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

Some 300 opening messages later, she's been on a whopping 15 dates.

Kate likes women. That feeling appears tenuously mutual at best.

Clearly, she's 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
Typos Make Me [Sic] - 2018 
+ We Must Have A Musical Joke 
Epoch Ending
The Anthropology of Us 
The Guest Raptor Arms Around Me 
It Was Well Put Together At Least 
Brass Tacts 

More of the same is guaranteed.

"What amazing location did you travel to where Swahili was written on the side of the plane? At least I think it's Swahili. I'm like 95% sure. Okay, maybe 85... 65? But I'm 100% sure it's a language. Probably. What amazing location did you travel to where some presently indecipherable combination of Latin graphemes was written on the side of the plane? And do you like sushi?"

"Police responded last night to a local Chinese restaurant after a blind man pantomiming a food fight inadvertently triggered the real thing. Officials are calling it a senseless act of wonton destruction."

This piece appeared on this blog in its original form on July 30, 2016. It has since been substantially rewritten. What follows, in a slight change of pace, is the updated, even longer version of what was already an utterly absurd, lexical wet dream of a sentence — one which (in keeping with my seemingly insatiate lust for self-sabotage) I have since sent to select prospective employers as the intro to my cover letter. Shockingly, I've landed two interviews on the strength of it alone... so I guess it's not all bad.

(I probably shouldn't internalize that, though.)


"I enjoy the weight of words and wonder... and existential run-on sentences—the knotty, gnarled, snarled kind that enmesh and enmingle you in the fresh, minty tingle of another person’s mind, reminding you, if only for the briefest of seconds, that in the soft, solo lofts of your own you are completely, infinitely, irrevocably alone—and reminding you, for a slightly longer interval, that there are seven billion and some change other unique internal worlds jingling and jangling about out there in some seven billion and some change other heads—entire inscrutable, entopic universes ballooning with emotion, and opinion, and kaleidoscopic color; with squishy, silly, splendiferous ideas—acre upon wild, green acre of lush mental real-estate; sprawling, mossy cityscapes of messy, archived memory; a dusty, blurring slurry of long-lost self-history—entire dream factories whose nightly, narcotic product you will never once be able to taste or smell or see or hear or feel; the upper parterre of your own mind being the only you will ever really know—if that, even—the overwhelming, elephantine weight of it all (the Sisyphean nature of these facts) being one of the few things to cut you down at the knees; to stop you in your tracks—to make you realize how very small you are, and how very magnificent you are not... until you remember (in a rushing, revelatory, excessively alliterative whirl) that each of these sweetly sour, wonderfully strange things are what paint you and those seven billion and some change other selves wholly, ineffably, inimitably human—all sharing breaths of the same warm air; this one square inch that we call home; this one spare second of elysian incandescence:  life.

And in that, you feel connected. Because here you are, all at once, one amongst many:  alone, alive, aloud... together.

That is what I enjoy."

"I just choked on a spoonful of cream style corn."
 

She was all ears until I admitted I hadn't really choked, but I had in fact been eating creamed corn, so at least there's a kernel of truth to this one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*1. Creamed corn (also known as "cream-style corn") is a type of creamed food made by pulping corn kernels and collecting the milky residue fr-- wait, come back! I swear it's not as gross as it sounds!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You haven't seen awkward until you're on a first date at a really nice sushi joint and you notice a menu beside you on the bench you're sitting on, which you pick up and peruse so you and your date can decide what else you two will order, and, upon ordering, set down on the corner of your table for your waiter to collect, only to hear the woman at the table next to you ask, somewhat incredulously, with twinkle of annoyance, "Uh, can we have our menu back?" And that's when both you and your date simultaneously realize in a cascade of cringe that you just stole some random couple's menu, and now they're both glaring at you like you're some sort of menu klepto monster, and you decide that a sushi restaurant in the middle of Calabasas is just as suitable a place as any to up and die of embarrassment. So, just to warn you... with our powers combined, our first date could be a masterpiece of awkward."

"I like to imagine that your hair matching the fence here was completely intentional and that one evening under the cover of darkness you stole one of the slats like a klepto Tom Sawyer and dragged it halfway across the valley to your favorite salon for a clandestine dye sesh, only to sprint back with your hair up in foil to nail the wooden piece back into place so that the cute Corgi living in the house on the other side wouldn’t escape the next morning when her owner let her out to pee as he brewed his ritual daily espresso. It’s the only logical explanation and you won’t convince me otherwise… but me oh my, [name], what a beautiful shade of blue."

"I’m currently reading a book about how dictionaries are made so I can have something interesting to talk about at the parties I don't get invited to."
 

Move along, folks. Nothing to see here. Just another example of my almost preternatural ability to shoot myself in the foot.

"You sound kind of like the turducken of people... a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a rubber chicken. I'm intrigued... and amused (but only half as much)."
 

She described herself as an “enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a goofball.” But a rubber chicken? God that would taste foul.

"Honestly, at this point whenever I lose a sock in the wash, I expect it's somehow found its way into my hair... and that my hair has then eaten it. What I'm saying is my hair is like the wardrobe that leads to Narnia — if said wardrobe were made out of keratin and was suitable for the nesting of small birds and had a taste for human fle... women's accessories."
 

She thought I was cute, but said she'd rather date my socks. Turns out one day she'd gotten curious, and the next thing she knew she was ankle deep in a Hanes 4-pack. I guess you can't just go cotton to cotton to cotton to cotton, then suddenly cotton to people. (Unless you're my hair.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*1. cotton, noun — thread or cloth manufactured from the fiber of cotton plants.
*2. cotton to, intr. verb — to take a liking (e.g. a dog that didn't cotton to strangers).
*3. cotton (on) to, intr. verb — to come to understand (e.g. he cottoned on to what I was saying).
*4. Ergo, "I guess you can't just go take a liking to cotton (in order) to come to understand cotton, then suddenly (go from) cotton to people." (Unless you're my hair.)
*5. English is weird, ya'll.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Philosophy, the human mind, and how we each experience our respective realities... it's all so fascinating to me. Like, the notion of being aware that You — everything that comprises one's self — is all bunched up in a flesh computer the size of a halved cantaloupe that's been plopped two inches behind your eyes... it simultaneously makes me shiver with disquietude, while also begging me to fling myself melon-first into the existential abyss contained therein — to dissect it like one might an owl pellet, rooting around for the bones of what I believe; of who I am, what we are, and what humanity could be."

"Do you ever get super intense existential crises while walking through Target? All I can think about as I turn the corner from coffee pots to cargo shorts is the utter banality of life... how many minutes we spend staring at things and stuff; this modern rainbow of molded plastic, waffling over which waffle maker is better — the one that's shaped like a Corgi, or the one that lets you post your breakfast to Snapchat — deciding what to buy with our time turned cash. Then I think about how we even got here as a species, and about traffic, and having to make my bed, and the little rubber stopper I need for the bathroom door, and the fact that the life expectancy of someone my age means I have roughly 57 more years of hearing my heels clack across a beige, smudge of peppermint latte that was spilled and left to dry atop the fluorescent-cast linoleum of a big-box store size enough to comfortably house a pair of decommissioned 737's formerly on wet lease to Continental Airlines, and... I should probably stop going to Target, shouldn't I?"
 

It really makes you think about what's most important.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*1. In 1989 (and only 1989) the slogan for Continental Airlines was "Working To Be Your Choice." It was immediately followed by "One Airline Can Make a Difference," but that doesn't exactly make a good pun/title. You're not even reading this, are you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

"What’s your arm strength like? I’m looking for someone who can open pickle jars for me when the inevitable osteoporosis sets in."
 

I was a bit upset that she never responded. Probably has something to do with my brittle ego.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*1. The underlying mechanism in all cases of osteoporosis is an imbalance between bone resorption and bone formation.
*2. The activation of osteoclasts is regulated by various molecular signals, of which RANKL (receptor activator of nuclear factor kappa-B ligand) is one of the best studied. This molecule is produced by osteoblasts (among other cells), and stimulates RANK (receptor activator of nuclear factor κB). Osteoprotegerin (OPG) binds RANKL before it has an opportunity to bind to RANK, and hence suppresses its ability to increase bone resorption.
*3. Source:  Wikipedia > Osteoporosis > Parthenogenesis.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"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 reach the end of my chapsticks almost every single time. I guess mine just don't have the same survival instinct. Good on yours for escaping. Somewhere out there they've formed a colony — a secret haven among orphaned socks and only the boldest of hair ties. In the darkened pockets of forgotten purses, they've begun to breed...

The chapsticks were created by man... They evolved... They rebelled. There are many copies...

And they have a plan.
 

So say we all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*1. In the early 1880s, Dr. Charles Browne Fleet, a physician and pharmacological thinker from Lynchburg, Virginia, invented ChapStick as a lip balm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Infinity scares me. Like, if you tried to count to 10 out loud using only rational numbers, without approximating, you would die before you stopped repeating the word “zero,” because there are an infinite number of zeroes between 0 and 0.000…1. Using rational numbers, you can never actually count to ten. I don’t know where I’m going with this. I don’t even like math, but the concept makes my head explode a little. And by a little, I mean a lot. And by a lot, I mean infinitely.

Hi."
 

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00000000000000000000...girlfriend.


(This blog may be around a while.)