Yes, believe it or not that blog title’s true and, no, I’m not doing one of my ‘bits’. As will later become evident, this is going to become far too serious a post to do ‘bits’. Apart from all those ‘bits’ that I’ll inevitably do. They don’t count. This is actually the 500th piece of aggressively partisan and dangerously unedited nonsense that I’ve reached down into my spleen to messily smear the blood and puss across my computer screen, since I first started uploading my albums of the year to this poorly designed WordPress blog that nobody reads in December 2014. I’ve written this piece of shit for almost exactly five and a half years!! That’s roughly 2000 days, so I’ve written on average a post every four days, which would sound like this was a regularly updated blog, wouldn’t it? But, no, you usually get a whole year’s worth of posts in December, and you’re happy. Much like your Mum, this blog comes very loaded towards the back.
But this calls for a celebration, no?? I, of course, planned ahead, and purchased a rather snazzy hat:
I don’t mind telling you, sports fans, I really hate this blog right now. In fact, I’d even go as far as to say that this fucking blog has very much replaced alcohol in my life, in that it might be good for a few laughs and occasionally leads to opportunities of great fun and the odd sexual encounter*, but more generally it is the source of basically every fuck up that I ever make. Notice how I seemed to become far less concerned with this dumb Bumble series last week, and yet now I’m obviously keen to write it again in order to take my mind of something?? Well, come to your own conclusions.
(*I should be clear here that this statement was mostly a joke, less than a dozen women have had sex with me because of this blog)
Recent incidents in my life have really forced me to question ‘What kind of a fucking person am I?’. Well, luckily, if you remember way back in part 8 we were introduced to people who described themselves as things like ‘INJF‘ and ‘INJP‘ and ‘INXS‘ and ‘INTEL INSIDE‘, which I obviously initially read as cool street talk for certain sexual peccadilloes, such as ‘Inner Neck Japanese Fun’ or ‘I Negate Jordan Peterson’ (that’s basically just existing as a transgendered or nonbinary person), but it turns out these were actual personality types!!
Ah, Hurley. Remember Hurley? Sure you do, she spoke in code about hating the police and people from Cradley Heath, and made it very clear that she was after someone over six foot two despite announcing her lust for Calloway, who only lists his height as three foot nothing. All of that can be forgiven, but she announced one thing that many people would simply find utterly unforgivable:
Eugh! Eugh, eugh, eugh, eugh, eugh! A vegan!! Vegans are the worst aren’t they?? With their… with their… with their vegatables… and… and… and their… and their… fucking… lentils… We all hate vegans, don’t we?
After about two weeks of pitching myself in the trenches Gig Economy Dating, I find myself a silhouette against the bright lights of bombs going off across the horizon, face unseen under a thick layer of blood, mud and- yes- semen, only my bright eyes are visible. Those eyes may as well be circular holes cut into my forehead to let the lighthouse pulse under the mess to shine through. There’s no life there. There’s barely any acknowledgement of life there. These eyes are no longer windows to any soul, they’re merely roughly carved pits reaching down into the back of my skull.
It’s been rough, and I’m 90% sure that I’m likely to live out the rest my life voluntarily celibate. Is there a Volcel subreddit? I might have to start one, full of frustrated and exasperated men and women who haven’t the slightest idea what is expected of them in zero hour sexual politics, and who are desperately questioning whether the options out there are worth this senseless debasing of their self. And, yeah, we’ll probably be responsible for a few mass shootings, but that’s just because a lot of the members of our community are likely to be American, and it’s part of their culture. Don’t judge.
Part six! This site’s previous longest series* was the (intermittently ongoing) ‘Greatest Songs Ever‘ collection, which has so far taken eighteen months to dribble to five entries, yet this trawl through my misery caused a dating app that I have since realised I really don’t want to be on is already on its sixth entry in less than ten days! Maybe I don’t actually like writing about music, and actually prefer instead cataloging my sad and emotionally draining attempts to date as a sober person. Sorry, as a non drinker of alcoholic drinks, I realise that ‘sober’ suggests a higher bar of not relying on recreational supplements that I unfortunately cannot meet.
(*Unless, of course, you count my albums of the year lists as an ongoing series, in which case there have been around 450 posts since 2007. 2007!! My girlfriend wasn’t even born when I started this shit! She’s probably not even heard of Les Savy Fav!!)
Dating if you drink is easy. You just go to a place where people drink, you’re entertaining enough drunk and she’s drunk enough to not know any better, you have sex that neither of you 100% remembers in the morning, then you stay together for ages because the buses back to Chorley are really unreliable and it seems like the option of least resistance just to stay together. There was no widely used social media back then, so basically as far as both of you were aware this really was as good as it could get- in the late 90s and early 00s your average young adult knew of the existence of maybe twenty four people, and one of those was Toby Anstis. And, come on, Toby Anstis? Never happening.
Hmmmm… Maybe I’m not thinking of ‘people who drink’, but rather ‘people with debilitating problems with drinking’…? And maybe all you were ever likely to be matched up with were people with similarly ruinous issues…?
But it was easy, is all I’m saying!!
Anyway, let’s take a look at the latest bout of options. Most of them will be British, so some sort of ruinous drinking problem is pretty much a given.
I think we can all agree that the one photo on my profile page has been pretty fucking successful.
So far, it’s already played it’s part in persuading an abnormally beautiful German to at least dip her toes in my waters (until being understandably disgusted by the mouldy surface scum of professional wrestling bobbling along the stream) , it’s convinced three people to swipe right on my profile- people who Bumble refuse to reveal to me unless I pay them money- and then, just yesterday, there was this woman!
Yeah, that’s right- I actually matched with someone! I liked someone else’s face/bum/tits/’personality’, and she in turn liked my… blue face and ’50 Shades of Grey’ quote… If she gets in touch in the next ten hours then it is on, baby!
I know I promised that I wasn’t going to do another one of these until next week, but over the period of about nine hours yesterday Bumble dragged me on a roller coaster of emotions, potential and of reaching ridiculously over my limits as a physically attractive entity*. I have to assume that you’ve all read Shawn Michaels’s esteemed memoir ‘Heartbreak and Triumph’? Well, that could well be the title of this episode of my delve into the grottiness of online dating. Except that there was very little triumph involved. ‘Heartbreak and Heartbreak’ might work a little better. Except that repeated word is a little functionally unnecessary, isn’t it? Yeah, the book of yesterday on Bumble would be called ‘Heartbreak’. Do you see where this is going?
(* though… maybe… really below… my mental attractiveness…? I don’t want to be cruel… Well… maybe I do, just a little, but as will soon become brutally clear I really need to claw back some self-respect out of this hideous situation)
What’s that? You think I’m far too obsessed with wrestling? Really?? Let’s see if that comes into play.
Today we embark on strictly a scouting mission. My profile is, yes, fucking mindblowingly good, but it’s merely an unfinished husk at the moment and unlikely to truly emotionally manipulate any woman into sending me pictures of their boobs. That is, after all, all this online ‘Zero Hour Dating’ is really about. Today, we’re just looking at the options, seeing what kind of bear bating meat market the crust of the Earth has split open to reveal. I’m not physically rating these people- and you’re certainly not seeing pictures, you disgusting leches- everyone is beautiful, and not everyone possesses the psychological wherewithal to paint half their face blue. We’re all about people’s personal bio. And in that case it really doesn’t turn out that everyone is beautiful at all. In fact, many people are freaking munters.
So, into the depths we dive, I open up Bumble and…
So Bumble is installed, time to open my account, type in my details and…
Aw man! So we’re straight in there, are we? No ‘How you doing?’, no ‘Nice to meet you’, no ‘Tell us about the two months you spent in Bologna studying clownlogy’. No, we’re straight into the meat market. Give us your ugly mug so that people can harshly judge your entire being based on the milliseconds your fat face spends on their smartphone while they’re on the toilet taking a particularly rough dump, before they swipe you left into oblivion. Well, dang, if people are so shallow that my photo is really going to be of such uppermost importance, I guess I’ll have to make sure I take a good one.
Have you noticed how things are a bit weird at the moment? Like, there seems to be something in the air, doesn’t there? People seem to be a little less socially active these days; nobody came to your barbecue last Thursday; WWE crowds are drastically down; you’re pretty sure Paul should have been at school these past few weeks not that you’re going to ask the little shit and risk getting pulled into an endless conversational loop about the largest dinosaurs; and Italian mayors seem to be furious these days. Something’s… different…
I don’t watch the news- if I wanted a posh voice feeding me a liberal agenda I’d just ring my parole officer- but it’s clear to me what’s happened. There’s an unmistakable stench of disappointment overlaying an aggressive smog of sadness that’s infected the whole country. They know. You know. Everyone knows.