Other Person: You know, you should lighten it up sometimes. Your blog can be depressing.
Me: I know. I’m just not all that funny, though.
OP: You’re not totally unfunny.
Me: Really? I once cried during a Damon Wayan’s comedy sketch. Do you want to know why?
OP: No! Write another piece about your vagina. That was funny.
Me: To you and maybe two other people. And my vagina wasn’t the least bit amused. I had to eat a half a box of chocolates to make her happy again.
OP: You’re blaming that on your vagina?
Me: She rules the roost.
OP: Um, you know that it’s not really a separate entity, don’t you?
Me: Right. Like I’d give myself mood swings and hot flashes.
OP: Back to what I was saying. Do you think you could write something that doesn’t call up images of slums and exploitation or, as Doris put it, exceed anyone’s quota of Sturm und Drang?
Me: Ha! Doris has a death counter on her site. She’s not as sunshine-y as those twinkling blue eyes would have us believe. Besides, my new blog boyfriend Ryan liked the piece on George, and so did my artistic BFF, (and the mother of boys so cute they make my eyes hurt), Kris. Annie, Anne, Ann, Julia, SusanS, Mary, and Melissa, even if it was a little close to home for her. . .
OP: OK, now you’re just shamelessly throwing out link love. Why don’t you write about something funny that happened to you this week, instead?
Me: Well, I did watch two women declare their undying love to each other on Facebook after a very brief, long-distance courtship. I thought that was funny, but only in lesbian-land. They’ll be together for three or six or eight years now.
OP: Three or six or eight?
Me: Yes, don’t ask why. Those are the magic numbers that follow instant, undying love. Although if it’s six or eight, the last three to five years will be hell. By the way, did I tell you I have a blind date this Saturday?
OP: I thought you swore off of blind dates since the Pillsbury incident?
Me: It was Play-Doh, and it was therapy for her. I just didn’t expect that she’d tell me her life story through clay finger puppets on our first date. Her mother was neon pink by the way, and the rest of the family was blue. Do you think there’s any significance to that?
OP: No, Freud. Sometimes a blob is just a blob. So are the same friends setting you up this time?
Me: Rorschach had the blobs, not Freud. They always looked like uteruses or butterflies to me. Sometimes the uteruses had ghosts or scary sex images in them. Like this one:
OP: Okay, wow, I really didn’t need to see that. Why are you going on this blind date again?
Me: Well, I could stay home and write my thoughts about the blogger who told me about keeping a pig’s head in a bucket in her garage, and all the nightmares I’ve had since.
OP: Good god - please no!
Me: Okay then, blind date it is. And who knows? Maybe she’ll be as amusing as that one who told me that wearing a bra was capitulating to the patriarchy.
OP: That wasn’t funny.
Me: You had to be there. It’s always the ones who are like a 52F that think bras are a conspiracy against women.
OP: Can you blame them? By the way, I’m pretty sure that even if I was a lesbian, we’d never date.
Me: Is this where I’m supposed to ask why?
OP: God only knows what you’d write about me.
Me: I’d totally write about your addiction to the Rabbit.
OP: I’m weaning myself. It just doesn’t do much for me anymore.
Me: I think the next step up is a jackhammer, sister.
OP: Yeah, anyway, so glad we don’t date. Can we get back to you?
Me: Sure, just let me finish this post I’m working on first.
So what do YOU see in the Rorschach? Any WTF dating experiences you’d like to share? You know, just between us?