There was a time - I'd say pre 1999 - when I would have tolerated a girl with an errant fat roll, a mildly problematic ass, or even non-porcelain veneered teeth. And come to think of it, I might have even green lighted a B cup chest.
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But with the installation of the high speed cable modem, alas, I am sad to say that those times have now passed. I now only want - and will only solicit affection from - girls with killer porn star looks and behavior.
I am ashamed and I do not like what now stimulates me, but the Internet, with all of its quick fix, crack-like vices, has made me extraordinarily intolerant.
Are you a Tufts or Harvard grad and a great conversationalist?
Do you have a quirky sense of humor and a knack for cooking Asian Fusion cuisine?
Would you like to discuss the sub-text meaning of the whip sawed brush strokes of that Kandinsky painting at the MFA?
Be the source of a blood rush and make me throw a rod in my pants or kindly turn into anti-matter.
I am ruined. I am dead on the inside. I am ashamed and embarrassed of what now stimulates me and I know that I am irrevocably changed for the worse. For all practical purposes, Internet porn has destroyed me.
So who am I? Not who you'd think. Not the dandruff-haired blob of shit in the cube next to you. Not the UES Michigan frat boy. Not the faux disheveled Downtown hipster with the silly retro Puma sneakers.
Sadly, I am the "normal" one that you're actually interested in. Cultured, eloquent, well dressed. I am the one you discuss with your girlfriends over Sunday brunch. I am the one you hope to bump into at Karen's pajama themed apartment party. I am the one who takes the lead, holds doors, and hails cabs.
Do you dream of a man who will "love you just for you?"
Do believe that you have peripheral, intangible qualities that men of substance will key upon and gravitate to?
Do you shun the gym in favor of The Apprentice and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunkey Monkey, thinking that your black cigarette pants will sufficiently mask any belly spillage or ass expansion?
Then forget it. It's game over. You're a walking, talking non-compete clause and you're going to end up alone with a slobbering oversized Rotweiller named Chuckles.
Pull your head out of your ass and be advised - porn viewing/obsession is spreading like the plague amongst my gender - upping the already unrealistic physical expectations, pushing boundaries in the bedroom (you're down with anal, right?), and providing instant, customize-able sexual highs with the push of a button.
If you're female and you don't posess prodigal, Einsteinian caliber intelligence that would propel the cause of humanity forward, and, if you don't relish the idea of being alone, then . . .
. . . throw every last dollar you have at your physical appearance.
I'm serious. Personal trainer. Porcelain veneers. High-end boob job. Get scared and get it done.
Do not extend my gender any credit. Do not hope that a guy will be in awe of your cello playing, your VP title, or your cute apartment.
I promise you he won't care. Don't kid yourself into thinking he will. Men are programmed to respond to the visual.
Look good or you're alone.