucking ask for it, and there's very few people who I consider wise enough to solicit advice from. This is my pissing ground. Not yours. It's mine. This is not group therapy. I'm not interested in your feedback, especially the banal idiots that come on here to tell me that I bore them or I complain too much, and yet they keep coming back to read my blog entries. You're not paying any money for this blog. If you don't like it, either cut me a fucking check so I could have the time to write better blogs or move the fuck on. This is why I hate people, because they're such incredible fucking dumb-asses.

I'm officially prohibiting commenting on this blog. When I'm trying to work in the middle of the day and some dumb-ass posts some inane comment, I feel compelled to put the motherfucker in his place immediately. It seriously interrupts my concentration and wastes my time and energy.

People can still contact me through e-mail via my profile. I check my e-mail once or twice a week.

I hate you all (well, most of you)

I have very little more to say. I just want to crawl into a hole and die, very discreetly.

I have no business dating. I hate people. I have always hated people. I hate everything about them, especially their petty little lives that they take so goddamn seriously. No one gives a shit about their fucking children. Why do I need to hear about them? No one gives a shit about their rock hard abs or their firm breasts. Nobody really gives a shit. I hate their careers. Their houses. Their obsession with exercise. Their Jesus Christ. Their optimism. Their environmentalism. Who gives a shit about their world. Only them and their bastard brood. By giving a shit about the planet I am giving a shit about their planet. Not my planet. It’s not mine. I don’t really live here. I’m just here for the ride. It’s like I crash landed here. It is an incredible miracle that I didn’t freeze to death sleeping in my car 25 years ago. That’s what should of happened. None of this shit happening now is really happening. It’s happening, but it’s not real. That is what I say to myself each morning. I am still in denial. I still cannot believe how badly my life has been botched. It’s not someone else’s life. I’m not some fictional character. This botched life is happening to me.

Max penis enlarger pills

This woman is so into this guy's chest. If he had a small penis would she say, "Nahh, too small, not gonna fuck ya' now." Is Dr. MaXman a real doctor? If so, did he get his M.D. from an accredited institution? What if my penis grows grotesquely large and women become frightened by it? What if my penis develops big bulging blue veins in order to provide it a larger blood supply due to its increased size? What if it grows so large that it needs its own blood supply and develops a heart and lungs and perhaps the ability to communicate? If this were Star Trek, would my penis qualify as a separate life form? Is my penis enlargement reversible? These questions aren't answered.

The real question is, who actually buys this stuff? I would think that men who were getting sex would not give a shit about how large their penises are. And why would a man who doesn't have sex buy this? If you cannot persuade a woman to have sex with you, then the least of your problems is the size of your penis. Who buys this crap?

You could eat it ... probably

My mother got this thing in the mail from Cabot Cheese. Cabot asserts that aged cheddar and some other cheeses are lactose free, and that you can tell if a cheese is lactose free by looking at its sugar content. They assert that if the cheese has no sugar in it, it is lactose free.

This information is put out by a member of the cheese industry so one must use critical thinking. I am lactose intolerant. Pizza and ice cream I know severely fucks me over. I decided to put what they said to the test. I ate an entire block of 50% Reduced Fat Cabot cheddar cheese in one sitting. It had 0g of Sugars. I suffered no intestinal distress. I will replicate the experiment some other time. I'm still not entirely convinced that this is kosher.

The agony of defeat

I could no longer get into size 34 pants. My plan was to stop drinking beer. Theoretically, the bulk of my calories came from my beer binges, which are always accompanied by food binges costing in the range of 3000 to 5000 thousand calories (not including the beer). If I cut out the beer, there would not be food binges as I rarely binge on food without beer. That would be how I lost weight. So I stopped drinking beer and some weight came off, and then the damn digital scale stuck at 190.5. I just couldn't break the 190 barrier. Every day I got up and weighed myself in my underwear and then -- damn, still 190.5.

And then I came into some serious woman problems and got really depressed and said fuck it, I'm buying some malt liquor and a pumpkin pie and a block of goddamn cheddar cheese. If you add in the beer calories and all the other crap I ate which I really don't quite remember, we're probably talking around 6000 calories beyond what I already ate that day, so that should have gotten converted to about two and a half pounds of of additional weight. (I don't remember the exact formula.) The next day I was too terrified to look at the scale but decided to just say fuck it again and peel open a whole can of mixed nuts. Of course I deluded myself into thinking I would only eat a few. The nuts were 2040 calories alone. I also made six hard boiled eggs and dipped them straight into a whole crap load of mayo. (Who says mayo is a gentile thing? I could eat this stuff straight.) My stomach was so acidic from the beer the previous day and probably screwed up from the bitterness of the nuts that I took my whipping cream that I use for coffee, poured it into a jar, shook it up until it was viscous and drank it. This counters acid very well and tastes really yummy too. I did this several times. Probably drank several cups of cream, totaling well over a thousand calories.

Today I decided to face the music and assess the damage of all the calories I'd consumed. I took off my t-shirt and weighed myself with only my underwear. I had lost over a pound and broken the 190 barrier finally. My weight was 189.3 There was no use in recalibrating the scale and stepping on it again to replicate the results because this scale never contradicts itself.

The weight fairy had magically taken a good four pounds from me, that I fully deserved to have gained. I don't question the wieght fairy or attempt a scietific explanation for this. If she wants to take my weight away, I let her.

I solicited two women from okay cupid today. I was officially skinny enough to get back into dating so I could become more depressed by women and binge some more and have magical fairies allow me to torture myself some more. I think it's been several months since I've solicited a woman. But fuck it. I need the agony of defeat. The excitement and drama and pathos of dating a women. It keeps me going.

I really botched one of my solicitation letters by being overzealous. But fuck it. I'm rusty. (Notice below, in the letter, that I did not mean to call her a "punker" but a punk rocker. I didn't realize this until later. She was a Ramones fan. It did not matter anyway. I had completely botched the letter by saying "please write." Total sign of desperation. But again, fuck it. It's part of the agony of defeat that I cannot live without.)

Hi

"Buttermilk pancakes w/ maple syrup and sausages, meatloaf-n-mashed potatoes." That's the good stuff. O what I would give for a woman to eat stuff like this with without berating me for its unhealthiness or unkosherness.

My parents are both from Brooklyn. I'm from Brookline. When I was at camp in Rhode Island, the kids would ask me where I was from. And I'd say Brookline, Massachusetts. "Brookyn?" They'd say. "No. Brooook-liiine." Eventually I smartened up and just said I was from Boston. Maybe I should've just said I was from Brooklyn. It would've been the same difference to them.

Would really like to meet the hot punker in the photos. Please write.

-Dickie