On the train . . .

to spinster city, baby. So now I'm not just an eharmony dropout . . . I may, in fact, be a nerve dropout also. Got this tip about nerve from my friend E and made a profile this weekend . . . after going to the senior all night party. Perhaps it was that I spent the night with eighteen year olds (and I did enjoy myself, don't think I don't dig Euchre) but I feel I probably should be more proactive about changing my life. I think I might want to have someone to call, early in the morning, to tell about the adventures of an all night party. Maybe some upstanding citizen that could go and stand with me at all night party (or prom mostly . . . it's good to have a date for prom if you have to go six years running). Or maybe not . . . but I filled out this profile and made it super snotty. Like the real me on a particularly cynical day. Like the rest of the profiles on nerve, that I looked at anyway.

So I got a response right away. Great, I think, some older punk guy that I can at least email. Nope . . . instead the nicest guy in the world. Wholesome goodness . . . profile says that he likes to meet people and he treats women well. Ugh. So he either a serial killer or, maybe, he really does treat women well. Now what would I do with either? And why, in the world, would he respond to my profile? My profile practically screams "I am not nice . . . not nice at all! In fact, I may be a neurotic jerk." (okay, take out the "may be" and put am and replace the jerk with . . . ) What's up with that?

Really learning my grandmother may be right . . . I shouldn't wear so much black, I should wear lipstick when I'm in public (Flora wore lipstick at all times, even to bed) and I shouldn't be so damn picky. So I am on the train to Spinsterville and it's going fast.