On March 23, 2015, Kate created a profile on OkCupid.

Some 2̶0̶0̶300 opening messages later, she's been on a whopping 5̶6̶7̶8̶9̶15 dates.

Kate likes women. That feeling  ̶D̶O̶E̶S̶ ̶N̶O̶T̶ ̶A̶P̶P̶E̶A̶R̶ ̶T̶O̶ ̶B̶E̶ ̶M̶U̶T̶U̶A̶L̶ appears tenuously mutual at best.

Clearly, she is doing something right.

Each post is an excerpt of a message this seemingly inexorable self-saboteur has sent, backdated to its original send date.

Here are a few of her favorites:

+ An Open Letter To A Town In Transition
+ We Must Have A Musical Joke 
Epoch Ending
The Anthropology of Us 
Typos Make Me [Sic] 
The Guest Raptor Arms Around Me 
It Was Well Put Together At Least 
Brass Tacts 

Bask in her shame. More of the same is guaranteed.

You’re from San Francisco? You must have amazing calves. 

"Are you from Australia? Cause those are some coit towers!" (Honestly though, I should have seen it coming. Getting her attention was an uphill battle.) 










*1. coit, noun (Austral, slang) buttocks; backside
perhaps a variant and special use of quoit, referring to roundness
*2. Coit Tower, also known as the Lillian Coit Memorial Tower, is a 210-foot (64 m) tower in the Telegraph Hill neighborhood of San Francisco.








I've heard that at least seven out of every five 11-year-olds are disinterested in fractions. I mean, I've just heard that. I was bored that day and tuned my teacher out, but I assume it's an accurate statistic.

My hair is not unlike a saguaro cactus:  it grows fast, expands visibly when wet, and is great a place for small birds to nest. 


And it holds onto water for, like, forever.

"Girl, you are funny. I have this mental image of you trying to carry a giant stack of law books, tripping over nothing, then running all across campus in an effort to keep it balanced, trying not drop them, bumping into things like newspaper stands and sweaty teenagers dressed as restaurant mascots, unapologetically knocking a Trump supporter down an open manhole (back to the sewer where he and/or she likely belongs), startling a nearby litter of anxious cartoon pugs being walked in public first time, getting yelled at by angry taxi drivers who are bitter about their life choices and the fact they their wives left them for someone who laughs like Janice from Friends (because they did not emotionally support her in the way she needed to be supported), all while shouting "woahoahoahoah" a la Goofy. It's endearing.

Oh, garsh."

Starring:  Jackie Chan as Dog Walker

Communication is ongoing. But, you know... give it time. 

During a recent episode of the Scriptnotes podcast, screenwriters John August and Craig Mazin weighed in on the controversy surrounding Kimberly Peirce, director of the groundbreaking film Boys Don’t Cry, whose lecture at Reed College last month was disrupted by a small group of LGBTQ-allied, student protesters spewing vitriolic hate. When John and Craig rightfully came to Peirce’s defense—who herself identifies as both queer and lesbian—they did so with their patented brand of “double-fisted umbrage.” I took no issue with that.

This post is unlike anything else you will find on my blog. It is not an opening message I've sent on OkCupid or Bumble. It is not an attempt to make you laugh. It is my open letter to Hollywood about a very serious issue that fundamentally concerns my life.

Consider it a rare excerpt of self-sabotage with a constructive outcome.

Please click here to continue reading...

Let's go to Home Depot sometime and argue about Rope—I don't know why we'd be at Home Depot, as I am neither handy nor in need of a new faucet, but it worked sort of for set up of this joke—so I guess just ignore that and instead imagine that this sentence takes place in a single continuous shot with masked cuts, and imagine that I hate how it spools out (could use a rewrite)—exactly like that movie—about which I wrote a paper in college deconstructing Hitchcock's use of camera movement as a means of in-shot, long-take editing (in contrast to Children of Men).

True story.

"I swear, it was like 64 degrees this afternoon and I started shivering outside an Arco. I'm from Connecticut! I can't be doing that. We start sweating if the windchill goes above zero! What's next: *not* wearing flip-flops in January. That's crazy talk! 

But, I mean, you're from Buffalo, so, you know how it is. We have reputations to uphold!

(I have brought shame to the Northeast.)"

"Or, you can be the Matt to my Julie and abruptly move to Chicago for school, and then for like a season and a half have viewers wonder will they or won't they and this metaphor is starting to fall apart... so maybe you can just be the Friday night to my lights? Idk."

She wanted an Eric to her Tami.  Turns out even with clear eyes and full hearts, you can lose.

Pfft, sportsball is dumb.

"Well, I do have a tuft or plume of feathers, especially as a headdress or on a helmet."

She told me I had panache. Stereotypically, she sent her message from a gaudy, English country house.

(This exchange led to Date #5. Neither of us have called each other since, so, I think it went well.)

"You didn't gross me out. You did make me homesick though. And hungry. Because I am both from New England and slightly in love with corned beef. 

Not necessarily in that order."

"How many times has someone walked in on you juicing beets, and then slowly backed out of the room thinking they had stumbled onto a murder scene? Because any time I've done anything remotely related to beets, the juice has gotten EVERYWHERE. And on everything. And it looks very incriminating.

I no longer cook with beets."

This is the silliest thing, but... I once had a friend who would pronounce Sublime as two distinct words: Sub•Lime. And now I can't see a reference to that band anymore without picturing a lime and wondering what in god's name is below it. A table? A chinchilla? The beveled edge of a bathroom sink in a Doubletree by Hilton? These are life's most burning questions.

"For some reason my tired brain skipped over "cooking carbohydrates," causing me to think you lovingly tend to your roommates prior to cannibalising them. I was like, "that's a big secret she's willing to admit on a dating site. Her search for new roommates must be so involved. Clean? Check. Quiet? Check. Grass fed? Lol who are we kidding that's half of LA.'"


Do you ever deadpan a joke that's so Tanami Desert dry, you have to remind the person you're being sarcastic?

Me neither.

From the Bumble app.  An Australian girl whose tastes included baking and dry humor.

I did not whet her appetite.