This is going to be my "About Me" if I ever join one of those dating websites. Signing up on a dating website will be an indicator that there is almost nothing standing between me and a life as a cat lady.
Admitting I like to wreck shit is me being forthcoming about my personality. My first attempt at an "About Me" in the event that I place my romantic fate in the hands of a website went a little something like this:
Hi! My name is Amanda and I love long walks on the beach, romantic movies and cooking elaborate meals! I like old people, spending quiet nights at home and knitting sweaters for dogs. My ideal man likes to scream at the TV while watching football and simultaneously chugging beer and scratching himself while I slave away in the kitchen making appetizers for him! IM me!
This is about the time I decided maybe I should be a little MORE forthcoming and a little less of a liar in my non-existent dating website membership profile. So I rewrote it:
Hi. I'm Amanda. I've been married twice and I'm not really all that into taking shit from men (hence, two divorces). If you plan to forget my birthday, announce that you don't believe in Valentine's Day and therefore won't be sending me flowers or getting me a card or if you'd rather travel the world in a small boat than settle down and have a family, please go fuck yourself and/or find some bimbo in the 18-24 or 42-48 age category. Also, if you have a problem with women who get "emotional drunk" on occasion please continue perusing for a mate because I'm REALLY not the one for you. Oh, and my biological clock has been ticking like a son of a bitch lately. IM me!
You can see why I finally decided on, "Hi, my name is Amanda and I wreck shit." It's less intimidating and ultimately, it's me in a nutshell. I don't necessarily need to join a dating website to find a man. However, I have single-handedly wrecked quite a few opportunities at being with a nice guy the past couple months so I'm sort of running out of options (well, there's always being a cat lady but today my cat Kenni bit me super hard for no good reason and I really had to take a good hard look at the lifestyle of a cat lady and now I'm not entirely sure it's for me).
Anyway.
The problem is almost always me. I admit this. Either the guy is too nice or too aloof. Too short. Too tall. Talks too much. Doesn't talk enough. Texts me too much. Doesn't text enough. Hates my dog. Smokes. Chews with his mouth open. Wears tighty whities. Won't watch Twilight with me. Can't handle that I take an hour to get ready. Even worse... HE takes an hour to get ready.
Or, most recently, he refuses to put a label on what we are even though things are progressing JUST FUCKING FINE WITHOUT A GODDAMN LABEL and I end up in tears and things are forever ruined because I'm a stupid, stupid girl who wrecks shit.
I'm like that asshole kid on the beach who runs up and stomps the shit out of the pretty sandcastle that you spent lots of time building. Then, depending on his mood, he either laughs maniacally as he stands over you then eventually runs off to destroy something else or bursts into tears and goes and sits by himself on the water's edge wishing the waves would sweep him off to a deserted island where wine bottles grow on trees,people never age and vibrators don't need batteries.
Wait. That's doesn't seem like the correct train of thought in the mind of an asshole kid on a beach...
Oh well. It's my blog and if I wanna wreck it with bad analogies and self-deprecating humor, I will. And unfortunately, I will probably continue to crush the metaphoric sandcastles of the men who cross my path till there's nothing left but me, a box of wine and 75 cats.
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