This could go one of two ways, he is either one of those Italian Americans who doesn’t speak Italian but knows the salutations and profanities OR he is straight-off-the-boat, and doesn’t speak any English. Either way I lose.
Here I was: 30 years old, shaving my own back and wishing, if only for a moment, that I had a wife. A wife who loved me so unconditionally that this basic grooming ritual would not appall her. Sure, right now I could handle it, but I am only 30… what will happen 10 years from now, or even five?
Sleeping on the floor did wonders for my backache. It also produced a wonderful clarity of mind and no-nonsense, no-bullshit attitude that I needed to survive the next day and a half. Or maybe I could just see the light at the end of the tunnel now.
Suddenly, I was free of rejection. At the first hint of disinterest, at the first sign of a minorly inconvenient flaw (also known as a “dealbreaker”), I could give up entirely and return my glass to the never-ending tap of moderately attractive okcupid users.
First, she tried to get met to go to fancy Boston eateries; this was doomed to fail. I was living on a part time tire sales job at the time. So suggesting that I pay for food and drinks at an expensive restaurant was misguided. It was either food OR drink, but never both, and I quickly made my decision.
I’m not always mean and sarcastic, but when I am, it’s because I’m depressed and have a smelly, irritating Men’s Rights Activist taking up space in my apartment.
The audio was flipping back and forth between extremely loud top-40 Rihanna jams and extremely loud sports announcements for one of the three different playoff games that were on each screen. I spotted AJ at the bar and ran over, apologizing profusely and blaming the easy scapegoat, the MTA.
The truth is that sex, for me, does not depend on love. Some of the best sex I ever had was emotionless, and some of the worst was with someone I loved deeply. There is no great mystery to this, it’s simply biology. The reason why the sex I had with Carol was better than with Bernice was because Carol was prettier. And she knew Yoga.
Before I continue with the story of Michael, the hair-fondling MRA, let us be clear about at least one thing: You cannot diagnose yourself with Asperger’s. Not even if you have a BA in psychology.
However, every explorer, no matter how adventurous, has a place that even they dare not go. A cave so dark and menacing that they are certain it will eat them alive. For me, that place is pasta.