memoir

He was much better than the man before.

Over the years Mark had become friends with all of her friends. Unlike the-man-before, everyone liked him. Recently he even began to play the bass in her best friend, Jake’s, band. Jake liked him. And because Jake held a certain deference for authority of all kinds, most especially academic things, Jake asked Mark many questions about Literature and Shakespeare and teaching. Aida, her best girlfriend, thought Mark was lovely and very kind — if perhaps a bit repressed. Aida believed all people were repressed, of course, the classic psychoanalyst.

A good person, all her friends said, which she knew.

Her family loved him, too. Her father, who must have seen a lot of himself in Mark—the two of them professors, both thoughtful and generally content, if anxious and sometimes awkward and misunderstood—  and loved him a great deal, always hunting Mark down to ask very specific questions regarding 17th and 18th Century Literature and to talk in general about how Mark’s courses were going at the college. More than once her father and stepmother brought home United Kingdom-themed gifts: t-shirts with slogans about Cake or Shakespeare, or spatulas decorated with British flags. Not that Mark baked or cooked. They just enjoyed thinking of him and picking up thematic items at various stores throughout whatever journey they had embarked upon.

Her sister and mother enjoyed Mark’s tendency to pose dramatically for photographs and insisted he had the cutest dimples, an attribute she stubbornly refused to acknowledge, calling them wrinkles instead, inspiring the playful and patient rolling of Mark’s eyes and a barrage of counter-arguments from her female family members.

Her mother asked Mark how to brew the perfect cup of tea, the order in which milk and tea and sugar should be combined. Her stepfather never missed an opportunity to take Mark out for a hike, not that Mark was a physical man or particularly liked hiking, at least not the uphill sort, but Mark always went along, knowing her stepfather enjoyed the time, and her stepfather always took her aside afterwards to tell her what a decent person Mark seemed to be.

The family loved his accent, and when visiting, they wandered around the apartment repeating unfamiliar sounding words and phrases amongst each other: bAHsil and toMAHto; Would-do and Jolly-good.

He was not like the-man-before. Not at all. Unlike the-man-before, who was dapper, in fitted suit and tie, Mark sometimes wore cheap H&M ugly-colored sweaters that did not go well with his shoes. Bald at 33 and professorially soft, Mark had very different qualities. For instance, she loved that you would never know how much Mark knew about a topic, how long he might have studied it. He never needed to make a point of things like that.

Discerning and opinionated about the music he bought, the movies and plays he watched, Mark did not particularly need to impose his views on others. He wasn’t one to focus on the discord. No matter how misinformed, herself included, no matter how much Mark knew better and otherwise, he never made a person feel small. It wasn’t his constitution. He was generous. Inherently curious. She wished she was naturally that way, too.

The-man-before flaunted measurable indicators of success and prowess, all easily identifiable, serving to distract her from less visible, but more significant, characteristics. A bright young litigator, partner-track at a respected firm, Thomas was crafty with his tongue. He was handsome, athletic, and rented a lovely apartment in Old City before buying a gorgeous Twin Victorian on a nice block near the university. There, he lived with his young daughter and two cats, one named Pants and one named Guido, names she would have chosen herself, had she been creative enough to have thought of them. Thomas, the-man-before, was full of surprise and energy. He was clever and often made her laugh. She liked watching him work on his motorcycle and loved that he could build things with his hands.

She realized only later that she had failed to see what was important. It was her own vanity that blinded her to it. She felt too good taking him to the office holiday party or to a friend’s birthday engagement. She felt too much pride sharing photos of household improvements. She enjoyed too much creating holiday cards displaying photo collages of their handsome lives.

What was important, she realized much too late, was what surfaced only when they were alone. Always percolating, it seemed, but concealed behind these handsome, observable things — at least to her. Or by her. She’s never been quite sure.

What was important was that in the end there was nothing she could do to satisfy him. Nothing she could do to make him stop. What was important was that each day, as she worked too hard to understand it all, to do and change what she could, becoming all the more entangled until she forgot herself.

As it happened, walls and doors shut so slowly she didn’t notice until she was breathless, until she became too tired and too small in that Twin Victorian that had become her home.

“Congratulations,” or whatever.

She felt happy one evening walking home.

She held a large paper bag in her arms and thought: This is what it feels like to do something for someone else. This is what it feels like to love them.

She stopped at the store to get India Pale Ale because earlier that day Mark forwarded an email to her that contained his annual professional review along with a note he wrote specifically to her. The review was very positive and was written by the senior professor who observed Mark’s class a few weeks before. His note said: I am not the worst person in the world. She knew he was relieved and happy.

She knew, also, that he loved India Pale Ale. She spoke to the attractive shopkeeper who was a hipster well versed on topics such as novelty beer and who suggested a variety of specialty IPAs. She asked a lot of questions because she did not drink beer and when she chose a particular assortment, the shopkeeper told her it was a good gift. If someone got me this, he said, I’d be very happy. She was inexplicably proud to have this stranger’s approval and happily walked home with a six-pack of unusual and fancy IPAs, including a seasonal, two locals and three with different types of hops to compare.

As she walked through the park she thought about the note she would write for the beer and also the note she would write for the front door.

A few months before Mark’s positive review, she received her own critique in class. It was her first critique ever as a writing student and she had been very anxious. Every Monday night from 7:00-10:00 p.m. over the course of ten weeks, she’d had flu symptoms.

Her skin all blotchy-red, sticky, was embarrassed to exist or be associated with her. Her brain was distracted with worry that her mouth would say something ridiculous, give the rest of her away so everyone would realize how not-talented, how not-smart she actually was, meaning she would have to finally accept it was actually, really true.

Mark, who had encouraged her to take the course in the first place. He’d said: You should keep at this. Truly. after he read a few pages of something or other. It made her feel lighter. She thought: this is what ‘Possibility’ must feel like. It was a good feeling. Like love.

Mark sat in the living room on the orange puffy chair with blue diamond shapes late that night, reading the New Yorker, waiting to hear how it went. Filled with such an enormous relief, she was compelled to dance from their entryway into and through the living room to Mark, making up some moves, which ended up being some combination of the running man and ninja-like kicks. And to answer the unspoken question hovering in the air between them, she sang the first thing that came to her:

I’m not
the worst person
in the world.

Which she later realized was likely inspired by a lyric her good friend Jake wrote:

I’m the
greatest singer
in the world.

The line felt so beautiful, so sad. Lonely, she thought. And she loved it.

To say she was an awful singer would give her too much credit. She could not be called a singer at all. Nor a dancer. Perhaps because of this, the extemporaneous song and dance made Mark laugh.

He knew she was relieved and happy. It seemed her classmates did not hate what she made, she told him. And from then on whenever either one of them was relieved and happy or had accomplished anything of any sort, one or the other of them said: I’m not the worst person in the world.

Now, there she was, walking through the trees on the winding paths through their park, the dappled sunlight coating the late afternoon, thinking about what she should write. On the front door she thought she might post a notice of eviction:

EVICTION NOTICE:

To: The worst person in the world.


(All those who are not the worst person in the world may enter).

As for a note on the beer—it’d be scrawled in black marker on plain white paper, she thought, hastily taped to the six-pack, as if one could scarcely bother to take the time to congratulate him. That would be funny.

“Congratulations,”
Or Whatever.

It would say.

And so, on the day Mark received a good review, she grabbed two sheets of plain paper from the printer’s tray and rummaged through the kitchen drawer to find a large black Sharpie. She felt good and purposeful and thought: This is what it feels like to love someone.

On the first sheet of plain paper, she wrote her “Congratulations.” On the second she scrawled out an eviction notice that would not evict either of them.

Later that night when he got home she would hear the silence as he paused outside the front door, his keys settling in the doorknob for a moment, and his familiar “Ha!”

She would almost hear his smile.

Heartpartment.

Mark gave her cards. 

All the time for every occasion from every conceivable source. 

For instance, once after getting over a cold, Mark gave her a card signed by his “Throat, Nose and Chest,” thanking her for taking care of them the weekend before. 

On another occasion, because she had bought him a vintage 1940’s messenger bag— one much nicer than his, six years old and falling to pieces—she received a thank you card signed “Regards, the 1940s.” 

Once Mark left a card on her pillow: “On behalf of all trees everywhere, can you stop doing such wonderful things?” 

On the week of her 34th birthday, “Entertainment TM” sent her a series of seven cards, one each day, all outlining parts of “The 7 Wonders of Erin’s Birthday,” (Tagline: The pyramids ain’t got shit on this TM). 

Each card was typographically decorated by him, because at some point she happened to take a typography course. She learned things, but Mark always picked up on things so easily. And from mere end-of-day, how-was-your-day conversations.  It did frustrate her slightly. She often sat at her desk paralyzed, unable to put what she learned into action, yet here were Mark’s cards. They were pretty remarkable. Especially for a Literature Professor.

The first Christmas they shared at his family’s home in London, Mark assembled a dossier outlining the Characters, Scenes, and Acts she should expect upon arrival.  He drafted ten pages of detailed information regarding familial structure, potential inter-familial intrigue and drama, and probable events. All this because she was so nervous to meet everyone-at-once, while staying in such close, unknown quarters. The document was sent to her from “The M.H. Festive Consortium in partnership with EAD Foundation for the Entertainment of EAD.”  MH and EAD of course being their initials. 

Much earlier, before they lived together, he once slipped her a card with keys to his “heartpartment.” 

He was very creative, very funny.

Sometimes when she received these notes and novels, she thought he must love her very, very much.

It wasn’t until much later, sitting on the sofa, reading through stacks of cards and notes, that she realized how little she had actually appreciated them back then. She hadn’t appreciated them enough, not as much as she should have, at all. 

The Curtain.

She agreed to refrain from commenting on everything he did all the time and he agreed to try and say Fuck You. The counselor said it was interesting. She was a person who liked to disagree—yet tended to make it difficult for others to disagree with her. Meanwhile, he was a person that wanted most desperately to avoid any disagreement whatsoever.

That Saturday when he was installing the new curtain hardware, she decided to leave the apartment. It was a preventive measure so he would not feel be so anxious about his performance, and also so she did not direct his every movement — a measure to contain herself.

She went to the local coffee shop, returning to the living room several hours later to find one curtain rod hanging askew from the side of the window frame, the other not installed at all. He sat on the new speckled couch with a computer on his lap.

She shouldn’t have asked him about the status of things or what he was doing on the computer while installing curtains, but when she did, he said he was researching how to mount this or that piece, which was giving him trouble. At which point she looked at the rods and suggested doing x, which seemed an obvious solution, although she didn’t say so.

She knew it was obvious to her only because her father taught her things like how to use a hammer and nail, how to spackle and paint, how to change oil or a flat tire on the highway. She was lucky. His father had not taught him these things. She wasn’t sure if his father never tried or if his father tried in a way that made it very unpleasant to learn. Likely both, she concluded. It was also true he was not so interested in learning these kinds of things, the kinds of things he was not immediately good at. That was also part of it, she thought, and she imagined him, sometimes at least, pouting during his father’s lessons because Mark very much liked to know things, be the boss of things, just like his father.

She also didn’t like to admit certain things, of course. Like the fact she was at times just like her mother, sharing an overwhelming need to control everything and be correct. She, like her mother, preferred everything aligned.

In any case, she didn’t actually say her solution was obvious, but it was likely her tone gave her away. She often said things without words at all. In fact, despite disliking dramatics, she could be quite theatrical. It was true she had very little control over her facial expressions or tones or body language. She was not a good actor at all. She was communicative whether she intended or not. It was also likely she intended it more often than she understood.

Nonetheless, when she suggested he do x, he said her idea was good. She wanted to leave the living room again, give him space to work, but she couldn’t stay out of the apartment forever so she sat in the orange puffy chair to work on her computer as he resumed. This, his project to complete, for once, so she didn’t have to. Allow him to contribute to their home, she thought, when she initially conceived of the task. Now, in the midst of it all, it did not even occur to her to get up and help him.

It was then she noticed he was using the yellow kitchen stool, which was too short. She suggested he use the small ladder the landlord had conveniently left in the hallway so he might gain some leverage, and he said yes that was a good idea, which she already knew.

It was the way in which he moved in space trying not to take up any, adjusting to things he shouldn’t adjust to, moving himself around objects that ought to instead move around him. It was the way he let things govern him. It was the way he didn’t move the world.

She watched from the puffy chair as he stood in the small area between the planter and the end table and the couch and the radiator, trying to fit the ladder and himself in that tiny, empty space. She watched him bang around and turn in circles until she couldn’t stand it. It was hilarious and disturbing and much too symbolic even if the counselor had said directly she shouldn’t catastrophize things by generalizing them unnecessarily. Like the way she thought his particular method of using the ladder in the living room illustrated something about his personhood and made her wonder how they would ever raise children or decide where to live, how they’d accomplish anything really, if they just stood in one spot turning in circles, banging into things, adjusting to spaces that were too small, not moving the world.

What worried her was that she was the only one who worried.

Despite her agreement to refrain from commenting on everything he did all the time, she proposed he move the end table, planter, and couch to make enough room for himself so that he might accomplish the task. Why don’t you move the furniture, Mark? You can just move it. She said. She laughed only because it helped quell her ever-increasing anxiety.

And so, discouraged and having broken her part of the agreement at this point anyway, she added that, for reasons beyond just being able to move about, in the future he might consider moving things before starting projects like this, thereby preventing other items from being damaged. For instance, the brand-new couch, which, she noted, he kept slamming with the ladder.

He did not say Fuck You.

A story about a girl.

This is a story about a girl in Brooklyn.

This girl I know, when she was a freshman in high school, she didn’t go to prom because she thought she’d have had to sex with whoever it was that she went with. That was enough to stop her. She had no idea about sex, or what she was supposed to do, or any sense of her own body or that her body might enjoy it. She had no curiosity about it whatsoever, or so she thought, she recognized only a strong desire to avoid. Once, in sophomore year, when she refused a boy, telling him her parents wouldn’t let her go to prom, which was not at all true, he got hold of her sandal and threw it on the roof.

It was worth it, she thought, on her way home, her foot pressing the down the clutch, as she shifted into second gear, shoeless.

And when her first boyfriend, age 16 just like her— a redheaded boy who drove a pristine 1966 Red Mustang, who played on the football and soccer teams, who she liked well enough — asked to meet her after school, she was sure it was because he’d changed his mind since the day before. She dreaded it all day, but met him in the school parking lot at 3:05 pm, and then drove home feeling ridiculous, having found out her jock boyfriend just wanted see her and say hi before practice, not, as she had thought, break up with her. Why would he want to break up with her? He just asked her to go steady 12 hours ago.

Why would he want to break up with her? He just asked her to go steady 12 hours ago.

She let him feel her up out in one of the pecan orchards his family owned, blanket sprawled across the Mustang’s hood, a full sky of stars visible between branches and leaves. Girls were supposed to do this with boyfriends. She doesn’t remember pleasure or joy or excitement or desire or curiosity. Was it like that for other girls? she wondered. From what she could tell, it seemed other girls felt excited to go about it. Curious and playful. Giggly. Interested. Why weren’t they afraid?

In college, this girl never seemed to have a boyfriend during the school year. She remembered winter nights alone at the kitchen table, books sprawled out, the house dark and quiet, blanket over her lap. It felt like magic, the girl thought, looking back, how each spring or summer she’d find herself out somewhere in the evening with a boyfriend; the next winter back with her books and blanket, alone, dark and quiet house. Did she want it that way? She must have. It was too perfectly timed. She was focused on the Personality Psychology Research Ph.D. program at Toronto University. On whatever would get her there.

It felt like magic, the girl thought, looking back, how each spring or summer she’d find herself out somewhere in the evening with a boyfriend; the next winter back at the table with her books and blanket, alone in the dark and quiet house. Did she want it that way? She must have. It was too perfectly timed. She was focused on the Psychology Ph.D. program at Toronto University. On whatever would get her there.

Which was interesting in retrospect because this girl was a poor researcher in regard to so many human things: sex and men and dating. And in regard to her friend’s experiences, which would have been useful to know for reference. She rarely asked or confided. And of course, by extension, in regard to herself. Overwhelmed by thoughts and questions. Uncertain how to address them. Unable to conceive of the state of knowing, and certainly more comfortable without possibility of mistake or rejection.

It was true this girl’s first boyfriend in college, the older boy next door, who saw her studying at the kitchen table on weekend nights, yelled through his own kitchen window that she ought to be getting out until finally she let him take her — that boy dumped her in large part for her apparent lack of sexual curiosity. Fear of it. It must have been strange for him, already graduated from college, to encounter her. Naive, young and staid, from a small town with no buses, now enrolled in one of the most liberal universities, full of Birkenstocks and drugs of all sorts and gays and lesbians and third world feminist courses.

The girl’s most embarrassing moment remains the fact that at age 18 she brought her childhood retainers to his house the first night she slept over. She recalls laying next to him staring at the ceiling after making out with him, debating whether it was time to put them on, trying to predict, based on no data whatsoever, whether they’d be kissing more later that night. It was, after all, her first sleepover with a male. Did people kiss later, too?

Looking back, she was thankful she didn’t have childhood head-gear. It could have been worse.

Why You Should Get To Know Me.

I have to write a personal statement. Like I’m applying to graduate school? Kill me now.

Where’d the drop downs go?

First up: “Why you should get to know me.”

So far, three versions:

Why You Should Get To Know Me, Version 1:

As opposed to reading a great book? Or watching an Errol Morris or Clint Eastwood movie? Going to see a play or concert, or hanging out with people you already know you like? Well—I know what I’d be doing instead.

(That’s good right? Like the guy learns what I like to do, while at the same time, I also have a little humility. Not too presumptuous. Is mentioning Errol Morris obnoxious? I wanted to put Herzog and Morris just for the truth of it, but I think that could be alienating maybe and I don’t want to attract an elitist-intellectual-asshole or seem like one. I love Bill Murray too. Not that he’s stupid.) 

I have a lot of interests of my own and I get pretty excited about them. But equally, I’m eager to learn about things other people are interested in. I’m no neuroscientist, but I’m smart enough. Generally very fond of and seek out, well, I guess the stuff most people do: movies, music, theater, (some) opera, (some) classical music, art museums, food, drink, etc. I’m not a cultural snob—I like 40 Year Old Virgin, Zoolander—lots. I’m a fan of Bill Murray and jokes that involve tripping or falling down stairs. Physical Comedy=yes. I’m good at or at least enjoy decoupaging stuff. Sometimes it even sells on Etsy. I exercise, but not compulsively. I have my own thoughts about things. I don’t take credit for things that aren’t mine to take credit for. It’s possible that on occasion (ahem) I’ll try to convince you I’m right. Or ignore the fact I’m wrong. Probably both.

(Like: I’m my own person and generally happy. I like other people who are their own person. I’m not an anorexic and I like myself enough to take care of myself. I’m not a total snob or a hick without any taste. That’s what I’m trying to convey).

Version 2:

Me. I love my job (design, children’s publishing, not book covers, corporate branding). I have friends who are very dear to me, some of whom have been my friends for a long, long time. I’m from a small town where, despite being excruciatingly shy, I held the titles of Future Farmers of America Sweetheart, President, Reporter and Historian and was State Champion of both Citrus and Horse Judging. Third in the “world” in Horse Judging, I might add, the “world” consisting of some town in Mexico and the USA. First/only time I’ve been in Dallas/Fort Worth. All this to say: I very much appreciate this city, but sometimes miss the dirt.

I have a nice family, one that’s definitely dysfunctional enough to be interesting. My parents are divorced and remarried (to other people): On one side: academia, public television and public service; on the other, a house on the fifth hole, a mammoth-size TV, usually blaring Fox news. It makes for spirited conversation.

My friends tell me I’m quirky. I don’t know what that means exactly. They also say I am one of the most active people they know, but I think that’s because they don’t happen to be around when I’m not doing anything. I do have a lot of interests. I’m always taking a class on something.

I have opinions. For example: I think someone should sue Bath and Body Works for creating that machine that blows lotion fragrance outside their stores. Seriously—isn’t it public space? Plus it’s always some massively sweet smell, melon or peach. Just a thought. And I’m open to your two cents. Like if you think we should get vigilante and counter with our own fragrance-machine, that’s cool. What fragrance? Hm...

 (Family/friend version with a bit more of my sense of humor (too unkind to unleash on internet strangers? some of whom I might like to actually go on a date with?). That is the point of this. Right. Do I just seem weird? Also: been near a Bath & Body Works recently? I’m serious about that machine.)

Version 3:

I love cornbread. The sweet kind though. Not the kind with the peppers. If you gave me the kind with the peppers, I’d be grateful for the gesture. But, I wouldn’t lie and say I love it and eat it and suffer and never tell you, so that you just kept trying to be awesomer by bringing me all this cornbread I don’t like. I’m at least that well adjusted.

I can listen and talk. I’m thoughtful. I have a sometimes-crude sense of humor. I enjoy my job. I think most things require asking a lot of questions. Or should. I wish I asked more of them. I appreciate people that do. I like to try new things, even when I’m afraid (terrified?)—or, actually, I don’t like to try frightening new things, but I do stuff anyway because I think it’s probably good for me.

(I’m a decent/thinking person. I think that’s the gist of this one. Kinda middle of the road version.)

Okay, so—which one of me would you date?

Kate Moss

I chose Athletic because Slim/Petite is as slender as you can get. There’s no Kate-Moss option in the drop down to contextualize Slim/Petite. This is New York City. I know I’m thin but I rather my date isn’t totally disappointed. I don’t want to witness the moment he walks up to me at the bar and finds out I’m Erin, see some “Oh-I-thought-you’d-be-Kate-Moss-Skeletal-but-you’re-Just–Thin,” expression washing over his disappointed face.

Women who choose Athletic, I’ve been told, are often overweight. But I think it’s possible the guys who told me that are overly judgmental slash ridiculous. All their girlfriends are total waifs. They probably don’t know what overweight is.

Counterpoint: I’d up my chances of actually getting dates by choosing Slim/Petite, right? While depressing, perhaps also optimistic?As if the guys looking for emaciated ladies would meet me, Just Thin, and, inspired by my incredible wit and charm, make the exception? Shrug to themselves, figure—Hey? Why not see what dating a Just Thin Girl is like? I’d like to be an optimist. And still, I don’t get why a person would oversell themselves on their profile, because your date is definitely going to find out and you’re going to have to watch their facial expression as they do. Excruciating!

I think New York City needs its own drop-downs. Seriously. Body Type: Emaciated/Williamsburg Skinny, Kate Moss Soho Skeletal, California Slim, French Svelte, American Slim-Petite, Athletic, Average, Anything More than Average/a Little Extra Padding, including: Thick, Generously Proportioned, Great Personality, Will Travel/Open to Moving Inland.

I guess a guy can see my photo anyway. Body shot.

Drop Downs.

It’s the (non)choices in the form of drop downs. That’s what’s getting to me.

Interested In: Friendship, Play, Dating, Serious Relationship

Gender: Female, male

Age Between: 30-34

Live In: Brooklyn

Relocate? Yes, No, Maybe 

Body Type: Athletic, Average, Slim/Petite, a Little Extra Padding, Thick, Generously proportioned, Prefer not to say

Hair Color: Blond, Red, Black, Brown, Other

Hair Length: Long

Eye Color: Blue

Race/Ethnicity: Asian, Black/African, East Indian, Hispanic/Latino, Middle Eastern, Native American, Pacific Islander, White/Caucasian

Languages: English

Education: School of Life, High School, College, Master’s Degree, PhD, Post-Doctoral

Marital Status: Single, Married, Divorced, Separated

Occupation: Graphic Designer

Income: Rather Not Say

Have Children: No

Want Children: Yes, No, Maybe, Prefer not to say

Pets: Likes

Religion: Atheist, Agnostic, Spiritual, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, Jehovah’s Witness, Shinto, Sikh, Other, Not Religious, Neither Religious nor Spiritual, Prefer not to say

Star Sign: Leo 

Glasses Or Contacts: Neither

p.s. Ok, can I just say: I can’t believe people actually choose Play for what they’re Interested In. I’m repressed. Or they’re gross. I’m repressed. Also: who is here for Friendship? Really? Friendship? I imagine all the sex offenders choosing Looking for: Friendship.

“You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right.”

My online dating screen name: ilipsez.

Please don’t tell me it’s stupid because that’s what it is and I can’t change it now. I like the definition: “The omission from speech or writing of a word or words that are understood from the context.” Shared meaning, the spaces in-between. I like the idea that an ellipses can exist. Optimistic.

Am I being too intellectual? If so at least I have company—I couldn’t have “ellipsis” because other people already had it and who wants to be ellipses_twohundredtwenty? So I used the phonetic.

Oh, and, my headline: “You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right.”—You know, from When Harry Met Sally. I love Marie, Sally’s friend, who dates that married man and is repeatedly disappointed as he continues not to leave his wife. I love how Sally, and all her friends, keep telling her, over and over: No one thinks he’s EVER going to leave her, Marie. And how Marie just says You’re right, you’re right I know you’re right and then keeps dating him and keeps being disappointed, straight-up admitting to the problem out loud, implying some level of self-awareness, but then continuing to behave precisely the same way? I guess that’s what denial is. Nuts. Who hasn’t done this? No, I’m serious. I challenge you to find that person. We all do this, which is why I like the quote. And why it goes so well with my screen name. Some things do connect us all.

Mostly, When Harry Met Sally—killer movie. I should re-watch it tonight.

Oh, another headline idea I had: “If you want a guarantee, buy a toaster.” Eastwood! But might seem noncommittal or avoidant or something?

A Screenname, A Headline.

First, I need a screen name, a log-in.

One that’s great because everyone will see. Okay, not everyone, but here’s hoping a bunch of guys on the Onion Personals do. A screen name. For my profile. Something either totally ambiguous or something funny. Not something like: moving4wd (that’s just sad), not anything like sexy1 (ew) or swankkat434 (why?).

A screen name. And then I need a catchy headline, just a sentence or phrase. One that’s witty but not too witty, self-aware but not meta-obnoxious, maybe has a reference, but one that isn’t too pop-fun-woo-hoo-party-gurrrrrlllll or too academic stick-up-your-ass-boring. One that makes people look, obviously, but isn’t one-foot-in-and-one-foot-out, nothing like I’m Supposed to Write a Headline. That’s just a truly pussy thing to write. Who would date that person? Also it can’t have those kinds of words—nothing like ‘pussy’ that might give the wrong impression or totally offend. I guess that’s obvious. It should be a little edgy but not so edgy that it seems sarcastic or disingenuous. You know? A screen name. A headline.

Been checking out some guy’s profile headlines for fodder. I read this one the other day: This is a headline that is trying to grab your attention. Which, first of all, has too many words. I could cut three right now. Also: uh—not that creative. But it does grab your attention (or mine anyhow). It’s the word “grab”. Grab is a great word. It sounds like what it is. Like crooked. Crook-kid. Grab.

Headline Pressure Too Much To Take 

For a reason I can’t explain, this makes me laugh. Headline. Pressure. Too Much. To Take… I can hear the pressure building.

Area Man Sure The Onion’s Server Must Be Down (Or Something). 

Hilarious. Hil-ar-ious! I want to steal this headline. I’m upset I didn’t think of it. Please date me.

Given up on a clever headline 

Wow. Great attitude. You’re already giving up? In that case I totally want go out with you tomorrow!

Ok, super judgmental, I know, but—seriously?

Nasty, Brutish, and Short 

I do like a Hobbes reference, but do I like a Hobbes man?

because nothing says intimacy like the internet 

Fun-ny. Sounds like an ad for cologne. A little negative, though, right? And also: fun-ny. See, this is where I’m attracted to a person that I should probably-definitely not date. I want to email him right now.