A Deutsch Bag gets an arch-nemesis

In the middle of November, match.com birthed an epic hatred.  For now and all of eternity, I have an arch-nemesis.  That's right Stielow, I beat you to it.  

1. It starts with a Deutsch_Bag.

2. A profile is spotted. She sounds opinionated yet contradictory. Interesting.

2. Contact. 

3. A response.

4. A fight.

5. A silence.

Match.flop

Little by little, internet dating is less about pedophile stalkers and more about genuine connections.  The thought of connecting based on keystrokes and pixels is scary, yet exciting. Or so I thought until I joined the cybernetic meat market.

After my pre-med days of pouring over classifications of arthropods in biology came to an end, I thought I was done reading boring crap.

I was wrong.

How interesting do you really think it sounds when you say "I'm a cool, laid back girl who likes to have fun." Who doesn't consider themself cool, laid-back, and fun loving? Come on. Say something worth reading.

At least list your allergies so I know something about you instead of the general population's mindset on who you should be.  Okay, I actually want you to list your allergies so I can plant them where you live and weed out the lame. One by one.

Also, if match.com profiles are an accurate indicator of America's literacy rate, we're screwed.  Between the emoticons and typos, it's not a pretty story.  I'll give it two years before text speech takes over all spoken dialect. "Bro, I ROFL'd and LOL'd all over the place." Screwed. We are screwed.

So, I have a story of shame to share. Actually, I have two. One is about the two faced carniwhore, the other is a story of how I gained my own arch-nemesis.

Stay tuned, the arch-nemesis is up first.

Always Underdressed, not always typing

Always Underdressed didn't pan out so well.  It's my fault for not promoting it as hard. Instead of trying to bring it back to life, I'll save it for random blurps I want to write about and keep this as my main blog.  How do you beat Deutsch Bag? You don't.

Thanksgiving. One Deep.

When I moved into the apartment 190 feet high in the heart of Chicago, I was shocked my haberdasher roommates kept the blinds down.  Floor to ceiling windows with a stunning view of the Chicago river and Magnificent Mile and the $*%*$* windows are covered up?

Fast forward two months and I finally understand. Sure, it's beautiful but you always see the same thing and the sun reflects off the building to create a magnified sun spot in your eye.  As much as I love natural light, I rarely find the effort to pull up all six giant window covers.

Thanksgiving weekend was a great time. Props to Ms Rachel Schwarz for organinzing an army of twelve mid-twenty gobblers.  There was food, beer, wine, and multiple rounds of celebrity.  Pace, having a mustache doesn't make you a celebrity. Douche.

The rest of the weekend was played out solo. I was uber productive. A very good writer. I left my external at work so I didn't have Zombieland and fifty plus other movies to kill time watching. Unfortunately, Band of Brothers had a two day marathon going. Yes. It dominated my Friday. Sooo good.

I'm rambling and I'm sorry.  Odds are you didn't read this far, but if you did. I love you. Stay tuned and I'll throw in some pixels next time. I promise.

I heart this commercial

Orange - words

I got a new way to talk.

I'm starting up a new blog. I have a place to crash, so the Chicago experience is officially underway.  I'm living with two haberdashers, also know as professional clothiers. Suits. Men in black.

I see this rolling two ways. One, I always look like a VIP since two taller guys in suits hang out with me. Two, I look like a scrubby little brother trailing his older brother's crew.  Which option will come true?

Check out the new blog to find out:

www.AlwaysUnderDressed.blogspot.com

Please take my George from me.

Sure, you made a few bad decisions which is why you're out here on the corner, draped in a plaid assortment of tattered outerwear.  Still, it's not the end for you.  You found a saxophone,-God knows where- and you figured out how to make it sing.  Kudos to you Mr. Street Musician.  Your riffs make me feel better on the inside where I need it most.  

I'm broke too but I seem to have this dollar.  Something tells me I won't feel right unless it ends up in the upside-down Sherlock Holmes hat positioned strategically within an arms grasp in front of you.  Would you be fast enough to grab my arm in time if I dropped the one dollar bill and picked up the five I see some better-off aficionado blessed you with?  I guess I'll never know.