Not terribly long ago, I was reminded of something... a goal I once had as a very young man in fact. There are places in the country, in the world, where there are more women than men, and those places are, as expected, gold mines for dating.
I forgot this, decades ago, as my lifestyle put me, more or less automatically, into sausage land, with the commensurate difficulties it placed on my dating prospects. I have ever been a glutton for punishment, I suppose.
As a newly single man, I realized I had no idea what my local scene was truly like.
I found out two sad facts.
The first is that my worst adult dry spell was when I lived less than an hour from one of the top ten cities in the nation for single women (oops!!! This demographic data might have been good to know when I... wasn't going there to get laid!!!!), and that the town I have called home, on and off, for the last ten years is among the ten worst.
Sigh.
Actually, I think its in the top five.
This may explain why I seem to lack suitable targets for my attentions so much of the time.
On the other hand, I suppose it should make me feel rather proud of the quickness with which I scored when I first moved here, and the subsequent...ah... party lifestyle I managed to live before the relationship turned to shit.
In short, the evidence suggests that my previous experiences in Sausage Land have well prepared me for the arduous task of scoring in a town where there are six men to every five women. Luckily, it seems this is also among the gayest of cities... possibly caused by a shortage of bankable girls. I note here that the Northwest seems to be a mecca for fat pasty girls with bad peircings and tattoos, possibly because the lack of sunshine means they don't need as many excuses to layer themselves in tents year round...
However: I have been contemplating a move to warmer, sunnier climes anyway, as my notoriously foul moods and general reclusiveness are only aggravated by constantly shitty weather. So, if I cannot pull myself out of the permanent nose dive of my life, once the ground has well and truly smacked me around a few times to prove that gravity is a Boss, I will undoubtedly bid fare-thee-well to this god forsaken place, and seek me a land of lonely, and bikini clad beauties, desperate for a manly man to sooth their... shit, what's the female version of sausage fest?... well, you get my drift.
There are upsides to being destroyed.
Of course, my foray into research also turned up a fact I and been deliberately ignoring. I've chosen to indulge in my general hobo-nature and let my hair grow rather wild, along with cultivating a manly beard, or at least part of a manly beard, letting manly scruff take the rest. I was imagining that my utter lack of metrosexuality was working in my favor, perhaps offsetting my indisputable laziness regarding my gym habits.
In short: I was, of course, lying to myself. The beard and scruff, if maintained properly, seems to be working just fine. Its the useless, shapeless mass of unruly hair (blessed be the gods of genetics, who saw fit to pass over me when they visited the scourge of Male Pattern Baldness upon the heads of the unworthy. Let it be said that I know well, and powerfully, that I have not the skull to support a sexy bald head, looking rather more like an unhealthy cross between a vulture and a cancer patient in his last earthly days, no matter how much muscle the neck beneath boasts...), that is proving...well... unruly.
There is, to be blunt, a fine point between dashing, devil may care, rugged manliness and slovenliness, and I have well and truly crossed the line into the latter, at least with regards to my hair.
Given that I have at least some appreciation for classic stylings, this will simply not do. I am not quite ready to do the whole dress-suit, spit-shine shoes routine, though I suppose it would behoove me to attempt it, but looking like a bum is starting to turn me into a fucking bum, and that ain't sexy unless you're looking the Rock Candy Mountains...
So, in turn, that means upon the morrow I shall attend to my glorious locks. I may return to my slovenly, manly hobo ways once I have restored the temple of my body, so that I resemble more the savage beast-man, the viking of olde, rather than some chump to cheap to shell out for hair care. So too shall I ditch the rumpled t-shirts, no matter how comfortable and, well, EASY they are.
I would say too that upon the morrow I will attend me to the gym, but facing the fact, in this I will undoubtedly fail, beset as I am by the devils of procrastination and general laziness.
And while my maudlin tale of self loathing may seem pointlessly indulgent, I suggest instead that you point to those nonexistent readers, whose lack allows me such frivolities without shame. Who among you exists that can cast a stone in judgement or derision? None, say I, and riding my ass backwards through the marketplace, I point and laugh without shame or dignity*
*I have no idea what the fuck I just said there. None.
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