I am, it’s true, a mess. Often, I don’t know what to wear. I can’t word a cover letter for my life. My desires are legion and possibly uncouth. I’d like, for instance, to tread pudding. Bridal showers and friendster give me the creeps for their cabal politics, but how come I never get invited? Yesterday I ran over a chipmunk, and didn’t even stop to make sure it was dead and not suffering ad nauseam. Today I feel horrible. Today I want to veer into the guardrail. I enjoy kiwi green to this extent: my room is kiwi; wallet, bag, other bag, book case, bean bag, blanket, and Buddha machine; my overpriced Brooklyn sweatshirt; two articles of clothing and one ring. Before that, I liked red. My bathroom has a red trim I painted without taping the seams. People who are my friends call it the redrum. People who aren’t say nothing. One time this girl said my cat looked like she’d had a nose job, and I experienced maternal rage. I guess I’m capable but I still don’t know how to get a job. This is a leitmotif, I see. There are creatures living in my window seats who kill for sport. Oranges: yay; orange juice: nay. Likewise olive and the oil, but the other way around. I believe the foregoing is a précis of one percent of one percent of the mess that is me.
Incidentally, I believe in larks and desperation, which means I believe in online dating. Last month I believed in eharmony. And, for a spell, in that old guy in the commercial who says rapport is a science. They were offering a free compatibility profile, which posed a lot of questions—it took forever—about what I like and what I want, what I do and who I am. I am most like this, I am least like that. Wherever possible, I tried to straddle the poles: “somewhat” and “5” were my bailiwick. Thing is, you really got the feeling that the middling ground—ambiguity, I’d call it—was the questionnaire’s bete noire. Every time I copped to the disarray of the human spirit, I felt the love of my life slipping away.
At the end of the questionnaire, seconds of analysis later (on my computer, the cursor turns clock, which always seems foreboding), the arm of the commercial guy had this to say: that successful matching needs participants to fall within certain defined profiles. That eharmony’s matching model could not accurately predict or even guess at what sort of creature I’d like, who might actually like me. Reading this, another person might have despaired. Well, I despaired for a second. But then I rejoiced. Because I believe in ambiguity, the virtues and vices therein, which means, for the purpose of love, and if I wanted, me and a boy named Sue can always believe in each other.
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