Hello, soldiers! Greetings! A wondrous thing has happened! With the dawning of the twenty first century, the dating scene has been revolutionized! Revamped! America is now online and we are stoked- everything is so easy! Even dating! Suddenly there are all these new ways to meet the love of your life! Love is just a click away!
Romance has never been such a piece of cake, let me tell you! You just create an account on some crap dating site, fill out a profile and a few surveys, punch a few buttons and SNAP! Your *matches* will pop up seconds later! It’s brilliant!
A cold, inanimate COMPUTER with *no feelings whatsoever* can instantly tell you who you’re compatible with! Show you an exact percentage of how much chemistry you will have with any potential mate! It’s so easy!
But if this is the future of dating, I quiver. I am not a Jetson.
Dating sites have to go. I’ve grown so disenchanted, I’ve been doing this most of my life! Like, since I was *fourteen* and I ask you now: is this really what romance has been reduced to? I have had it. I’m sick of three hundred copy and paste notes a day, I’m sick of being asked my hobbies, my likes, my dislikes! “So what types of guys do you like?”, “How long you been in Florida?”, “What bands are you into?” Some of the questions you bombard me with! Incessant and useless questions! They’re ridiculous! When Romeo met Juliet, do you really think he went up to her and said, “Hey, baby . . . so what was the last sporting event you went to?”
I understand you’re trying to start a conversation, but the last sporting event I went to was probably a Cubs game in 1993. I don’t want to talk about it.
Come on. I am not 22. I’ve been dating since I was a kid, I’m burnt out. Have a heart.
Now if I’m feeling brave, I can book myself a date every single night . . . sometimes *twice*! That’s how desperate POF boys are, they just want a date . . . *any* date.
I. Can’t. Take. It.
Number one, I am not a piece of meat, I am not here for your amusement! I cannot keep up with your stupid mass messages, I can’t even read them all. Every time I change my default picture, I get hundreds and usually from some no chance punk who did not bother to read my profile and doesn’t realize he’s messaged me before . . . in some cases, does not even realize he’s actually taken me out before. That’s how far in the toilet his love life is!
Number two, when did a woman’s phone number become more important than her name? You don’t even realize it half the time, but you ask for my *phone number* before my *NAME*! What the hell *is* that? Are you stupid? When I point this out to you losers, you quote SHAKESPEARE to me, tell me that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but seriously- ask for my digits before my freaking *name*, all I can smell is your desperation! You dead ducks are so far up the creek that I won’t even go out with you for the free meal anymore!
To you Dating Nazis, I AM NOTHING! Just a phone number and a default picture! A piece of office furniture! Ten fingers to type sarcastic responses to your miserable copy and paste notes! NO MORE! TAKE A LOOK AT ME, MISTER!
I’m a WOMAN! With flesh and blood and nerves and feelings! I have just as much of a right to romance as the next guy! If Prince Charming isn’t going to show up and I don’t get to roll around in the surf with Burt Lancaster or swing on vines through the jungle with Tarzan, okay. Fine. I can live without bells and fireworks and Cary Grant, but DUDE!
YOU CANNOT ASK ME TO LIVE WITH *THIS*!
You losers want a cute chick to deal with your pathetic ass on a Friday night and *I* want to run wild through the moors with Heathcliff . . . remember to ask me my freaking *name* and maybe we can compromise. Quid pro quo, eye for an eye- I am willing to work with you.
In conclusion, take the time to realize there is an actual *person* behind that default pic with the POF logo stamped on it like the Star of David, I will try to find a way to deal with the fact that you didn’t pick me up on a magic carpet.