Now that the Affordable Care Act will allow me to procure birth control, I’ve been thinking a lot about my spinsterhood. I mean, all those magnificent little pills would be going to waste on me! We can’t have that. Waste not, want not, that’s what I say. So with that in mind, I’ve been trying to come up with a dating profile. It has kinda gone down the toilet. Behold:
Single white female seeks single male. Must have job, bank account, and own apartment. No republicans, hipsters or junkies need apply. Must understand that the television remote belongs to ME, and my friends live in the computer. You got a problem with that?!
Hmm. Too formal? Too demanding? Let’s try again.
Single cat lady seeking someone to clean litter boxes. Please provide own pooper-scoop.
Nah. Anyone can buy a pooper scoop. More specific?
Aging goth/metalhead seeks same. Please email specifics of CD collection and map of tattoos. Rush fans need not apply.
Ugh, that’s setting me up for some Crow-wannabe who plays World of Warcraft all day in his mom’s basement, eating Cheetos and slugging Mountain Dew. Forget that one.
Jane Eyre seeks Mr. Rochester. Please provide pictures of attic, as secret attic-wives are a dealbreaker.
Crap, that’s asking a lot. Most guys my age have at least one attic-wife. Damn, this is hard.
Crazy spinster seeks full-time caregiver. Must be proficient in psycho-pharmaceuticals and knowledge of what “soft restraints” are.
Now that’s just asking for trouble. “Soft restraints” can mean fur-lined handcuffs. Actually, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Let’s keep that one on hold.
Single female seeks single male to tell me my ass looks fantastic in these pants.
Shit, all the guys who would do that are already dating each other. Okay, how about this one.
Opportunity of a lifetime for strapping male who enjoys taking out the garbage, killing spiders, cooking his lady-love dinner, and telling me “No, I LOVE watching reality television! Please give me your detailed opinion on this season of Big Brother!”
Yuck. With my luck, I’d end up with Mike Boogie, and NO ONE WANTS THAT.
No one wants you, Boogie.
Please come to my house and remind me what human physical contact feels like. Also open this jar of pickles for me, I’ve been trying all day.
Eh. The pickles would be nice, but I can’t abide touchy-feely stuff when I’m busy reading up on celebrity divorces and shit.
Single thirty-something seeks sex, and lots of it. Please provide own adult-time toys and condoms. No glove, no love, boys. No one who read two chapters of “Fifty Shades of Grey” and think they know everything about kinky lovin’ need apply. Serious candidates only.
I swear, that stupid book is ruining everything.
Once in a lifetime opportunity! You: 35-45, single, funny, self-sufficient with a penchant for horror movies, heavy metal music, tattoos and a clean bill of health. Me: 35, delightfully eccentric writer with three feline companions and a shelf full of Tom Waits bootlegs. Wanna watch Top Chef and make out on the couch? Call me at 1-800-BANSHEE.
See, this one is pretty good. Too good, really. I doubt this person actually exists. Or worse, he DOES exist and is of course happily married to someone who can boil water without burning the house down and doesn’t have seven psych hospitalizations under her belt.
Oh well. I guess my best chance at ever dating again is to go straight to the top.
Dear Mrs. Obama: Hi! Big fan here. Listen. You bagged yourself a great guy in our president, and I was just wondering if you could introduce the Federal Boyfriend Acquisition Act into the 2012 presidential campaign. I trust you completely in your no doubt impeccable taste in men, and would love to be the first woman to participate in this program. Call me!
Help me, Michelle Obama. You’re my only hope.