Booking for love in all the wrong places

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So this not-doing-any-housework-at-all thing is getting a bit old. That is to say, I’m perfectly happy not performing the chores—would you believe I haven’t pined at all for the vacuum cleaner?—but the end result is getting kind of difficult to live with. I’m still taking care of the essentials (weekly dishes, daily litterbox emptying, sporadic laundering) but I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should break down and vacuum. Or maybe I should look at the assortment of mail that’s scattered on the living room floor. Or at least stack it on the couch or something.

Anyway, the apartment is getting kind of… dirty isn’t the word… cluttered, let’s call it cluttered. It’s not unsanitary, but it’s looking a little worse for the wear. So all in all it’s a good thing I didn’t bring a charming stranger home to engage in magnificent sex this evening.

Was I expecting to? Well. No. Else I would have cleaned the house, see? But there was at least a remote chance that I could have met an interesting person of a single persuasion this evening. That’s because I swallowed my pride and went to a singles event.

For the record, you would not catch me dead at a singles event, not normally. You may as well plaster a sign to your forehead, “Can’t get laid.” So there you are mingling with all these other saps who can’t laid, and you’re supposed to– what, make small talk? About what? All these people, trying desperately to prove there’s a perfectly good reason why they can’t get a date… No thanks.

But this one, see, this was at a bookstore. I figured, what the hell, maybe it will attract book lovers. At least I wouldn’t waste my time talking to people who don’t read for pleasure. (No offense, Dad.) (Not that you’re reading this. Obviously.)

So I broke my rule about not going into bookstores. The problem with bookstores, see, is that they’re filled with books. Can I afford to buy books? No. Do I have room in my apartment for more books? No. Do I have easy, free, daily access to books? Yes. Would I, despite these very persuasive arguments, capitulate and buy everything in sight if I were to walk into a bookstore? Oh goodness yes. Which is why bookstores are verboten to me.

But my social life sucks and I needed a break from working on the ook-bay. So I headed on over to this lovely used book store and found it filled with…

White people. Middle-aged-to-elderly white people. Wilhelmsplatz strikes again.

Now, to be clear, I do not necessarily have anything against white people. I am one myself, in fact. I am not a big fan of white privilege or white oppression or racism, but I do okay with white folks. Why, some of my best friends are white!

But a room fulla white faces? Sigh. It’d be nice to have a wee bit of diversity.

And, well, these were folks who had me beat by a few decades. Now I am not one to discriminate in my dating preferences based on race, sex, or age. But still. The demographic was pretty darn narrow.

Still though, I gamely plunged in. I browsed through the fantasy section. I perused the science fiction. I luxuriated in the literary fiction, which had blissfully few examples of contemporary trash, and a cornucopia of old titles, with a few of the good modern writers thrown in.

Too bad I was all by myself. All the other people at this little shindig stayed at the front, without bothering to go look at the books, which if you ask me WAS THE WHOLE POINT OF MEETING AT A BOOKSTORE.

Ah well. I still managed to find some people to chat with, and though I didn’t meet any new people in the romantic sense, I did have a good time talking with some folks who do not, get this, who do not work at the library. The sheer novelty of it made the evening worthwhile.

And now back to our regularly scheduled duties of working on the… you know. Thingy. The… don’t make me say it… the… thing I’m writing. Which is due in five and a half weeks. Um.

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