Remember when I felt kind of bad for trashing that guy’s profile? Never Mind.


Remember when I trashed that “I’ve found myself and I’m impressed + I’m gonna compare you to my 33 y.o. ex-girlfriend, just so you know…” guy and then I was all “Oh man, maybe I shouldn’t be anonymously trashing people’s online dating profiles, that’s not nice.” and then I was all “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m on a mission from God” ?

Well.  That guy (who, as you recall, winked at me last week)(and we all know how I feel about *winking*…) wrote me a message.  And by “wrote me a message” I mean he strung some letters together in a way that made it seem like he was trying to communicate something, but I’m not sure what.

For the record: I don’t feel sorry for him anymore, at all.

Here’s what he wrote:

Hiab. Great photo and impressive….bobby*
Important Note:  My “username” on match has nothing to do with the word “Hiab” or “b” or “ab” or “H” and my profile doesn’t say that I’m 33, it says I’m 46, which happens to be the god awful truth.

I feel like he is the one fucking with me, now.

Which is *totally* unacceptable.
Dear Bobby,
So sorry it’s taken so long for me to respond —  I’m super-busy with electro-shock therapy to address my dating related (where are the good guys, Bobby?!) depression and, well, it took me awhile to fully dig into and digest your message. 
 I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a speed reader, Bobby.
I must admit to being a bit baffled — when I first noticed your profile (two weeks ago?) you were divorced and 53 years old and, unfortunately, delusional.  Now you are not-divorced and 55, but still delusional.  At least there is some consistency in your life.  Which is more than can be said for a lot of people, right Bobby?  There’s a “plus”…
The thing is, I *totally* understand delusion, Bobby.  Sometimes it is just easier than reality. 
Plus, it sounds like you are surrounded by delusional “women friends”  (Or imaginary “women friends” – either way, I don’t think they are helping anything)  The thing that concerns me the most about them is that they guessed you were exactly, on-the-dot 41.  What?  I’ve seen your 4 identical pictures (yes, two are in b/w, but they are the same exact picture) and if I were delusional (which happens, Bobby, I’m not going to lie) I would guess you were 46.3, but I’m not delusional (right now) and judging from your picture, and the fact that you said you were 53 and now you say that you are 55, I’m going to guess that you are not a day under 58. 
And that is being generous.
As was the 33 year old confused cult-girlfriend you USED to have. 
I’m guessing she told you that she couldn’t believe you were a day over 33 on account of how much you two had in common and the fact that you were the best lover she ever had. I’m right, aren’t I Bobby?
I want you to hear this, Bobby, because it’s going to help you in the long run:
To say anything else would be counter-productive, Bobby. 
I’m not saying she was lying.  She probably wasn’t lying at that very moment (you know, the one right after the great sex but before she realizes that you’re still married and your daughter is her age and you’re just leasing that fancy sportscar)  But just because a 33 year old thinks you’re her soulmate and the best lover ever (during the time period wherein you are both cult members) doesn’t mean you are *actually* 33.
I’m sorry, but it’s just the truth.
So when you say in your profile “I’m going to compare you to my 33 year old ex- girlfriend, just so you know” the message is really “I’m a total douchebag, just so you know, and I’m 58 but age doesn’t matter when it comes to me, it only matters when it comes to you, and if you’re not 33 I may hang out with you, but you’ll never really be good enough for me.”
It’s not a good message, Bobby-o.
And neither is the one you sent to me today.
Normally your delusions wouldn’t bother me, but when you sent me a personal message addressing me as “Hiab” you crossed a line, Bobby.
This is a Hiab:
 I am not a big orange crane, as I think you know.  And I resent your use of the term “Hiab” to refer to me.  I have feelings, Bobby, unlike big orange crane machines.  Who hardly ever do.
And as for the rest of your “message”?  What. The. Fuck.
What photo is great?  What is impressive?  My big orange crane claws? 
Why even bother writing anything if that is all you can come up with?  Especially when you’re following up a fucking wink…  Hellooooooo the wink let me know you thought I was fuckable based solely on my profile picture, you’re not covering any “new ground” here with the non-message you sent.
Oh and just so you know, Bob, I wouldn’t fuck you even if you *were* 33, or 41, or 53, 55 or 58 (which is probably your real age) (not that it matters, the point is you’re a total dick) and I’m basing that statement solely on the total douchebag-ness that is your profile and the waste of time and space that was your “message” to me.
Which in unfortunate for you, Bobby, because while I may not be a speed-reading orange crane with massive claws, I’m a GREAT fuck.
There.  Now I feel better.


*  his name isn’t “Bobby” — but it is something with a “y” on the end, and two consonants in the middle, and…. 🙂

p.s.  I don’t really think Landmark Education is a cult, I just like to fuck with my best-girl Irene who has been trying to recruit me get me to do it for YEARS.


Dear Mr. Attension to Detail, I’m dreaming of one of these in pink metal. Love, Violet.

So there I was, obsessively sifting through online profiles of unsuspecting men who happen to live within 200 miles of me, hoping to find either true love or someone to humiliate on my blog (or both, naturally) when Mr. “Attension to Detail” (hereinafter “Bob”) sent me a virtual wink.

 Heavy sigh.

I kind of feel sorry for him, honestly.

Which means I  feel sorry for him in the exact same way that I feel a little twinge of sorry for the religious zealot who shows up at my door with a pamphlet and and no idea that I’m actually Satan.  In the flesh.  [insert fake smile]  Which is to say, of course, that I don’t feel sorry for him at all, because I didn’t ask him to choose to identify himself as Mr. Ironically Misspelled Headline  and to then make his headline even more ridiculous by writing this:

I am easy going and someone that lives life.I like to have fun no matter what i am doing even at work.I am the person who can fix anything and don’t need to call the guy, I am The Gay. Looking for someone that wants to make life an adventure not a chore.Looking for someone that likes to go on motorcycle rides,Camping,Vegas,anywhere there is a beach,and just hang out.I can make any situation fun and can be serious when need be.Also I like to build things out of Metal.You dream it i can build it.I have no baggage just luggage.Lets make this are first adventure together.
And I sure as hell didn’t ask him to *wink* (a/k/a the lamest, most passive-aggressive-ist thing to do to indicate that you are kinda, sorta, in a “I’m too lazy to write even one little word” way semi-interested in another person on an online dating site) at me at 5:30 on a Thursday afternoon (a/k/a the “Oh Shit It’s Thursday And I Don’t Have a Date Lined Up for the Weekend” witching hour in online dating world) when I was feeling particularly snarky and jaded.
So, feeling grateful for the material that had just fallen into my lap, I decided to totally fuck with Bob.
Dear Bob,
I don’t know how to fully explain the emotional rollercoaster you have put me through today, but I’m going to try, which is all anyone can do in this life, right?
When I first became aware of  your indication of interest, I was all  “Oh look, a man who lives in my state and isn’t 72 and/or wearing overalls in his profile picture is showing me some attention!”  This was followed up with confusion because, as I’m sure you know (or maybe you don’t, which I’m starting to doubt) sending someone a wink online is super passive-aggressive and could mean anything at all, Bob, even something sinister.
Let me explain.  One time I had a one night stand brief relationship with a guy who, as it turns out, was completely psychotic and I’m not even making that part up, he really was. I know that because I’m kind of an expert at internet research and I tend to check out stories people tell me about things like how they have a criminal record, but that it is totally unjustified because the police completely overreacted and they were unjusty prosecuted all because they barely threatened their ex-mother-in-law (with a loaded weapon) in front of the grocery store, which they wouldn’t have even thought of doing if she hadn’t been stalking them and trying to kill them, with her mind.
Anway. Bob. None of that happened exactly as he described it, obviously, so I got scared and stopped responding to his incessant calls/emails/IM’s and texts.  I was hoping he would get the hint and back off, but, as you know, that kind of reasonable behavior doesn’t sit well with psychos, plus I am really good at sex and he wanted more, so he switched up his game and started calling/emailing/IM-ing and texting me about the (probably imaginary) naked pictures of me that he said he had taken with the (probably imaginary) spy camera that he had purchased so he would have evidence of his ex-mother-in-law’s (probably imaginary) attempts to kill him, with her mind.  You know, the pictures that I couldn’t be totally sure didn’t exist….  Then he promised he would probably not post the probably imaginary pictures on the internet if  I would just meet with him one more time to talk about “us”. 
 This actually happened, Bob.  
I finally had to take drastic measures to block all avenues of communication with him.  Then, several years later, I innocently put a profile up on and guess who “winked” at me about 5 minutes thereafter?  YES, Mr. Psychotic With Probably-Imaginary-Naked-Pictures!  And, Bob, I’m pretty sure his “wink” wasn’t the “Oh hey, I think you’re pretty!” type wink.  It was more along the lines of  “Oh hey bitch, I’m still around and I’ve still got those pictures, just so you know.  Good luck!”
Anyway, Bob, all I’m saying is that a wink can mean anything and I’m starting to wonder what exactly yours meant. 
I’m usually a pretty good judge of character and my sense is (after seeing your profile picture wherein you look somewhat dodgy and paranoid just sitting there on your little motorcycle in your garage, which is entirely closed up  and appears to be neatly organized and unnaturally clean, which probably means that (a) you took the picture from your secret garage spy camera, and (b) you do things in your garage that you don’t want people to know about, including power washing your victim’s blood off the walls, for one thing, and obsessing over your little motorcyle, for another) that you didn’t mean well, and that certainly destroyed any enthusiasm I had about being noticed, Bob.
But then I saw your headline — “Attension to Detail” — and thought “What a clever play on words!  This guy couldn’t possibly be a serial killer, he’s funny!” and I was all excited again.
Imagine my disappointment, Bob, when I realized, shortly thereafter, that not only was it  highly unlikely that you intentionally misspelled “attention” in order to make a clever little “play on words” type headline, you also seem to be completely unfamiliar with the most basics rules of the English language.  I’m talking about things like spelling, punctuation and capitalization, Bob, not to mention using language to convey meaning.  And that made me feel bad.  Not for judging you based on how you write (please….) but bad about the fact that your writing is so, well, bad.  Oh, and about how now it’s pretty clear that you’re probably a serial killer, Bob.  Not cool.
Then I saw that you’re The Gay and that you like to build things with Metal.  Huge. Fucking. Relief.  I finally know who The Gay is!  So, even though the whole “I like to build things out of Metal” is probably  just more circumstantial evidence of your reign of terror as The Gay serial killer, I think something good can come from this whole “winking” encounter after all, which I’m sure makes you feel less bad about your previous threatening actions online, right Bob?
To that end, I’ve enclosed a picture of a chastity belt that I would like you to make out of metal, preferably finished with a shiny pink enamel, if it isn’t too much trouble.
Well, pink matches my cookie and I’m starting to think life would be less complicated if I could just refrain from having casual sex (or any sex, really) with psychotic and/or delusional and/or serial killer-type men who hold grudges (apparently) but everyone knows that I don’t have a lot of willpower sometimes, so that is where the pink metal chastity belt will come in — it will make me feel pretty, Bob, and it will probably save my life. 
p.s.  I think I will need at least 5 keys FOR EMERGENCIES, Bob…
Bob hasn’t responded, yet.