Despite what you may have heard from my friends, family, or the internet, I don’t love judging people. Here’s what I love: eating candy, hugging cats, Elefun the Butterfly Catching Game, bear documentaries, skeletons wearing funny costumes, casually referencing Thanos in conversation, and eating candy (also, imagining eating candy), but not judging people. Never! Except sometimes. But mostly never! But a lot of times. It exercises a terrible mental muscle, my ego’s need to latch onto people’s flaws, to reduce or dismiss their worth as human beings based on a knee jerk reaction to, say, wearing a fedora or driving a Hummer. It’s like a terrible drug, delivering opiates to my brain, confirming my secret hope that I’m the best and most important person — and where better to get my fix than OkCupid, the sad seedy heart of internet loneliness, or at least one of them.
OkCupid engages all my worst impulses: objectifying, stereotyping, pretentiousness, haughty-ass bitchiness (although it doesn’t exercise my impulse to carve off my own face and eat it, so I guess not all my worst impulses). After a moment of self-examination, I would guess I have thousands of deal breakers, way more than is at all reasonable for an average looking male who isn’t a movie star or some kind of Saudi prince, so many I’ve never managed to orchestrate a date even after several months of being a member. Here are a few of my deal breakers for your consideration:
If she likes music I don’t enjoy, such as Skrillex, Switchfoot, or LMFAO, I react as negatively as if she had holes in her fingertips that spray gray pus. There’s no stopping it. I know it’s wrong, but mine is a brain evolved to classify things based on observations, even if an observation has limited implications regarding her personality like music preference. In High Fidelity when John Cusack says, “It’s what you like, not what you’re like,” rather than recognizing the shallowness of this statement, I felt profound truth resonating deep in my bones. Of course, it’s absolutely possible she could still be a viable candidate for dating purposes if her favorite band is Alien Ant Farm or “the freecreditreport.com band.” She could be an amazing girlfriend/date/person and also enjoy what I perceive as awful music. This is all true, and yet… it doesn’t feel true.
Keyser Soze Style Profile Picture
A profile photo in which her back is to the camera or her face is hidden behind a pumpkin. Is she Banksy, a witness to a mob murder, or a surrealist painting by René Magritte? Does she imagine she can keep her weird face a secret for the entirety of a romantic relationship, just wear a horse mask on dates, an opaque veil to the wedding? It doesn’t make sense, my dear. Better to reveal the Lovecraftian horror immediately, so superficial men and men with fetishes for weird faces can make informed decisions on how to respond to your profile.
When I signed up for OkCupid, I implicitly condoned the cyberstalking requisite to a functioning dating website, so there’s no point complaining about weird messages. Still, it’s interesting to note girls can creep just as well as any man when they set their minds to it (although the inability to send dick pics means they have to try a little harder; few things can match the creepiness of a close-up photo of an erect penis— maybe a small child with a horse head watching you sleep?).
Here’s a message I received: “I need you to do something for me.” I answered, “What is it?” She said, “Come over to my house, and I’ll show you.” That’s not so bad; just a straight to the point adultfriendfinder type message. The only thing that made it creepy was the profile photo: an older lady in an unfurnished gray room, her face obscured by the giant orange cat she’s holding. But then again, I love cats, especially big orange ones, so… well, I’ll think about it.
Here’s another message: “YOUR CUTE! WHATS YOUR FAVORITE DRINK?” I answered, “Green tea.” Her response: “THATS COOL. MINE’S CUM ;).” No need for the winky emoticon, you elegant duchess. You’ve already said your favorite beverage is sperm; what more can be implied by the wink?
If she spells “conscious” as “conches” or “embarrass” as “embaress,” she’s blown it, and by it, I mean the opportunity to date a person who writes about huffing poop on the internet. Once I see three or so misspelled words, I read the rest of the profile in a Tommy Pickles voice. This might be my top deal breaker, even above Uruk-hai face or Pearl the Fat Vampire from Blade body type. Presumably, this is the idealized version of herself she’s displaying, a carefully considered declaration of self, and this travesty is the best she could do? “Humorus” and “ignorence” and, oh sweet Jesus, “wierd”? When reading these abominations, the mind recoils like a snail poked in the eye stalk, like a father whose newborn has a horse for a head. Every time you misspell a word, an angel gets early-onset Alzheimer’s.
I want to be absolutely clear about this: I will not date a girl with the head of a horse and the body of a woman, even if it’s a hot lady body, even if it’s the head of a famous horse like Black Beauty or Seabiscuit or War Horse. No, I refuse. The huge teeth, the long face, the mane, Shrek ears, the giant nostrils — I cannot abide these features in a candidate for make-out activities. The huge teeth especially. How do people feed carrots to horses and not scream in terror the whole time as the gigantic gnashing jaws rapidly advance toward their delicate fingers? And their eyes, THEIR EYES SEE TOO MUCH.