I've Dated You. - w4m
I've dated you, sensitive genius artiste. I've paid for your dinner at Babbo and bought your G-Star jeans on my slender paycheck so you can hang out at Teany all day, petting your iBook and getting to know your inner Christopher Hitchens and Dave Eggers. We're good. No need to pay me back. You'll find yourself a girl who doesn't -- God forbid -- contaminate your world with tastes that stray from the regulation highbrow and hip. Why should she have her own interests when she can listen to yours? Anyway, who can hear her over the sound of her trust fund?
I've dated you, arrested development guy. Yes, your youthful outlook on life is refreshing, but while I love the Muppets and wacky Japanese snack-food packaging as much as the next girl, giving over most of one's active brain to encyclopedic knowledge thererof does not constitute a personality. And no, that's not my biological clock talking. If you like your life this way, groovy -- so embrace it already, which means no more complaining about having no money and jawing about The Man. You're 35 years old. Throw out that halogen torchiere and buy a fucking suit, if only for funerals.
But you, smart, sane, compassionate guy of solid ego, cute smile, parched wit, thirsty brain, stylish pants, loving family and regular-ish income, you I have not dated. You elude me. Perhaps you, like I, can barely stand to be at a bar on a Friday night? Perhaps you're home hitting Orbitz.com for deals to Rome (or Reno)... flipping through photography books at the Strand... checking out the tomato crop at the Greenmarket...
I have no idea where you are, but if you're looking for me, I'm right here. Disillusion me. I need it.