Dear Deidre, my arms are too long.

Hold up there, love.

I've been a sporadic user of dating websites over the past 5 years. I take my time, drop by, see if there's anything a little bit different out there, maybe drop someone a line. But I largely lurk like a Victorian prostitute in Whitechapel.

I've physcially met around 8 people via websites. 3 of them I'm still in contact with. 1 of them is one of my best friends.

Two people I've REALLY liked who I met to the extent of being obsessively lustful and envisaging all manner of possibilities but then it becomes weird. Ah lust - and it's mechanics of chemical business, blood flow, touching, giggling and voodoo.

I like touching things. Not to the extent where I develop callouses from the endless friction, but, certainly erring on the 'she-touches-too-much-stuff' side. Damn me and my stupid hands, because they get me into head trouble when that happens within intimacy and I shift into a dribbling spaniel with the infinitely wagging tail.

Uncool dribbling spaniel.

And I can't play games, because I'm rubbish at them. If I wanted to play psychological manipulation, I'd have to go out with someone who I didn't like that much, and keep their interest by simply not being that interested. True love.

As a romantic, I'm destined to die broken-hearted. The melancholy that plagues the romantic is the downside of the cosy ideal. I feel sad and heavy hearted that I'm single, as it'd be nice to have fun with someone who was quite cool a bit more often, but here's the problem - the cool never have time for the uncool. Phil Cool is the exception. Tragically, Phil, 56, has no friends because he has a tendency to 'anaconda' them whilst doing an impression of a swamp creature in social settings.

Uncool anaconda-juice corroded dribbling spaniel. Wow, metaphoric.

It's time to be as honest as - someone who works in bullshit - can be. I'm going to drop the 'spin' on my dating profile. I'm going to lose the bullshit. And I'm going to be as unromantic as possible.

No of course, that'd be stupid. I'll die from choking on a hair ball having never loved again.

This is clearly another work-in-progress, but for now I need to sit on my hands and work out this Mr Tickle-sized-knot.

Fact you (1/30)

The first challenge is to give you, dear penis-cream-robot, more insight into who I am by bringing you 20 facts about me.

Let's go:

I have only been in love once.
I didn't vote in the last election, and likely won't in 2015.
I have licked Billy Corgan.
I have been caught up in an armed siege.
I've performed the Heimlich on a stranger.

I have a recurring dream about flying in a yellow Volvo.
I'm not a real ginger.
I have had a relationship with a feeder.
I am an uncontrollable blusher.
I have a baffling crush on the bald bloke from 'Aqua'.
When I was 8, I really, really wanted to be a pathologist.
I am the youngest of three.
I had a fling with someone who dumped me a month before winning the Perrier in Edinburgh.
I was a qualified cycling proficiency teacher.
My favourite colour is orange, but sometimes turquoise.
Though 'Northern' I was born in the South.
In Primary school, I once pooed my pants 7 times in one day.
I'm a thumbsucker.
I have lived in 4 different countries.
I tell people I've punched a horse. I haven't.

Lively up yourself CHALLENGE

Oh go on then...

The 30 day challenge is largely put in place to aid writers block, offering outlets of cerebral guff to aid some form of cohesive creativity. I'm up for that, as I've started to notice I'm dumbing myself down by becoming solely interested in how critical my residential bin stink is getting, and to be honest, I'm sick of writing bloody lovelorn poetry. Tragic.  

Additionally I'm aware my blog volume has been a little sparse this year, and for the sake of consistency I need to pull my finger out, or it'll just fall by the wayside and resemble everyone-evers MySpace page.

So firstly, a proviso, I won't be doing it everyday (as I have an erratic work/social life that lacks routine and often doesn't permit downtime), but I will attempt to complete 30 posts no matter how mundane, self-indulgent or taxing. And with those three adjectives, I know you're sold, right?

I can't promise a read of any interest at all, in fact I suspect the only readers of this blog are robots trawling for gaps to spam innocents with the hottest new penis cream, but well, this is my place in the ether space, so I'm parking my bullshit here (and there and there and there). I welcome suggestions about any topics/questions you'd like to challenge me to waft about. In fact I'd appreciate the mind chowder. You can contact me on vixmcglynn@gmail.com - and that's not just you, Mam.

Song

Get your hands off me,

I can't handle the touch.

I've lost myself, 

This is too much.

Swaddle me, and tighten,

Speak to me and know.

Pull back, and nourish,

Breathe, let it go.

Cut off my hands, 

Rip out my eyes,

Strap me to beds, 

Deafen me with lies.

Don't come one step closer,

I'll melt by the light,

I have to control mine,

Evade lustful fight. 

Cut off my hands, 

Rip out my eyes,

Strap me to beds, 

Deafen me with lies.

Dig out my heart,

Pull out my tongue,

Stop me from feeling,

Hypnotic love song.

Dig out my heart,

Pull out my tongue,

Stop me from feeling,

Hypnotic love song.

. 

Swerveball with Mr Shitcad

Mr Stevie Shitcad examined himself in the mirror, his testes felt normal, and popping his collective shaved gonad into his snug pouch, he yelped "...better get to it!" before turning off Bette Midler's greatest hits, spinning on his heel, and heading for an important date with a workman.

No not really, Stevie was 117% hetrosexual, even though you'd imagine he worked in a theatrical costume department, plus his name WAS Steve. The gay name.

Stevie had a problem aside from his non-homosexual-homosexuality. He was on the waiting list for a delicate operation and was meeting with his consultant Doctor Apathetic - who was hoping, but wasn't massively bothered, to cure him of his unfortunate affliction. It was a terrible story.

Stevie, as a baby and just taking on solids, began to convulse and produce his first digested matter via his mouth. His insides were all wrong. He shat from his mouth. Everytime he opened his mouth, a smooth jersey-potato-sized turd would pop out! But he didn't let his unexpected face shitting get to him; over the years he found that some women, when faced with such vulnerability, gave him more of their time. Yes, it was the sympathy vote Stevie got, a cheap trick but one that had led to the contraction of over 15 sexually transmitted diseases. He wore his weather beaten cock with non-gay pride; his confidence betraying it's stump like-length but extreme girth, that gave his member the appearance of an undercooked american pancake. When he confessed his unique genital foible, usually in tears, sometimes in the bookies, women sensed a vulnerability so powerful they started lactating full fat cream. When paired with the disclosure of his aural digestive foible, women had been known to start contracting and produce a Kinder Surprise containing the rare crocodile-on-a-skateboard figurine. SURPRISE! That's right, Stevie Shitcad was a serious - yet really obviously bad - player. "You can't have your cake, and eat it!" was an all too familiar phrase to Stevie, who wished people would stop buying him cake and not letting him eat it.

Stevie died a fortnight later in the gruesome manner you'd expect, he had become too full of shit.

And the moral of the story? See Doctor Immediately. He's more prompt with medical action.