I can’t go back on the market. I’d poison the buyer.
I’ve been thinking about setting up an OKCupid profile.
Not for the reasons you think. I’ve had to renew Season Five of DS9 once already and will likely have to again because I’ve been out with friends or family more nights than I’ve been able to plop down in front of the TV. And let’s just say that in that most private of spaces, narcissists have it dead on–you are the only person who can never disappoint you.
No, I’ve contemplated returning to the disease-ridden, pockmarked world of online dating for reasons of science and Schadenfreude. I sure as hell don’t hope to find The One or anyone on there; the internet knows there are plenty of guys like these that are enough to make me wish Jewish Atheists could join convents.
I’d join strictly for guys like that. I’d lie in wait as a black widow would at the center of her web, carefully updating my stringent list of demands that would be under the all-caps heading of “DISCLAIMERS:” at the top of my About Me section. They’d include a multi-paragraph long rant about my hatred for babies and go into a graphic description of how I’ve thought about grabbing a bottle of vodka and a steak knife so I can perform my own tubal ligation; my thoughts on what a waste of money marriage is and, by extension, what a waste of time a long-term relationship would be; and my declaration of utter lack of intent to ever shave anything, wear lacy undergarments, or put on makeup.
Then, once the messages started roaring in, I’d attack. “Did you even READ my profile?!” I’d shriek as gleefully as one can over online-dating messages. That would be the best. The worst would be the guys who’d write in with charming lines like, “i bet ud luk purty in a corset,” to which I’d respond, “I bet you’d look purty chopped up in little pieces in my freezer.” Ten points from whoever wanted to continue the conversation, one thousand from whoever decided to make a date and keep sitting after I showed up with a gleaming butcher knife in one hand just to see the look on the poor bastard’s face.
I hope it’s somewhat redeeming that I know I’m a horrible person and have elected to remove myself from the dating pool as a result. I know that there are people who truly believe that even the most rotten of souls can overcome their worst urges and go on to live the fulfilling happily-ever-afters we were promised in the Disney versions of tales that conveniently left out the parts about the real Little Mermaid dying alone and abandoned or the real Frog Prince coming back to life after domestic violence at the hands of his princess.
But for me and anybody I might have the misfortune of dating, the real happily-ever-after comes if I stay in my bubble and he stays in his. At best, I could envision a friends-with-benefits scenario where we never lived together, marriage wasn’t on the table, and he was entirely okay with fulfilling his obligation to future generations by mentoring or tutoring them instead of having any of his own.
At worst, he’d be another science project. My last relationship wasn’t supposed to be a relationship. I wanted a friend with benefits that time around, too. Somehow, my feelings overrode my common sense, and the first six months to a year of full-blown infatuation were the worst I’d ever spent in my life. But that was okay, I told myself. We’ll just make careful observations and shut down the experiment if necessary.
I had the same line of thinking when we first moved in together, then when we moved across the country together. It was just a test, really. If it didn’t work out, we’d pull the drug off the market–or perhaps the better analogy would be one of a drug dealer putting a modified illegal substance out there again to see how fast his guinea pigs came running back.
When the relationship devolved, I thought I’d see how long he’d put up with me ignoring most of what he said, rolling my eyes at the rest of it, and neglecting to tell him plans I’d made until the last minute, if ever. As David Gilmour sang on Pink Floyd’s last studio album, “I pushed [him] to the limit/ To see if [he] would break.”
Apparently my own limit was easier to break. Results on his end were inconclusive, but I found out that I can be pretty fucking awful when I want to be. Sure, the basis for good science is repeated testing, but if the drug kills the patient(s) the first time around, the authority administering the test finds it less legally hazardous to pull the plug.
If my motives sound altruistic, they’re not. On a day when I found a shred of hope for humanity with the news that two of Fred Phelps’ granddaughters are renouncing Westboro Baptist Church, I can’t justify demolishing that shred by proving that certain people, namely yours truly, are still fodder for dystopian sci-fi authors.
Besides, dystopian sci-fi has put on my plate as it is. I’ve got a hot date lined up. I’ve got to make mad, passionate love to the Schadenfreude Ron Moore created with Deep Space Nine.