The Seven Stages of Grief

Yes, what a productive November it's been. It's almost over already (What's that whooshing sound? Oh, right. Time. Slow down, dammit!) and I've barely written over half of what I did in here last month. I keep trying to pick up the pace with this thing, but it's hard to find interesting and worthwhile things to write long posts about on a regular basis. Makes people's sensationalized personal plots and ADD-oriented bite-size-entry-filled blogs plenty understandable. You write something daily - sometimes even several times daily - and the readers, they will flock. In theory, at least. Doesn't seem to work as well for some of the ones I see advertising on the Google group's blog-sharing board. But then, how many of these "Make Money With Your Blog!" blogs do we even need? That's people for you, though, the avaricious lot we are. Find something interesting to write about! Write about cheese! Write cheesy humor! Do the world some gouda! (Okay, maybe I deserve to be shot for that one.)

Anyway, enough of my finger-wagging. Not like the internet's bound to listen anyway, even if I do know what's good for it. (More sites featuring monkeys wearing little hats. MORE, I say! But only if said monkeys consent. We can't have humans violating their right to choose not to wear a little hat, after all. Even if America seems to be all about forcing people into things these days.) The challenges of writing meaningful - or even consistently funny - blog entries are only growing more apparent in time. Makes it easy to understand why humor sites like Something Awful keep a large enough stable of writers and columnists around, ultimately having them write probably 2-3 articles a month, tops, so there's plenty of regular new content in the rotation, and nobody has to push themselves. (Except with the Daily Dirt section, anyway. But that's pretty purposefully half-assed and retarded.)

I'll quit my grousing this time, really. Not much good for me to lecture the rest of the internet to write more interesting and meaningful content when I'm not exactly doing that enough myself. (Next time: I discuss quantum physics and how I don't know anything about quantum physics and kill about 8-10 paragraphs saying nothing whatsoever - sound and fury, in fact, signifying nothing.) So without further ado, my clearly-incredibly-long-awaited latest blog entry. The subject this time? As the subject indicates, the seven stages of grief. Of course, you may have read some other set of seven stages of grief, say, in a psychology textbook. But those things're outdated. They don't know what they're talking about. Hell, some of them even claim there's only five. (What does Elisabeth Kübler-Ross know, really? Maybe people only grieved in five stages back in 1969. How far we've come.)

Of course, I can't explain these seven stages without giving you proper context in regards to my own personal grief. And my tale of woe, it is a heartbreaking one. I'll give you a second to grab some tissues. You'll need them, when you start sobbing uncontrollably, having been emotionally rocked to your core by the sheer magnitude of my loss. Well, here goes. Don't say I didn't warn you.

It's dead. Gone. Kaput. Finito. Conversing with da fishes clad in a brand spankin' new pair o' cement shoes. Ghastly, I know. My poor Gamecube memory card. Over 20 games' save files, three and a half years of nerdly addiction and accomplishment. All down the tubes. Why? Who knows why! The gods are cruel - cruelest of all to those of us who believe in them not. Though it's said that many of the first run of the 1019 block cards were known for corrupting, though later runs did not. And it's hard to tell whether or not the heat from my Nintendo Wii's WiiConnect24 feature had anything to do with it either, though people like to jump to blaming it for things it often doesn't cause. But nonetheless, something to be taken into consideration anyway, given how much I've relied on the motion-detecting happy-box since I finally acquired one on Ebay months ago. But in having been relying on its backwards compatibility, I hadn't anticipated such a malady, calamity, even catastrophe! (Though if I'm lucky, I may be able to salvage some of my saved data and transfer it to a new card when I buy one.) Well over a thousand hours of work, gone. A blow to one's daily functioning not unlike abrupt loss of a hard drive after failing to properly keep your files backed up. At least, if you're like me. Perhaps it says too much about me - and doubtlessly in a negative sense, considering how society tends to frown upon those too closely linked with their electronics - but upon losing a hard drive in such situations, years of everything, it's like losing a part of yourself. As though it just abruptly evaporated into thin air, leaving you feeling incomplete. Writing, music, games, links, all my connections to friends on instant messengers, info I'd need to be able to contact them at all - POOF. Gone. Like someone just shot you with a cannon and you somehow miraculously survived, leaving only a gaping cartoon-like hole where there is nothing. To someone like me, an embarrassingly admittedly isolated, withdrawn individual sorely lacking meaningful human contact and connections, it's an incredibly painful loss. And all you can do is grieve your loss, whether human, pet, or digital data. (With as much as I game, three and a half years is a hell of a lot. Especially confounding when Baten Kaitos Origins was really starting to get interesting at its 40-hour mark. And this was the card I got with the new games I'd received the day after my major jaw surgery back in June 2004, so it does hold some amount of sentimental value, having been part of what little connection I had to my daily routine back then, I was so drugged up, coping with the psychological trauma of surgery and inability to move my jaw, let alone lie down and sleep back then.) Perhaps this connection simply says that I need to back up my data more (Easier said than done with gaming data.), and that I need to get out of here, make some new friends, start a new life, and maybe even find love. (Hell, that's part of what I'm trying to do with my novel. But will it win her heart? Knowing my luck, probably not. But I need to make the gesture and speak what's in my heart in the most meaningful way I know how. Even if letting my emotions out - particularly in that regard - is one of the most difficult things for me to do, given my experiences.) There's not even a perhaps about it, really. But that doesn't take away from the pain and grief.

And so, the seven stages of grief.
1) Denial (Not Just a River in Egypt) - At this point, you aren't even ready to be uncool with things. Instead, you get to flip out and refuse to even acknowledge the possibility that something might just be the case. "NO! How can pogs be a terrible random '90s pop culture reference!? Pogs are hilarious! Check out this slammer! No! Don't walk away! This is funny!"

2) Denial Part 2: The Bloodening - Stage two is the natural progression of stage one. People will tell you to calm down and face facts like a normal, rational adult. This is a lie, of course, as most adults are not rational, despite what they tell themselves in order to get by. Being a bearer of truth and justice, you expose their lies by lashing out - with violence. (For comedy purposes, attempting to garrote them with dental floss will result in many hours of family fun in the midst of your suffering. For more serious Bloodeners, a lead pipe is recommended for the musical sounds it might rhythmically produce as you cave in their skulls, one by one.) "What do you mean eating Cheerios for breakfast can help me reduce my cholesterol!? I'll kill you! I'LL KILL ALL OF YOU!"

3) Gambling (Formerly Bargaining) - Upon realizing that their gods were cruel gods, people gave up bargaining a long time ago. Those assholes don't care about you. These days, there's only one way to counteract the reality of the grief you're dealing with - by risking your life (Or money) against all odds to prove that if you can pull that off, they must be wrong about what's upsetting you. Approaching the source of your grief with even the slightest suggestion of accepting it might be a reality that you just have to face is a trap. That's just what they want you to do, so you'll let your guard down and cry like a small child while they steal your riches and sleep with your girlfriend. (Or boyfriend, as the case may be, obviously. These stages apply to both the sexes, after all. And even the hybrid ultra-sexes.) "I bet if I can jump this two-mile gorge with my motorcycle, Elvis will never die!"

4) Intensive Care - So you've been severely injured. So what? That doesn't mean they were right. Disco's comin' back and nobody's gonna tell you your ABBA records aren't hip! This stage mostly involves lying around in a body cast, being pumped so full of morphine that you can't tell what's what anymore. And crying. Crying a lot. Even though you can't remember what you're crying about. Maybe someday you'll learn to do basic math again. Someday.

5) Denial Part 3: You're Lying, Dammit! And I Can Prove It! - You regain enough of your capacity for cognition to start realizing what's been going on all along and how you ended up hospitalized in the first place. It hits you one day, five years down the line in physical therapy. Everyone else has moved on, and thinks of you as a sad, sad case, wondering if you aren't perhaps in some way mentally disabled, and if perhaps you shouldn't have been living in a special home all alone. So sad, you used to be so normal. But now? Now you think the Blue Collar comedians are actually funny. What the hell, man? Seriously - what the hell? You're wrong. You're wrong about everything.

6) Depression - There's no running away anymore. The cards are on the table. The dice have fallen - they were loaded, anyway. The dog's still rolling around on its back. You can't escape the truth. Your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles memorabilia just isn't holding up as well as you'd hoped. Life has no meaning now. You could seek help. Maybe reach out to family. Yeah, like they actually care about you. And friends? What friends? You drove them all away years ago. What's wrong with you? Why did you always have to be such a hateful creature? Why couldn't you ever be nice and just tell the people you loved that you loved them? Remember that one? Yeah, you remember them, and the way you two used to look at each other. If only you'd said something and actually acted, they could've been yours. You could've been happy. But no. You had to be an idiot and hide your feelings until it was too late. You deserve this. You deserve all of this. Maybe the world would be a better place without you.

7) Suicide (Sometimes Known as Uncle Bob's Happy Fun Time) - The final stage! This is what you've spent your whole life waiting for! The bright lights, the spectators, the cotton candy, the clowns, the tumbling act! Welcome to the circus they call self-inflicted fatality! So many methods, so many means, so many ideas, so much potential! So many buzzing bright lights. The heady high, the lowest low, the burning that consumes you from the inside out. Should you do this? Or shouldn't you? No time for indecisiveness, young one, you've a grave or urn to fill! Seal your fate, cross paths with the grim reaper, dance with the death monkey! It's not like any of us have much reason to go on anyway. We're all insignificant specks in a poorly sealed snow globe - that water's all gonna evaporate yet.

I hope this entry has been an enlightening experience. As you can see, modern grief is truly the stuff of tragedies. Stupid, stupid tragedies. (But isn't the stupidity just part of what makes it all so tragic?) So if you can avoid such a tragedy, it's highly recommended. Don't grieve like these people. Turn to loved ones. Failing that, seek counseling. Get some candy, rent a movie you like. It's a rough ride, this life, and the best any of us can do is hang on before we're too weary and battered to go on. So if life's got you down, do what you need to in order to survive - though ideally not heroin, you'll never stop grieving then, if you know what I mean - and if all else fails, cast your eyes skyward and shout profanity. Not only will it let off a little of that steam, but you'll get to enjoy freaking everyone else around you out. Simple pleasures. These too are important to seek when suffering.

Keep an eye out. With any luck I'll come up with another good post here before the end of the week, to bring November to an even five. I was going to do a Thanksgiving post days ago, but only came up with a vague overall routine in my head for it. So I'll put the inevitable "things I'm thankful for" parody entry off until I can give you, dear (And yet also pitiable, by the very token that you're reading things I've written.) readers, something at least semi-funny. And really, isn't that the true meaning of life, procrastinating and embodying mediocrity? Or am I wrong to get that from looking at the human species as a whole? November's been a rough, stressful month anyway, finishing my graduation project papers. Do me a favor and keep your fingers crossed that I finally get to graduate in December. After suffering this inherently nerdy but still quite painful loss, I could really use some good news. Like all in this transitional phase, I'd really like to get on with my life. Especially to the parts where I get published and move somewhere else for a new start. As I'll doubtlessly ruminate on much in the future, I'm certainly one in sore need of escape from the rut he's been in for much of his youth. (With any luck, I won't get yelled at too much for my continual spamming of the Google group every time I write here, too. All part of the process of trying to build a reader base, after all. One of the toughest trials for the aspiring writer. Especially when you're kind of an eccentric, as I am.)

Advize from El Sexperto

Hey, what up, bitches?

You can tell from my hip and witty opening that in the time since my last entry, I've become much more relevant and in tune with today's youth. You might even say I'm slammin'. I'm not entirely sure what slammin' means, but at least it's better than being the shit, right? Nobody wants to be excrement.

You may recall a confession made in here a little while ago that I'm not quite a scholar in the pleasing-womanly arts. In large part due to the fact that I've had few relationships and all of them were terrible. This, however, is no longer the case. I've become quite the Lothario since last week. In fact, you might even say I've become something of an expert on the matter of monster-battling - and by monster, I do mean genitalia, for those of you who weren't entirely clear on that.

As such, I am now just as qualified to write a sex advice column as that girl who goes to your college and is okay with talking about how much she sleeps around and feels that she's so knowledgeable and not-at-all-shallow in regards to the matter that she should be writing a column on sex for your university newspaper. (Note: She's actually quite shallow, and the utter meaninglessness of her relationships is regularly reflected in said column. Apparently 'nice guys' will never win because they're not 'bad boys,' and therefore they'll never be "hott" enough to sleep with anyone.) One might even say that I'm quite the sexpert now. In large part because women frequently refer to me as "teh smex," or "the sex," for those of you not quite as overly familiar with today's internet lingo. (Note: No one has ever referred to me as either of these things, nor is anyone ever likely to. People who use these phrases in real life are frequently killed for completely unrelated reasons.) Of course, "sexpert" may be copyrighted by someone, so you can refer to me now as your resident El Sexperto. (Because all women are apparently extremely attracted to all Spanish-speaking men. Except for the white guys who speak it as their second language. Funny what internet research can turn up. But not really.) Das caliente, non?

(Also, in order to improve the hipness quotient of this blog by 35% - a real figure that I just made up - I had to misspell "advice" in the subject. Studies have shown that today's youth demographics on the internet are way into improper spelling and outright incorrect grammar. Tubular, dudes. I can dig it.)

At any rate, without further ado, I'll be addressing some totally tripped/whacked/trundlebed'd out questions from readers. After this column, you'll be so enlightened about the ways of the horizontal spasm party that you might just go out and get yourself a piece! (Note: Advance studies have indicated that reading this column will not make you a better lover, and may in fact make you sterile instead. 89% of test readers went on to die alone. These are figures to take into account.)

Q: Der Smexperto,
lulz, I'm like, totally mackin' on my girlfriend and she won't gimme sum. Itz liek shez rooted 2 the ground. Wut do I do, dued?
- Angus in Albuquerque
A: Angus, you're probably dating a tree stump. It doesn't have a gender and it will never put out. I'm also certain that violating said tree stump would constitute some sort of abuse. As such, in the interests of being eco-friendly, I suggest seeking help. Professional help. And please, stop writing. I ran out of bad 'wood' jokes a long time ago. Your fetish for all things tree is deeply troubling.

Q: Hi,
My boyfriend and I have a really healthy sex life, and all, but I do have one complaint - the splinters. What we have may be hot, but I'm considering breaking up with him because I'm in so much pain after sex. It's hard to even find where to use the tweezers.
- Stacy in MA
A: Stacy, I hate to break it to you, but you may be dating a piece of plywood. Have you been reading Angus' letters? This isn't Wood Fetish Anonymous. Seriously, only write to me if you have a serious question about sex - but only with another human being.

Q: Sup?
How do you know if you're HIV-positive? I do a lot of needle drugs and this is a pretty pressing concern. Back when I was growing up - in the mid-90s - it was generally said to be okay to share needles. 'Be a pal, shoot up together!' Remember that slogan? How those marketing wizards came up with that (expletive deleted) is beyond me.
- Dan in Lizard Lick
A: You know, this is a sex column. What is wrong with you people? Do you not believe me?! Anyway, it's a good idea to take the initiative and go to your local clinic for an HIV test. If you're a candidate for the AIDS, it's better you be careful not to risk spreading it, at least until you know for certain. By which I mean you'd be especially certain not to spread it then. I don't want another backlash like I got from my science column ten years ago, "You Can Fly!: An average human's guide to defying gravity through sheer willpower." Nobody seemed to object to all the crippling and death that resulted from people jumping off of buildings, but you make one off-hand AIDS joke and you're an outcast in the science community for life. Also, that slogan you referenced? It never existed. Are you on dru- oh, yeah.

Q: I'm a little concerned,
Whenever my boyfriend and I make love, he calls out his father's name upon climax. How can I get him to call out my name instead? Or at least stop this. I'm at a loss.
- Catherine in Idaho
A: Wow, Catherine. That is one grade-A creepy situation you have on your hands. From my vast knowledge of the human psyche gleaned from a couple of basic level Psych classes in high school and college, I can diagnose that without a doubt, your boyfriend is actually transgendered, and has one hell of an Electra Complex. I'm not sure what to suggest beyond either breaking up or therapy. Or maybe he could get a sex change and you could become a lesbian. At least a temporary one, like those Girls Gone Wild chicks. They sure don't agree to be exploited and end up regretting their experimentation on tape for the rest of their life in any case, no sirree. Why do I hear from all the weirdos?

Q: Pfft,
D00d, check out my grandma-
A: NOPE. Not doing this one.

Q: I'm bleeding pretty badly here,
Sexperto man, how do you sew your mangled genitals back on after losing them in a freak wood chipper accident when trying to get to those sweet, sweet tree pieces?
- Bleeding to Death in Boise
A: That's it. I'm done.

So, were you enlightened? I know I wasn't. In fact, I kind of feel like killing myself now. What the hell is wrong with you people? You're all sick freaks. Stop screwing around, we don't need any of you accidentally reproducing!

That said, I'm never writing one of these ever again. Not only will I never be able to be intimate with a woman ever again after reading your letters, but I burst into tears whenever I see a tree. Especially those poor conifers.

If there were a god, you'd all be dead.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to cry myself to sleep in the fetal position.

Struck Out and Synthetic Love

The political right wing here, as of recent years, has not been overly fond of respecting people's rights. Workers' rights in particular seem to be especially uncool, with all their efforts to support the dissolving of unions. It would seem that they'd like us to believe that workers' only right should be to do what they're told by their employer, as so to remain employed and receive a paycheck at all. Clearly, these fellows are the epitome of decent, sympathetic human beings, like many on the right, valuing gigantic companies far more than the common man and woman in our workforce. But this isn't exactly an uncommon sentiment in our blindly capitalistic, consumeristic society. After all, there's happiness in those thar products! Open your wallets, lasses and knaves! Give us enough and we'll plug the joy right into your veins! (Please note: Nothing purchased will ever bring you happiness but we'd like you to continue operating under that misconception so that you'll continue giving us your money in pursuit of a fantasy at the end of a rainbow.)

Despite these union-stomping efforts, they couldn't stop the biggest strike in years - the Writer's Guild of America strike that began on Monday. Writers weren't getting a cut of the profits on DVD sales and internet viewings of episodes. The networks liked this - the less people there are getting a cut of the profits from whatever they can separate them from, the more money the network gets out of it - so instead of settling, here we are. The Screen Actors Guild is supporting this strike as well, with its outcome affecting what shares of the profits actors receive as well. Of course, the networks don't want to shell out said share of the profits, and once again - it's strike time. (Which is kind of like Hammer Time, but more important in the scheme of workers' rights, while Hammer Time really only affects a mostly-forgotten rapper from the early '90s and internet people who won't let the joke go.)

So far, the strike has hit day-to-day programming the hardest. Talk shows of all kinds, late night comedy, things like that. With the writers not getting the appreciation they've deserved in their cut of the fruits of their labors, the networks are taking hits already. People like fresh programming, as do advertisers. The reruns they're falling back on will only stymie their losses for so long, and they know this. When the time comes, they'll sit down, and they'll settle. But as writers are largely unappreciated in daily life, this strike underscores their importance. Without them, television effectively falls apart, after all. And primetime programming is just beginning to see the strike's effects. Without writers, sitcoms are halted, as are ultimately dramas as well. (Luckily for myself, nothing I watch has run out of scripts yet.) Though for some, this strike may come as a reprieve. Fame can have a creepy cost at times.

At times like this, all one can do is hope for a swift and just end to the strike, and in the least, take a minute out to appreciate the importance of these writers in our daily lives. Even if most of what's on TV is garbage.

---

Oh boy, just what you were hoping for! The second half of this entry is going back to the shorter one from earlier this week.

For those who've been by the link in the past day or so, the guy finally found his "dream girl." Conveniently.

It's something alright, when someone sees a woman and creates a whole fantasy in his head where he must know her and have her. Though it could just as easily be seen as rationalizing wanting to sleep with her, when faced by the fact that he doesn't know her or anything about her. A moment of what is effectively no more than lust - pure physical attraction - romanticized by those sucked into the scheme on the internet.

After a moment like that, most people move on with their lives and don't think about it. But the guy's a decent looking hipster, so instead of being weird or creepy, it's romantic. (And let's not forget the part where he doesn't take any kind of realistic approach to the issue. Instead of using one of any number of missed connection services easily found for free online, he makes a staged video hosted on a Youtube knockoff just now conveniently hoping to take off and become a solid competitor, in addition to making a cheesy little trendy website.) This was all about the spectacle - the viral effect, the attention, the fifteen minutes of fame everybody's seeking these days, through the "Look at me!" internet effect.

If this guy were ugly, he wouldn't get away with this - it wouldn't have gone viral. Instead, everyone'd be calling him out, and looking at this whole situation as unhealthy. But there's good marketing in here, tapping into people's overt sentimentality - typical of people, but there you go - just taking a moment of lust on a subway and trying to repaint it as love, when even in reality, that's nothing to go on, let alone enough to call someone the "girl of your dreams."

In this real life place where most of us live, it doesn't matter how good you look externally - someone can be perfectly gorgeous and amazing in bed, but utterly worthless and incompatible with you as a real lover, as a companion, and all that love actually entails. In love, you yearn for someone for who they are, not some pretty stranger you know nothing about. That's when you just move on, normally. Rather than re-enacting a terrible Lance Bass movie to promote a website. Nobody's the anything of your dreams just because you stared at them on a train. But vimeo and the magazine (At which the woman is an intern.) involved have obviously done their work - they got these kids on the national news. (And oddly enough, it's hard not to feel kind of old here, being older than both these people, when even at my age, plenty of people aren't finding the magical perfect entirely one-sided (Though that's clearly irrelevant here, it's romantic, after all!) love. Even less so at that age. Most people spend their early twenties figuring out just what love actually is.)

They've succeeded in creating their spectacle - a media circus, in which everything's far too convenient and unreal. While the saps just keep cheering them on. "Hooray complete strangers who only just met in a stunt, indulge our fantasies of an ideal and unrealistic love!" Actual love doesn't get made into a spectacle like this. (At least, assuming your love is real and you respect the genuineness of said feelings, as well as the other person involved. And also assuming that you aren't obsessing over a stranger on a train.) I just have to hope like hell no one misinterprets what I'm doing as a cheap stunt to sell a book, as that absolutely is not the case. I'm not slapping it in everyone's faces or trying to make that a selling point or using it to garner attention as is. It's just a matter of something I'm tying to quietly do, with meaning and dignity. A stunt like this "girl of dreams" one would effectively cheapen it. In real life, a long shot grasp at a stranger would rarely if ever work out. There's a million things that would have gone wrong, complications. This is all obviously manufactured. Everything is too convenient.

In my case, I actually know the person I'm reaching out to. It's a matter of reconnection, as opposed to calling on a stranger to create one that never existed before. As it's only natural to do in this guy's case, my love has been questioned plenty of times before - both by myself and others. It's something you really should do, ultimately, as questioning yourself is typically the best way to break down that which should be, while likewise reinforcing that which is true. And I have tried to get over her and move on - you don't stay in love with the same person unrequited for over half a decade without putting up one hell of a fight. While there's plenty of beautiful, interesting women out there, I do not meet them, and people, whether women or guys, who have any chemistry with me as friends - let alone as lovers in the case of the women - are extremely rare. I don't meet lots of people, I don't talk to lots of people, I don't make a lot of connections, but I've made enough regularly enough in my lifetime to realize how little chemistry I have with most people, and how incompatible I am with nearly everybody on the love wavelength. I tried to feel things for others I couldn't feel. I tried to create connections that couldn't last when of artificial construct. I tried to stop thinking about her entirely, and to focus on other things - it's a matter of love, not obsession here, after all. I can live and function without her. And even go many stretches of months without thinking about her. But regardless of my efforts, my heart won't change. I have to be honest and realistic - and try as I might, I can't just walk away from this rare, precious connection. I've learned the hard way how few real connections you will make in your lifetime. In the very least, I owe it to both her and myself to be honest about my feelings. If it all blows up in my face and nothing good ever happens as a result, then that's what'll happen, but at least I'll have been honest, even in self-destruction. It's not as though that's my end goal here, but beyond saying how I feel here and putting that out there, I have little control over where the outcome goes from there, at least unless things take some turns I'm not expecting.

Call me a cynic if you feel that you must, but I simply prefer to temper my perceptions of love with a little realism, in all its perceived negative trappings, rather than give myself over to the illusion of a perfect, far-too-convenient fairytale romance. The world may be full of suckers for them, but these are not real love stories. The real thing's a hell of a lot more difficult and complicated than that, and if anything, it's our preoccupation with the unattainable perfect fairytale romance that leaves so many people alone and miserable with our ever-climbing divorce rates. As old Robert Frost put it best, "Nothing gold can stay."

Love & Internets

Finding love on the internet. Brilliant idea, no? There's no way that hot girl who's totally digging you is actually some guy from Omaha who kind of looks like Santa Claus who's looking to find people to rape over the internet. Notice how s/he keeps misspelling "vagina" when you have cyber-sex? Yeah. That's a dead giveaway. Who uses that word in that context, anyway? Aside from perhaps Stephen Hawking. (You know it's true. He can get away with it.)

Apparently this guy agrees with me. (At least with the whole using-the-internet-to-seek-love thing. Let's pretend that the first paragraph wasn't somewhat completely irrelevant here.) He even set up a website. If that doesn't say love at first sight, what does? Series of events like this seem to be full of conveniences. Random girl on the subway? Check. (Though normal people, we tend not to call anyone the anything 'of our dreams,' when we don't know them or anything about them.) Both individuals involved hipster/scene types? Check. Both of 'em under thirty and not horribly unattractive, thereby making this 'cute' or 'romantic' instead of weird and creepy? Check. Friend who conveniently works in video and has his own site, making it easy to whip something like this together in 24 hours? Check. Likelihood of this just being a viral video culminating in either trying to sell us something or pull off another Lonelygirl15 phenomenon? Check-a-roony! (Please tell me I didn't just type that.)

Hard to say what to make of this, but suspicion is the natural reaction. You can't trust anything or anyone on the internets these days. Some of those people are donating money to Ron Paul. If real, I kind of want to almost root for the guy and this whole stunt actually working. Even if there's probably a brain-breakingly large number of women out there who fit his description one way or another. (And he's pretty much begging to be pranked, putting that personal contact information out there.) I'm attempting something similarly describable as one hell of a long shot, as I talked about some a couple of entries ago. (Though granted, I'm less likely to be seen as 'cute' in doing this, considering that I'm kind of funny looking at best on my good days.) Though in my case, I actually know the woman in question, and have had a meaningful connection before. Rather than just, say, kind of stalking someone I saw on the subway, like this guy. Ah, internet, what will you come up with next? Not exactly a Densha Otoko/Train_Man situation here as is.

See? Now I'm one of those current, up-to-date trendy internet commentators. Seeing as this whole thing started within the past day or two. This is me being current. (On which note, I bet you can't wait until I finally take time out to comment on the Blackwater scandal and the government's complete and utter failure to properly oversee our contractors in Iraq. Corruption?! Who'd have suspected?!) Now that I've established myself as relevant, and maybe hip and trendy (But never a hipster. Accuse me of being one of those, and I'll cut you.), look forward to my next entry here. Something more substantial and interesting. Rather than indulging what's probably just internet attention whoring - instead of anything culminating in an awesome public rejection as this would probably be at best - I'll probably be writing about the big Writers' Guild strike that just began in the past 24 hours. Uneasy times for those of us who could go into Daily Show/Colbert Report/Conan withdrawal.