the other white meat

Something happened. My first instinct is to blame Erol, who has replaced my mother as the reason for everything that is wrong with my life. Truth be told I have a pretty direct connection for why what happened is his fault, but, seeing as how he's never up in my corner of the blogosphere anymore, it hardly seems worth the passive-aggression required to click "Publish Post." I can't quite muster the motivation. I've lost my will to irritate. The situation is bleak.

But back to "something."

Erin's in town. Wednesday morning we decided to play tennis. Short story shorter, we watched like 4 hours of Project Runway on the couch. I know, I know, I'm a vapid, mindless girl and an indiscriminate consumer of almost literally any crap someone dreams up, tapes and airs on Bravo. Project Runway is one of those programs that reminds me that I'm Every Girl Ever. Shut up, though, 'cause I frieking love that show and, if you're reading my blog, chances are extremely high that I know where you sleep. I will eat your babies, b*tch!

Again with the digressing. Sorry.

There are essentially only 2 commercials that air during Project Runway: (1) BlueFly.com and (2) eHarmony/Match.com/Chemistry.com. Two words, one thought: hang me. The BlueFly thing doesn't offend me as much as the dating sites. Mostly it just makes me sad that I fit into that demographic.

Only single women are home on Wednesday nights watching this show, said some faceless advertising whiz. I know they're single women because the only 13 men watching it are watching with their girlfriends... or boyfriends. We're going to make a fortune selling advertising space to online dating sites. B*tchin'!

That's fine. I get it. Make your money, *ssholes.

Erin thought it would be fun to review my matches for free on Match.com. I didn't. I thought it would be fun to watch Project Runway and maybe, I don't know, Google the obscure cultural references Michael Kors makes when he describes the outfits. She got the computer first and filled out a profile under my name.

What color are your eyes? What do you like better, cats or dogs? Who's your ultimate celebrity dreamboat date??

I don't know, Erin. I'm not doing this. Hey, who the hell is Carmen Miranda?

She figures it out. 20 pages of questions later, she's all done. We check out the site which is a little bit fun in the way Facebook was when it first started. I mean, it's kind of like you get to walk through everyone's houses. Except they're really lonely, socially awkward houses. It gets kind of creepy after a while. We lose interest. We move on with our lives.

The next night we see Cat. The Match.com thing comes up in conversation.

Oh, Kato, I forgot to tell you! said Erin. You were rejected from Match.com! Yeah, I got an email today. They don't want you.

... Pre-jected. Again. But this time, by the entire online dating community. You have got to be kidding me. I mean, not even "You have no matches" -- "You're not invited to even look for matches... Date-ability FAIL." And again, I didn't even want you guys! Rejection, completely out of nowhere, from someone I didn't even want! You know what, I don't need this. You guys can go off and have your super-special dates and meet people based on interests instead of by common levels of alcohol consumption and then you have creepy Internet-based babies and lie and tell all your friends you met through your college's alumni network. I'll be at the SPCA, picking up more cats. Jerks.

So I guess it's official -- nobody wants me. Everybody hates me. ... Guess I'll go eat worms. On the upside, when my friends get married they don't have to worry about a Plus One for me. Although they should probably still count on having enough booze for two.