Too picky

In a desperate bid to find a solution, I, as many do, consulted the internet with regards to my inability to find a boyfriend. For the record, that day I also researched how to clean an acetate dress. In taking a love quiz, that I suspect had been created by a 14 year old, I was awarded the conclusion of being 'too picky'. I mocked the monitor by spittling a guffaw, and then I thought about it.

So I have to lower my standards further?

Have you heard of the shit test? I'm a shit test supreme. Passively shit testing most people in order to penetrate their mental balls. I seek a joust, a mental workout, a sharpening. I like playing Devil's Advocate (Doom Queen), and I love strategy. I'm excellent at Risk. When I get that battle, that meeting of minds, I'm intrigued, and when they tell me I'm being a gobshite, it's confirmed. We're friends. I need to know I can trust you, and in knocking me down, I know you'll be honest.

I love a good shit test counter attack. 

It doesn't happen often. Evidently my wave length is a bit spazzy. Just this past week, my unappreciative drunk of an employer referred to me as a druggy weirdo, and in an academic context I was labelled as 'terrifying' - don't worry, I'm not studying Medicine. 

I'm a 32 year old divorcee. You know, I'm not even a divorcee yet, but I have been single and separated from my husband for 3 years now. I decided I would marry him as soon as he informed me we were born in the same Plymouth Hospital - now that's just too much of a coincidence, right?!!! It was fate. I mean, I'm in no hurry to get a divorce - I don't dislike him that much; things didn't end on a sour note, and we sickeningly remain friends, just friends who don't talk often and certainly don't get loose! I for one am not prepared to spend £400 on a piece of fluff called a divorce. Plus, his new romance is looking positive, and we always agreed that whoever was in the position to make it happen, would. So, thumbs aloft for the ex and his possibly more attractive, less complex, egoless lady. It was fun, huh big guy?!

I am ready to share something with someone. I miss the laughs, tickles, stinks and strokes, but the depressing factor is, there's nobody I fancy. To translate this in terms of what havoc it's playing with my sads, as a realist I can't get off on anything fake or untrue. If I do not have an existing spark with someone that I am keen to pursue, there is nothing out there but a sexless void and Anne Widdecombe's libido (sorry Anne, that was cheap). I cannot fantasise about celebrities; Jean Claude Van Damme rutting me whilst his forehead sweat drips into my eyes makes me gag, even on a reread. . . So not having a 'real' experience, or someone to put in the flip book of desire, my head becomes a little impotent, and I just appear to be a bitch in a bad mood thinking I'll end my life being the neighbour that passed away and wasn't discovered for 4 months, and who had all her eyeball moisture extracted by her harem of feral cats. Doom Queen.

I know when I'm pining for love as I daydream about dog ownership. I tell myself that everything would be okay if I could only have a dog. I became so desperate recently the daydreaming downsized to ferret ownership. But I'd just be known as ferret woman. I don't want to be that woman.  

Am I too picky? Perhaps. I have a list somewhere of 'desirable qualities', and 'dealbreakers': disrespectful, drinks excessively, mustn't punch kids, fundamentals really... but in 5 years time, I may compromise to such a level, my only specification will be healthy bowels. Into the mud, Scum Queen.

My exhausted and attached friend Sheila is a regular dial-a-cliche. She told me that love comes to those who wait - she married a bloke off Chat Roulette. It was fate...