The OKCupid Chronicles – An Introduction
AN INTRODUCTION OF SORTS
There is something wrong with me. When I walk into a dive bar and am greeted by the smell of puke & PBR, the montage of flannels and black beanies leaves only one thought in my head:
I WANT YOUR BEARD BURN ALL OVER ME.
I am a grown-ass woman. I have two jobs. I have my own, sweet fucking studio apartment. I have health insurance. I have a killer resume. I have a savings account. I have a goddamn OkCupid profile. I am winning at life, not by a lot, but I am winning.
So why the fuck does the sight of some unemployed, un-showered douchebag exiting the bathroom with a vacant stare and white ’round his nostrils make me want to have unprotected sex on a couch somewhere? A bike lock in a Chrome bag makes my panties drop. If you tell me that you can’t afford to buy me a drink, but would be stoked if I could, like, buy you a Hamm’s or a shot of Jack or something, I might be into it. Let’s be real, I am probably all about it
It’s not that I have no morals, because I do, it’s just that I am one of THOSE GIRLS.
I date dudes in bands. And DJs. And bartenders. And dudes who went to art school (preferably, those who dropped out of art school to pursue a career in making coffee). I date dudes who cannot afford to take me on dates, and if they could afford to take me on a date, would probably use that money to buy beer and drugs.
I have been that girl since I kissed my first punk rocker in leather pants and a bullet belt. I have an arsenal of Mix CD with hand-drawn covers and Bright Eyes B-sides. I have a restraining order. I have Polaroids of myself making out with various ex-boyfriends. I am about three steps away from having some dude’s name tattooed on a part of my body.
BUT…
I’m done. No, seriously, I’m done. To be honest, a part of it is that most of the dudes I’m attracted to when I walk into a dive bar, I have already made out with. Maybe. Ok, probably. Or at least they are good friends or roommates with some dude I dated 
summer ’07 – or have slept with one of my girlfriends. San Francisco is a tiny, and very slutty, little city. I know, because I have done my part to make it that way. Regardless, I have paid my fucking dues. I have done my time posted up at Delirium, and Hemlock, and Pop’s, and most other bars that offer a dollar beer. I have convinced a large portion of the female, hipster population of San Francisco to hate me. (I’m sorry, I didn’t know that you used to date, and that you still love him or whatever. Also, please don’t hurt me.)
The point is: I’M A GROWN-ASS WOMAN. I am beginning to realize that the fact that you have that one limited release EP on vinyl does not mean that you are THE ONE. In fact, that might be the only thing going for you, and unfortunately that just isn’t enough for me to go home with you, let alone try to date you.
I’m sorry, but if you can’t afford to pay your phone bill, I don’t think we should hang out. I know you can, like, @ reply me on twitter to arrange a time and place to meet up, but later, after you’ve called your drug dealer from my number, and he won’t stop calling to harass me about the money you owe him, I’m gonna be sort of bummed out.
Similarly, if you are like, staying on your friend’s couch for awhile until your unemployment kicks in, I’m not into it. I know that he doesn’t mind if we have sex in his living room. Even better, I know that you really appreciate it if you can, like, crash at my place for the weekend. But I’m just going to have to say no. You being hungover here is seriously getting in the way of me eating candy alone while watching Law & Order SVU. Please leave.
I’m not saying that I’m done with scumbags, because I’m not. Scumbags are my bread & butter. My scummy dude friends are my everything, and I gladly play wing-woman so they can bag bitches a few years away from being as bitter & jaded as myself. I am, essentially, a scumbag myself. I’m just saying that I am done dating scumbags. I’ve put in too many long, painful years of “romantic” benders and bar-bathroom hookups, it’s high time someone actually took me to dinner or bought me a drink. I don’t know if I could handle it if a guy bought me flowers, but I really hope that I can get to the point where that sort of thing doesn’t make me cry til I hyperventilate. Hence, I am forgoing the bars and turning to the internet. And if I know anything, it’s that shit’s gonna get weird.
READ MORE of THE OKCUPID CHRONICLES: You Should Message Me If…