Called Uncle
As the life of the dater goes, I should say some days are better than others. Yet, in this case, they are not. I look around and wonder what in the name of hell I ever did to deserve all of this. I have to discern an answer. In the end, as it always is, it must be me.
These days I'm done and unsure of why I try. The odds of me getting a connection who wants to talk to me is pretty slim, as the rate I get unmatched on a mere hello is astounding. Astounding. Then, as these things go, the meet up never happens as either the male in question flees and becomes as mysterious as Big Foot. To be rumored but never seen. Or, a few chats later and then he unmatches me. The last two, well . . . I sent them a link to a travel lit piece I wrote, which led to my page here and my Instagram. The one I just sent him Insta. Yeah, as anyone who has been around here for a half a second knows I've never bothered to hide the Lupus and arthritis life. What's the point, right? That got me dating exiled, for sure.
In college someone I cared about, more than I should have, told me the Lupus was an issue. I've never forgotten the look in his eyes when he said it. I've also never forgotten how that felt. It still cuts. As life goes, he hasn't been the only so-called man to say/do as such to me. He was just the first. Like the Sheryl Crow song says, the first cut is always the deepest.
In the past two weeks, alone, I've had one dude from last spring resurface. That one . . . I don't know how long we chatted for, but it was a couple of weeks or more. Endless banter. Endless jokes. Endless commentary. And, yes, a few sexual commentaries too as--after all--we are in our forties and not prudes on a conservative right compound. Yet, in the end, he would never commit and the back and forth chats ended when one day--on a normal banter like we had had numerous times before--he decided to implode on me telling me that I thought I was saving him and that his day was full and fulfilled and I wasn't needed. There was more, for which the four people who saw it all say the same thing. 1) What the holy hell and 2) to make it all better I just needed to tell the wonderful surgeon he was right, and he was superior all would be forgiven. Yeah. Bite me. In there, he said that I needed to take his classes on living your best life where every day is excellent. Yeah, living MY best life does not involve rose colored glasses or men like that. Though, in retrospect . . . So, yeah, he showed up on another dating site last week . . . That I use. I deleted the other after him, and a serious of atrocious events. So, when the stupid dating app put him in my feed three times, I swiped right. Then an hour later he swiped right for me. As the stupid Bumble app goes, two googly eyes mean the woman can send the first message. I did alright. I was sweet, to the point of my own destruction . . . Like fucking always. I asked him how he had been. If you know Bumble, you know it takes 24 hours before the conversation vanishes if the other party doesn't write back. Well. He let it die. As my sister from another mother and father on the other side of the Atlantic said "I hope he doesn't respond. He's such a waste of space." This was after "I wonder if he realized he fucked up!"
God bless besties. The other sister from another mother and father, in Colorado, was speechless. Speaks volumes.
More bullshit from the last two weeks alone: another jackoff muttering something about writing a book of porn (it's happened more than once believe it or not). Yeah, ask me if I met him for coffee? There was one that whined about not being as liquid financially as he would like, and I just backed the fuck out of there. I mean, come on. I'm a contingent civil servant via academia and a fledgling writer trying to make it on the lit genre to boot. Ask me if I'm anywhere near liquid, solid, or stable? There was Sam who is still married, oh--but ladies--he's divorcing. Yeah, divorcing my ass. He wanted to come over to my place, and not even meet for a drink first. Yeah, I'm still trying to figure out what part of my profile says I'm that fucking easy. I mean, if you are you do you. I, on the other hand, do not roll like that. Other than that, there's been a slew of unmatches before I could blink . . . I have to tell ya, that when you get unmatched within five minutes (and nearly always less) of sending a hello it's insulting. Then again, it serves better than meeting some man at a pub and having him walk out in disgust.
Yeah, in the past year I've had men look at me with such a sheer look of disdain that burn marks were left in my soul. Getting left on a date is one thing. Having him jump with a look of repulsion is another. Then again, my all-time favorite was making out with a fucker, and he called me a hippo. I won't forget that one anytime soon. Much like the look in that guy's eyes from college, when my Lupus was the end trigger, I will not forget the feeling of humiliation and shame from all of these encounters. There were other horror shows in the past several months of trying to date. Getting slipped a mickey for one. I was NOT date raped, but I came entirely too close. Seriously, the one time in more than a decade let a dude get me a drink and I couldn't see him while it was being poured and brought over. I'm not keen on reliving that one.
I've long known I'm fairly low on the totem pole of life and, especially, dating. It is what it is. If anything, the past few years have reaffirmed that. I mean, after all, my perpetual fight for half decent medical care is only one example. Then again, I had to lose my cookies to get someone to notice. I wonder if losing my cookies in dating will do the same? Then again, I don't want to know. It shouldn't be that hard. Nothing should be this hard or soul-sucking.
Then again, last week . . . Well more than a week now, I've been eliciting texting some fucker on the other side of town. Now . . . now I'm just done. When you vanish, say let's meet up today and then disappear, and auto-rinse-repeat it says it all. You are either a player, a man with a wife/girlfriend and lying about it, using this whole tango as an ego boost, using it to get yourself and pumped up for said wife, or . . . I just don't know. What I do know is that I'm out.
What I do know is that when you walk away feeling this beat up, time and time again, you are the problem.
From the looks of things, it's just me, orchids I'm slowly replacing, and the bills I'm always poorly juggling. At least I have the blooms again, as I did miss them more than I should.
These days I'm done and unsure of why I try. The odds of me getting a connection who wants to talk to me is pretty slim, as the rate I get unmatched on a mere hello is astounding. Astounding. Then, as these things go, the meet up never happens as either the male in question flees and becomes as mysterious as Big Foot. To be rumored but never seen. Or, a few chats later and then he unmatches me. The last two, well . . . I sent them a link to a travel lit piece I wrote, which led to my page here and my Instagram. The one I just sent him Insta. Yeah, as anyone who has been around here for a half a second knows I've never bothered to hide the Lupus and arthritis life. What's the point, right? That got me dating exiled, for sure.
In college someone I cared about, more than I should have, told me the Lupus was an issue. I've never forgotten the look in his eyes when he said it. I've also never forgotten how that felt. It still cuts. As life goes, he hasn't been the only so-called man to say/do as such to me. He was just the first. Like the Sheryl Crow song says, the first cut is always the deepest.
In the past two weeks, alone, I've had one dude from last spring resurface. That one . . . I don't know how long we chatted for, but it was a couple of weeks or more. Endless banter. Endless jokes. Endless commentary. And, yes, a few sexual commentaries too as--after all--we are in our forties and not prudes on a conservative right compound. Yet, in the end, he would never commit and the back and forth chats ended when one day--on a normal banter like we had had numerous times before--he decided to implode on me telling me that I thought I was saving him and that his day was full and fulfilled and I wasn't needed. There was more, for which the four people who saw it all say the same thing. 1) What the holy hell and 2) to make it all better I just needed to tell the wonderful surgeon he was right, and he was superior all would be forgiven. Yeah. Bite me. In there, he said that I needed to take his classes on living your best life where every day is excellent. Yeah, living MY best life does not involve rose colored glasses or men like that. Though, in retrospect . . . So, yeah, he showed up on another dating site last week . . . That I use. I deleted the other after him, and a serious of atrocious events. So, when the stupid dating app put him in my feed three times, I swiped right. Then an hour later he swiped right for me. As the stupid Bumble app goes, two googly eyes mean the woman can send the first message. I did alright. I was sweet, to the point of my own destruction . . . Like fucking always. I asked him how he had been. If you know Bumble, you know it takes 24 hours before the conversation vanishes if the other party doesn't write back. Well. He let it die. As my sister from another mother and father on the other side of the Atlantic said "I hope he doesn't respond. He's such a waste of space." This was after "I wonder if he realized he fucked up!"
God bless besties. The other sister from another mother and father, in Colorado, was speechless. Speaks volumes.
More bullshit from the last two weeks alone: another jackoff muttering something about writing a book of porn (it's happened more than once believe it or not). Yeah, ask me if I met him for coffee? There was one that whined about not being as liquid financially as he would like, and I just backed the fuck out of there. I mean, come on. I'm a contingent civil servant via academia and a fledgling writer trying to make it on the lit genre to boot. Ask me if I'm anywhere near liquid, solid, or stable? There was Sam who is still married, oh--but ladies--he's divorcing. Yeah, divorcing my ass. He wanted to come over to my place, and not even meet for a drink first. Yeah, I'm still trying to figure out what part of my profile says I'm that fucking easy. I mean, if you are you do you. I, on the other hand, do not roll like that. Other than that, there's been a slew of unmatches before I could blink . . . I have to tell ya, that when you get unmatched within five minutes (and nearly always less) of sending a hello it's insulting. Then again, it serves better than meeting some man at a pub and having him walk out in disgust.
Yeah, in the past year I've had men look at me with such a sheer look of disdain that burn marks were left in my soul. Getting left on a date is one thing. Having him jump with a look of repulsion is another. Then again, my all-time favorite was making out with a fucker, and he called me a hippo. I won't forget that one anytime soon. Much like the look in that guy's eyes from college, when my Lupus was the end trigger, I will not forget the feeling of humiliation and shame from all of these encounters. There were other horror shows in the past several months of trying to date. Getting slipped a mickey for one. I was NOT date raped, but I came entirely too close. Seriously, the one time in more than a decade let a dude get me a drink and I couldn't see him while it was being poured and brought over. I'm not keen on reliving that one.
I've long known I'm fairly low on the totem pole of life and, especially, dating. It is what it is. If anything, the past few years have reaffirmed that. I mean, after all, my perpetual fight for half decent medical care is only one example. Then again, I had to lose my cookies to get someone to notice. I wonder if losing my cookies in dating will do the same? Then again, I don't want to know. It shouldn't be that hard. Nothing should be this hard or soul-sucking.
Then again, last week . . . Well more than a week now, I've been eliciting texting some fucker on the other side of town. Now . . . now I'm just done. When you vanish, say let's meet up today and then disappear, and auto-rinse-repeat it says it all. You are either a player, a man with a wife/girlfriend and lying about it, using this whole tango as an ego boost, using it to get yourself and pumped up for said wife, or . . . I just don't know. What I do know is that I'm out.
What I do know is that when you walk away feeling this beat up, time and time again, you are the problem.
From the looks of things, it's just me, orchids I'm slowly replacing, and the bills I'm always poorly juggling. At least I have the blooms again, as I did miss them more than I should.
And since I know you want to know, I've named them all again. Perhaps they will be happier than dating has been to me. If nothing else, I've gotten good at keeping them alive and I had one ready to rebloom before the orchidcide that happened over the summer. I could blather on the ancient meanings of orchids, but instead, I will leave you with this thought. Sometimes there doesn't have to be a meaning, sometimes the legacy of an item does not have to be the same feminist reason it finds a spot of happiness in your (ahem, my) soul. Instead, the delicate petals, the complex colors, and the gentle care come down to one thing. I like them.
Meet oneria (dreams), the purple one near past bloom but alive and well; elpida (hope) the purple and white one, kefi (cheer) is my bright yellow bloom, and the tiny purple and yellow is afovos (fearless). On the other shelf meet agapi mou (my love) my tall purple, yellow, and white speckle and iremia (calm) the petite white one.
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