Some Useful Insight About Match.com

If you are any sort of normal person who participates in society at all, I am sure  you have seen the advertisements for Match.com. The ads show disgustingly happy and attractive people who are madly in love, indulging in their newly-found fairy-tale love affair. The voice over repeatedly tells us that people on Match.com are three-times more likely to find a relationship. Here is my question. What kind of relationship are we talking? I only ask this because since joining Match, I have found myself about three-times more likely to be stalked and murdered in an alley by someone who looks like Mick Jagger's even less attractive older brother.  Technically, I think that is still considered a relationship.

My next question is this. Why is everyone I match with in their forties? I spent about an hour filling out a detailed questionnaire about my ideal match. If I am remembering correctly, nowhere did I write that I am most interested in 45-year-old perverts who spend their lives sitting at home in their parents' basement scratching their balls. Obviously there has been some kind of confusion, could someone please get on that?

I apologize in advance for the offensiveness of the next paragraph.

The large majority of people who have messaged me impressively managed to visually assault my eye balls with just the tiny picture of themselves which shows up next to their message. On several occasions, my initial reaction has been to slam my laptop shut, run over it with a dump truck, and throw it into an erupting volcano. This is purely a cautionary procedure in order to prevent my eye balls from shriveling up and falling out of my skull. I've been through quite a few laptops over the past couple months. My point is, the people who you see in the commercials are not the people you will find on the site. Has anyone ever considered the fact that there is a reason these people need to go online to find love? Yes, that statement does make me very worried about myself, but that's beside the point. If I were trying to be politically correct, I would tell you that it is important to go on dates with the ugliest of the Match.com users and look for the beauty within them, but I would be lying. For those of you who are disgusted by the rudeness of this paragraph, and are planning to slam me in the comments for being a horrible person, I completely understand.

My final concern is not a criticism of the website itself, but of the stupidity of some of its users. I will keep this one short and sweet. I have gotten messages from three people that I already know. Just a word of advice, if I am not  into you in real life, chances are I most likely won't be interested on Match.com either. In fact, you have actually made me even less interested now that you confirmed my previous suspicions that you are an idiot.

All in all, I would give my Match.com experience a solid negative three.

Hey All! I'm Claire! Hope you enjoy my blog!

I Promise I’m not Crazy…

I really don’t know if I am writing this blog to try to help you, entertain you, or make myself feel better by drowning myself in my own babbling rather than drowning in my own tears while I drink a bottle of Bailey’s sitting in the bath tub watching The Golden Girls. I mean, not that I have done that or anything… Anyways…whatever reason you have, thanks for reading!

If you spent a long enough time looking through blogs on the internet to find this one, you may want to reevaluate your priorities… or maybe like me, you are going through a mid-life crisis when you are only twenty-one years old and you are desperately searching to find someone who feels as crappy as you!

“Mid-life crisis” really does not even constitute itself as a thing when you are only twenty-one. Then again, people have always called me and “old-soul” and I actually hope they are right. See, if this is not my mid-life crisis, I don’t really want to know what will happen when I hit my real mid-life crisis. The first time I heard someone call me an “old soul,” I was highly offended. I was like, “What the hell does that mean? That I remind you of your great aunt Margaret who needs to pluck the black whiskers out of her chin mole?!” (I didn’t actually say that, but I damn sure thought it.) I’m pretty sure it’s not normal to be called an “old soul” more than once in your life by a random stranger. It seriously concerns me as to why this is a regular occurrence for me.

Maybe the wrinkly old prune that I apparently have for a soul is learning some of life’s toughest lessons too soon, or maybe I am learning them right when I am supposed to and just not coping with them as a “normal young lady should” (just another thing I have heard about 30 million and one times in the past two months.) Perhaps the best case scenario here is that I am such an “old soul” that by the time I am thirty, my parents will have to put me into an assisted living institute for the senile. Seriously, wouldn’t life be a lot easier if we were just completely senile, wandering around hopelessly, fascinated by every pathetically unimportant thing we laid our eyes on? I would love if my biggest concern could be what color pants my nurse is wearing, or why my one-hundred-three-year-old roommate, Elbert, is complaining that he has no hair on his entire body while Melania Trump is sitting in her Canopied-California –King-Sized-Memory-Foam-Koi Pond-Water-Bed, paying some poor soul some serious dough to get the exact same “naked mole rat” look. I think I would want to be so senile though, that I would be infatuated by the dust flakes floating around in the air. Is that what they make hard drugs for? Really the only serious concern I can come up with about living in a home would be whether or not they cooked my daily helping of creamed corn in the same bed pan I just watched Elbert take a dump in.

Let me try to explain my life to you a little bit. I really am your average American twenty-something girl. I spend ungodly amounts of money, which I borrowed for school, on make-up at Sephora and Victoria’s Secret underwear that no one sees anyway. I live in my parent’s basement while I finish my journalism degree at Colorado State University and try to pretend that my education is the most important thing in my life. While I have always done well in school, it has never been my priority. I have not been single since I was 16. It’s been one back to back “serious” relationship after another, more like “seriously screwed” relationship after another. Until two-months ago, when I became single, without another guy waiting in line.

It was always me who did the dumping, once one guy got boring, I would find someone new and exciting and run away. Maybe I finally got what was coming for me. This time, I was the one that got dumped, and I mean bad dumped. That had never happened before. By “bad dumped” I mean I found my boyfriend (who I was convinced was my Prince Charming) in a hotel with another girl. That’s not even the worst part. Most of you out there would have dumped him then and there, but he still managed to dump me while I begged at his feet for him not to. That kind of dumped. Please ladies, do yourself a favor, and never make that kind of a fool out of yourself.

I quickly realized I have no clue what I am supposed to do if I don’t have an egotistical walking penis who makes me cry on a daily basis to occupy every waking moment of my thoughts. It’s like I can’t be happy without some screwed-up relationship to drag me through a roller-coaster-ride of emotions on a daily basis. I really developed an addiction to dating men who treated me poorly and trying to force them to fall madly in love with me. I may be young, but I damn sure learned one thing, that is not how it works.

Okay, I’m about to go all Danny Tanner on you. I suggest you start playing the sappy music in your head now for full-effect. If you had any sort of decent childhood you get my reference. The last relationship and break-up I had was awful, heart-wrenching, and really not funny at all. The thing is, I have always known I had two talents: writing, and making people laugh. After two-months of acting like a hopeless basket-case of a woman that my friends would not be surprised to see me motor-wheel-chairing (I just made that verb up) down the sidewalk carrying all my belongings plastic in grocery bags, and wearing a giant hat covered in my deceased cat’s fur, I decided to write. I decided I wanted to find a way to laugh and make others laugh with me.

Trust me on this one, I have nothing figured out. If you are looking for someone with insight and answers, it’s not me, but I can tell you about ten thousand ways not to deal with a break-up. I truly hope that some of you out there can relate, and perhaps reading about my experiences will help some to not make the same mistakes. Hopefully any other twenty-something women who reads this will think, “There is something seriously wrong with this girl. I will never be that much of an idiot.” The thing is, as we have all heard a million times, the past is the past. So at this point, what’s done is done. I want to use my experience to make myself and others laugh because sometimes that is all we can do. With this blog, I am trying to take the hot-steamy pile of dog shit that is my life, and make a well insulated hut out of it. Screw lemons and lemonade. Sometimes things go too far to be described as innocently as “lemons.” Plus I hear dog poop is great for insulation.

I hope you at least some of you will want to read more and hear some of the ridiculous stories I have to tell, and keep reading my blog. Unfortunately, it’s two o’clock in the morning here at Roosevelt’s Home for the Senile, and I wouldn’t want to keep Elbert awake any longer. I also don’t want to be awake to witness his next visit to the bed pan, so I better go. Good night all!