What I wanted was a picture of a drag queen done up like a mad scientist, but I’ll settle for this. Source
I’m gonna conduct me some experiments.
Ain’t nothing going the way I want it to, so I’m gonna go ahead and change ALL the things around. To the best of my abilities. Before something else distracts me. Like another weekend marathon of Rupaul’s Drag Race Allstars. Ahem.
My first experiment involved my logging on to that godforsaken Match.com and once I did, shit got real. I put up pictures that I took, like, yesterday, that showcase my fat ass and Bruno Mars butch queen hair cut and took down the ones from thinner, longer haired days gone by. Went ahead and changed my body type descriptor to “Full-Figured” (I would have preferred to use “Heavy-Set”, but it just sounds so masculine.). I changed the essay portion of my profile to one that accurately showcases my sparkling personality. Now it’s time to sit back and wait. For what, I don’t know.
I’ve got three more months to comply with Match.com’s rigamarole surrounding their six-month guarantee before I can get my $100-and-something-dollars back. If I can show that I’ve done all the crap that they say will get me a date but don’t actually get a date after six months, they’ll refund my money. Okay, Match. We’re on. I’ve sent something like 25+ emails to men that caught my eye and received one reply. Well, two, if you count the guy that wrote back to tell me that I had reinforced his decision to never date black women. SUCCESS!
Since I am required to contact five men during each 30-day cycle as part of the six-month guarantee, I did a search to find the next recipient of one of my unanswered emails. I like to use Match.com’s “Reverse Match” option, which is described as “These matches are looking for someone like you based on what you told us about yourself in your profile.” No one is actually looking for a 30-35-year-old, never married, fat, black, average-to-ugly looking woman; it’s just a bunch of guys who have “No preference” listed under height, weight, ethnicity, etc. We simply end up with each other in the list of results when we go searching for someone to pin our hopes and dreams on.
Curious as to who has their sights
not really set on a girl like Ambrosia? Here’s one of my favorite candidates:
I love to make aehc ather so happy most to time I lessons the others and I do going out for eating any restaurants and I do love going to en
I do love cooking outside mostly the times I go to park’s a lats and I do go fishing and I go to Parks for the feeds birds and the docs and I love to cooking outside very Mach
AND I LOVE GO TO BY THE BEACH
In case you were wondering, the first part is in bold because that incomprehensible phrase is what this 48-year-old gem used as his headline, you know, that first thing that I or some other lucky girl would see that would draw us into his web of seduction and romance and outside cooking.
I laughed so hard when I read his profile! I laughed and laughed and laughed until I burst into inconsolable tears when it dawned on me that even this man probably wouldn’t respond to an email that I sent to him. I wept bitterly at the thought that unless my super real profile experiment and/or the other I’ve got cooking works, I too will be 48-years-old and still on Match.com and I don’t like feeding birds or lessons the others so what will I write about in my profile?
Speaking of my other experiment: I want to utilize the dying art of the personal ad.
I’d clearly like to have the opportunity to feel like a normal, adult human being that other normal, adult human beings with wieners see as desirable and not as just a sexless lump of too much undigested cookie dough, but clearly the online, picture-prominent dating site isn’t working for me. Set-ups don’t work either, especially ones that are dependent on the introduction being made via picture exchange. I’m just not attractive enough for that sort of thing to work. I don’t have any redeeming physical qualities that a man under the age of 72 would be interested in. But I express myself sort of well through the written word. I mean, I hope I do. The five to nine daily visitors of this blog seem to think so!
The kind of guy that is checking personal ads, which are typically picture-less, is 1.) a serial killer, 2.) desperate, or 3.) that rare breed of man who is looking for someone that he first connects with intellectually and/or emotionally. He’ll worry about connecting with the writer’s vagina later. I need to attract the last two types of men. Though I have always wanted to turn in a serial killer to the authorities. It just stinks that you run the risk of being murdered, probably quite viciously and in a prolonged manner. Anyway.
I’d start my ad by highlighting my physical flaws in the hopes that once we exchange pictures, dudes are saying “Oh, she’s not that bad” after they’ve clicked on the emailed photo attachment. I’d get all the quirky, nerdy things about me out in the open. I could be specific in who I’m looking for, if I ever figure that out. I could be my best and worst self, all in a few hundred words. And I wouldn’t be dismissed right away because I’m too black or fat or old or not fat enough or ugly! They’d HAVE to get to know me first; they’d HAVE to take a gamble on me sight unseen! I NEED the personal ad in my life!
I answered one once and lived to tell the tale. Some Indian man was looking for a full-figured black woman to date. At the time, I was really into Indian men, I thought. To be perfectly honest, I like the idea of interracial dating for myself mostly because as someone who has been bombarded for the last 28 years or so with the message that nobody wants a black women, including/especially black men, it’s pretty dope to have some guy that doesn’t look like me think I’m hot and awesome, maybe even if it’s just because I’m black. Being fetishized does get old quick though. Catch-22, man.
Anyway, I answered that ad and gave the guy a chance for a bit. He turned out to be – or at least looked – far older and hairier than the picture he sent me indicated. He was a braggart and rather materialistic. And I had a sneaking suspicion that he was married. But I lived through the experience. He seemed to like me as much as an obnoxious, arrogant person can like another. It was a short lived confidence boost, too, even if I was the only woman dumb enough to answer his ad.
As the dreaded Holiday Season quickly approaches, I am even more compelled to test out my hypothesis that a not conventionally attractive person like myself may have better luck using personal ads without pictures. I can’t bear the thought of going to yet another holiday party solo. This is why I am thinking about expanding my personal ad experiment and creating one in search of a BFF along with one advertising my need for a lovah.
Now, if you’re reading this, it’s very likely that you’re a friend of mine in real life. You may be insulted by my proposing to advertise my need for a best friend. But here’s the thing: you’re great, probably. I most likely enjoy your company and chances are I think you’re a decent conversationalist. However, you have a spouse/partner/lover and/or children and/or pets and I can’t compete with those people and animals. I need a friend who is as “free” as I am. I need a friend with benefits.
Not those kind of benefits. I’m talking about the benefit of having a friend who has a “lifestyle”, if you can even call it that, similar to mine. I know I don’t rate very highly on anyone’s totem pole seeing as how I don’t give the people in my life sex or macaroni necklaces or poop on the rug. I know that, apparently, pushing out babies and/or sharing a bed with someone you kind of like makes one much more likely to use the word “exhausted” pretty exclusively. I need someone who wants to go out on weekends and isn’t encumbered and drained by responsibilities to others. I need a plus one for weddings and parties so I can stop being the goddamn third or fifth wheel ALL of the time. I need a stylish fat girlfriend to go shopping with and a gay boyfriend to sit with at the movies.
I sort of have those things already, but there’s always a catch. My gay boyfriends live crazy far away. My stylish fat friends don’t have disposable income for shopping because their kids need stuff. If I’m going to be single, sexless, petless, and childless, then I need a partner in crime. I need someone to whom I am very important. And I’ll say again, I don’t want to compete with the uncompeteable for their loyalty and attention.
I think I’ve provided an excellent basis for my need to conduct these pseudo-scientific experiments. The biggest hitch in my diabolical plan is that damn Craig’s List. I dread and resent having to use that service, the only and creepiest game in town, in an attempt to make my dreams come true while orange-skinned, pushing-40, Chola-brow having HOES don’t have to do ANYTHING but cheat on their second husbands to get what they want (Weirdly specific example, I know, but it’s one that ABSOLUTELY ENRAGES me. Maybe someday I’ll tell the story behind it.).
Years ago, there was a pre-op transsexual advertising her services on Craig’s List to be the live-in companion to a “real” girl, as she put it. She wanted to provide maid services and in exchange, hoped her employer would allow her to do perfectly reasonable things like watch her sleep, paint her toenails, brush her hair, and give her back massages, all while she wore a classic french maid’s costume with fishnets and heels. Change the brush to a wide-tooth seamless comb, and how could I say no?
I still regret not answering her ad. Man, I could have killed ALL the birds with one stone if I had, even if she turned out to be the Bird with One Stone Killer.