The despair has reached a critical level, ladies and gentlemen. It has gotten so far that I am actually looking in the other direction and pretending not to notice that my friend is trying to find someone to set me up with. She's trying to get someone that she's seeing to find me a guy, and as far as I could tell out of the corner of my eye someone has been found. Now, I'm fairly positive this is some autistic individual with pyromania issues but like I said, despair has reached a critical level.

She has tried to set me up with someone twice before. The first time I actually went along with it and went on the date, and consider that date to this day to be the absolute worst date I have ever been on. The second time I entertained the idea so far as to see who they would come up with, and then I axed the plan there and it never went any further. I think the problem is that I am such an incomparably nice girl, that she is asking these boyfriends of hers to find me a "nice guy". And as we all know, if you ask a guy to find a "nice guy" they will come up with some hairbrain process of figuring out who is "nice". "Nice" to men means "has not been out boning (or trying to bone) everyone in town and shows little to no tendencies towards such behavior". Which is fair enough. Only they make no distinction between people's motivations and the reasons WHY they aren't going around trying to stick it in everything but an electrical socket. Only one reason is the "right" one, that is that the man is of too high a moral calibre to consider such actions and is actually a "nice guy". Various others exist however, such as autism, depression, closet homosexuality...etc. So, long story short, men will usually hear "nice guy" and come up with "Hmm. Eugene hasn't left his room in four months... I'll bet he's a nice guy". So I end up on a date with Eugene and his talking hand puppet.

The one blind date she set me up on that I did go on replays regularly in my nightmares. I won't go into the gruesome details too much, but lets just say the guy showed up in carrot pants, a leather bomber jacket and a ski mask, made random comments about my derriere, crooned love songs into my ear, wore huge black horn rimmed glasses during the movie and demanded to sit with his arm around me, forcing me to sit hunched over during all 3 hours of A Beautiful Mind. A movie whose main character my date seemed to have suspiciously much in common with. Enough said.

I ran into him in a nightclub some weeks later where he demonstrated how limber he was. Yes, I said limber. He was so limber that he was able to bend into a position which enabled him to perform oral sex on himself. And then he sang some more love songs.

So you can appreciate the incredible bravery I'm displaying by actually considering being set up on another blind date. But times are hard and as they say, any port in a storm.

I don't know though, sometimes I wonder what the point even is. Me and my friend through scientific methods determined that my ideal guy would have to have slicked back hair and a clearly defined six pack, but he would also have to be part Harry Potter. And if I may shamelessly add, it wouldn't hurt if he was a significant part Owen Wilson either. But having said that, I honestly can't even dream up the perfect billionaire movie star love God that I would choose over a certain individual. Even the dreary serial killer blind dates seem even drearier when you know who the person is who makes everything come together for you and look like fate, the person who embodies everything you could wish for in a friend, lover, husband and a companion, the person who is everything you could've dreamt up on your own and all the perfect other stuff you would never even have thought of. I don't know, it's always difficult to get excited about second best.

But oh well! You have to cowboy up and move on, leave it all behind you and put away your hopes that a U-Haul truck will run over his wife in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Although I was never even commited to that idea. I'm a christian. I don't wish for such ghastly things. I was far more attracted to the idea that three angels would appear to him and tell him all the little things about me that he missed, all the stuff he could've (and would've) loved if he'd paid me some more attention and he would realize that I was his one true love forever, Amen. I found that to be a much more viable option. Uhm, but anyway... I've gotten ahead of myself here.

Well. Anyway. Enough with this outrageous explosion of the overly sentimental.

In other news, I'm getting fatter again. Those who know me will know that I am normally a frighteningly skinny individual who regularly plays her ribs like the mandolin at gatherings, but alas, my trainspotter days have drawn to a close as I am beginning to far more resemble Dom DeLuise than Kate Moss. Although it has to be said, in all fairness, I never did resemble Kate Moss to begin with but I digress. I was going to go to the gym tonight, but I was stopped dead in my tracks on my way out the door when I took one look at my tennis shoes and realized they are nowhere near up to par. You can't take your first steps towards a new life in crappy shoes, obviously, so my gym trip was put on hold until further notice. I will have to go shopping here soon for new shoes while I can still get around normally and don't have to be lifted out through the roof by crane. Which means, it will have to be this week.