Dating Is Going Great

Having written about my ever lasting desire of convincing others of my masculinity, I felt it appropriate to write about the beginning stages of the dating process. Now is this a humble brag, that some poor soul found themselves in a dejected enough place, to submit themselves to a smut blogger, of all people? If I had any self-confidence whatsoever, and didn't believe myself to inevitably run off any member of the opposite sex, I'd say yes-- alas though. For multiple days now, some poor soul, we'll call her, Taylor, has stayed in constant communication with I. 

I've been able to hide my faulty brain from her, rather well so far, although there's been brief moments in which she's seemed to question my sanity. Taylor's a good lass, someone far too innocent for myself, someone who deserves an hombre with an actual job. When I've mentioned my burgeoning blogging career, she's acted interested, while all the time I know she's simply patronizing me while furiously swiping on Tinder. Every blue moon, I make a joke in which lands in a similar fashion to Malaysia Flight 370, poorly to say the least. Does she simply ghost me and leave me in a heap of tears? Does she report me to proper authorities? Is my number perhaps blocked within a matter of nanoseconds? None of the above, and that's her biggest red flag thus far-- a lack of self-worth.

A straight forward, cut to the chase inquiry-- am I a murderous wackjob? Despite popular belief, and likely contrary to Taylor's beliefs, I'm far too pussy to ever take a life. It's why I exclusively listen to murder music, to quell my thirst for blood through the form of art via Kentrell Gaulden. What I replied to this legitimate probing journalism, is lost upon me, something undoubtedly reassuring and self deprecating. Is there a chance I replied in O.J Simpson fashion, detailing how I would kill her, IF I was to be a homicidal maniac? That stays between me, and the one girl insane enough to hold a conversation with me.

If you've read any amount of my prior blogs, you know without a shadow of a doubt, that this wasn't where her search ended. If anyone's to ever take the chance of encountering me in a public setting, they assuredly need to dig further. 

Yes, that's really how I look. Manic enough to dye my hair platinum blonde, but vain enough to take shirtless pictures before getting in the shower. I worry those of the matronly position, for good reason, who wants to spend their lives with someone, who's life goals are to work in New York making 50k a year? 

Now unfortunately the poor lass fell sick as our first date was but hours away, instead of doubting the legitimacy of her illness, I chose to believe in the pure attentions of others and cracked a sidesplitting quip. Of course, I chose not to show her response, because I'm a real gentleman who respects the privacy of others-- and not because she found it wince inducing, furthering her migraine. Humor is my self-deflection tactic, even if others rarely find it actually funny, it's for me, not them. 

I'll keep you updated for when she irrefutably breaks my heart, and I end up doing Fentanyl in the parking lot of a Dairy Queen. Until then, let's hope I can trick her into another few weeks of figuring out what the fuck's wrong with me.