The dating world is a strange and frightening place- a battleground where the only weapons are wit and circumstance and the casualties are always severe. What should amount to a fun experience of getting to know someone is usually, at least to me, like getting lost in the Canadian wilderness with a gaping leg wound and no tools. As things go on, the fervor and optimism at the start just sort of bleed out and quickly become hopeless.
That’s not to say I’ve never had a good date (obviously I have), nor that the women I’ve been with on bad dates are even exclusively responsible for the turn of events. As a matter of fact, I don’t think it strains credulity to say it’s my own damn fault for fucking things up for the two of us. But you can only expect so much when you hand a microscope to a 6-year-old and tell him to cure AIDS, cancer, and Beiber Fever with a non-intrusive pill that leaves only the refreshing scent of pine as a side effect. Men, by default, just don’t have the wiring to figure out a woman’s mind.
Women are social creatures to the bone. From an early age they dissect the world of people around them to an infinitesimal degree. Over time this seems to make them, more or less, master fucking wizards of psychological warfare. We men are merely the puppets, and awkward ones at that.
So at this point, I am officially giving up on the dating game. Not to be overly dramatic here- but fuck this shit. I’ve been on so many dates the past two months that my head is spinning and I can’t tell the sky from the ground anymore. I feel like my soul has been beaten with a pipe-wrench and my heart has been breaded, pan seared, and served with jalapeno beurre blanc. This special is no longer on the menu.