While I was out getting my ride cleaned up at the nearby self car wash, I noticed a couple behind me in an obnoxiously large pickup truck. The guy got out to get some change, so I glanced over to get a look at him. Fuzzy faced, sports cap on tight, shorts down to his kneecaps, and keys with a neckband so long it dragged across the ground as he approached the change machine. I couldn’t get a good look at the girl riding shotgun, but I could tell she was cute.

Normally, seeing a scum sucking scuzzbucket (apparently emulating Eminem or some other pasty white rapper wanna-be loser) like that with a girl would get me upset, but then I stepped back and took a deeper look here.

What was I getting upset about really? Because he had a girl, and I didn’t? But was it because no girl could ever want me, or was it simply because I had standards? Truthfully, I could go out right now and grab up some back alley ho that I could wrap my arm around and show off to all my friends if I really wanted to. But I wanted something better. I wasn’t content to have some two bit slut with the morals of a brain damaged monkey on crack in my life, just to prove that I could get a girl. I was looking for much more than that.

What’s really sad though is that even though I think my standards are reasonable enough, 80 percent of the single female population probably don’t measure up. Under ideal standards, 99.99 percent wouldn’t measure up, while the other .01 percent appear to live only in our dreams. Women today seem to vary from being skanks, whores, sluts, tramps, bimbolinas, etc., to being hellish female dogs spawned by Satan himself. Those who are godly, intelligent, kind and honest are an endangered species bordering on extinction, and even if I happen to come across one of them during my travels through life, there is usually some factor that would prevent me from pursuing them (like being married, for one). This is what our world has sadly has come to these days, and it is in this mess that I must somehow find the true girl of my dreams.

Yet as much as it would pain me to be alone, I recognize just how much MORE painful it would be to date a girl so obviously wrong for me, that to be with her would paradoxically make me feel even MORE alone and lost in the world.

It would seem impossible that I would ever meet anyone right for me, and yet despite the insurmountable odds I face here, I still have hope that she’s out there somewhere, a sweet and wonderful angel who is waiting and praying for me to come into her life soon. Call it delusion, insanity, or psychosis induced by food deprivation, but no matter what, this hope never seems to die. And for now, that will have to do as I fight to get my life in order again.

I think this video would aptly describe my mood lately.

“You can stand me up at the gates of hell, but I won’t back down!”

It was Uptown Girl’s birthday recently, so I decided to surprise her by having flowers delivered to her doorstep. I wanted to show her I was sincerely interested in her, and I admit I was kinda hoping the flowers would tug at her heart strings a little more too.

I got several text messages from her when she got them, so that’s encouraging. Nothing about me of course is normal, and if I hadn’t told her I was hearing impaired and hated using the phone, I’m sure she would have called instead. Trying to generate something solely via email with someone who is not much of an Internet person to begin with is, to put it mildly, a bit frustrating. Especially when that someone is so busy at times she barely has time to herself, let alone the time to email someone. I was going to have to call her in order to sustain things

I knew I was going to have to go out into the real world if I wanted to get somewhere with her, and even though she was understanding and was willing to take things slow, I couldn’t string her along forever.

So I began the process of improving my hygiene and my health. My experience so far though tells me this was not going to be a walk in the park for me. First I went out and bought some anti-acne facial wash to clean up my face a little. The net result was no change in my acne, but my lips began to shrivel up like I had swallowed a pound of alum. Even a week after I stopped using the wash my lips were still parched and crusty. I also had dried skin on my nose that still wouldn’t go away after applying several cans of vitamin E and aloe vera cream on it, a body wash whose pleasant odor dissipated five seconds after I got out of the shower, deodorant that gave my armpits rashes even though they contained “all natural” ingredients, nose and ear hair that even a weed whacker would have problems gutting, and perpetually sweaty palms that drive me so crazy I’m considering using a blow torch to keep them dry.

Cripes this was hard. It was like my own body was furiously plotting against me, determined to ensure I’d live out the rest of my days as an unwed hermit. Compounding things even more was the fact that I haven’t had a decent wardrobe in years, partly due to wearing a uniform on my job (thus vacating the need for any dressy attire) and my Homer Simpson shaped figure.

No wonder I’m so afraid to step outside the door. And now I have this beautiful and accomplished woman that I’ve somehow managed to get the attention of, but because my stupid ass wasn’t willing to wait and get my body under control first before I started seeding dating profiles halfway around the galaxy, I now have to deal with the possibility that I will completely humiliate myself and ruin my chances with a rare and decent girl, the likes of whom may come only once in this lifetime.

For whatever reason, I seem to be continuously pitted against insurmountable odds in my quest for a life (and some smoochies…. ok lots of smoochies). I can either toss in the towel and decide this is a war I can never win, or take it head on, Rocky style.

And I think if I do go down for the count, then I should at least go down swinging.

Rather than join the herd (and the scum sucking bottom feeders) at MySpace, I developed my own personalized space by formatting the “About Me” page in a MySpace style.

MySpace truly is… MY SPACE.