I have a devil inside of me. I’m not talking a disease or a cancer. And I’m not saying there’s a miniature Dennis Quaid traveling throughout my body, because no matter how much I bought into that at age 7, it’s simply not possible. I’ve done my research.
What I’m talking about is a devil, impulsive thoughts trying to get me to say and do certain things that are completely inappropriate. Right now you’re probably thinking, “Hey guy, you’re pretty inappropriate already, and man does my asshole itch!” Well friend, make sure no one is looking, give it hell, and then wash your hands. Butt you’re right, I am pretty inappropriate, however, the devil inside me pushes my tasteless tendencies to a new level.
Take for instance my adventures in the realm online dating. About three months ago I decided to drive around on the information superhighway, whistling at female drivers who were listening for whistles or doing some of their own whistling. Yup. I just typed that sentence. Anyway, I’ve joined a site called OKCupid, which actually is one of the better online dating sites I’ve found (and I’ve looked at a total of three of these mate match search engines so I basically have my Ph.D. in this shit). Online dating is an amazing land where rejection, in the form of unanswered messages, grows like weeds but occasionally a flower blooms. Sometimes that flower turns out to smell like rotting flesh, but hey, I scored a response. She’s vetted my profile, gauged me to be a relatively normal guy, and deemed me worthy of a conversation.
That’s when the devil creeps in, telling me things to write, phrases you’ll never find in any dating manual, words that will end the conversation in seconds and probably lead her to consider deleting her profile.
To help convey my point, here’s a scenario. The role of “Me” will be played by me. The role of “Devil” will be played by Al Pacino, or the part of me that rarely sees the light of day. And the role of “Her” will be played by a mash up of online conversations I’ve had with women.
Me: You mentioned you like to do art in your profile. Which kind do you fancy the most? I’m a photographer (here’s a link to some of my work) but I used to do a lot of drawing. Anyway, you seem pretty cool. Message me back if you’d like, -Me
Her: I like all kinds of art but I stick mostly to painting and mixed media. I love your photos and you made me laugh in your profile. What’s your favorite subject matter to take photographs of?
Now I have two potential answers to her question: an honest one about how my current favs are abstract photos, OR an amazing nugget of disaster from my terrible idea factory.
Devil: Well in college I interned at a morgue, which, I know, seems a little creepy. But it was almost the only place I could be alone with a dead body. So the honest answer to your question is photographs of dead bodies. You wouldn’t happen to have any elderly relatives? Possibly (cross my fingers) one or two on their death beds?
Now you may be laughing at that or you may be disgusted. Or who knows, you may still be itching your asshole from before. The point is, you should probably get that checked out. The second point is: I have an absolute jerk inside of me that I have to ignore in order to form new relationships, maintain current ones, and potentially stay out of jail.
Another example came recently. I was at a bluegrass festival with some friends. Bluegrass is definitely not my type of music, so it should be noted that I was a little bit irritated already, but I was there to see an old friend. During my conversation to drown out the banjo and contrived southern accents my devil urged me to do something I’ve wanted to do for quite some time.
“When I’m rich,” I told my friend. “I’m gonna just walk up to people, hand them a hundred dollar bill, and then slam whatever they’re holding onto the ground.”
He laughed.
“And then I’d just walk away. Because first you have to win them over. “Oh, he seems like a nice rich guy,” they’d say. And then, boom. Walk away.”
If it’s a plate full of food, a drink, a baby, I don’t care, I want to spike it onto the ground. Chill out Grandma, I would never spike a baby onto the ground for a hundred bucks. Fifty. I don’t know what it is. I just feel this sudden urge to destroy anything that people are holding.
It also happens in K-Mart, Walmart, or any mart that has shelved items so perfectly. “Haven’t you ever wanted to just knock every single thing off these shelves,” I’ve asked multiple people as we stroll through the isles looking for Preparation H. Maybe it’s because so many hours during my high school years were spent stocking the shelves at a Walgreen’s. Whatever it is, I think it would be grand. And I may just do that when I can shell out the cash to pay for hundreds of smashed jars of pickles and olives. And bail. And lawyer fees. And medical bills from slipping on thousands of kosher dills.
I probably won’t though. I’m too reserved.
And just because I feel like it, here are a few more lines that have flickered across my untamed brain when messaging women online:
“My favorite movie… hmmm. I’m actually not a big fan of movies, unless I’m directing them, and you’re naked.”
“Nice shoes! Wanna – fuck I forgot what I was going to type! I think it was along the lines of “Do you want to grab a bite to eat, maybe see a movie, and then bang like 5 times in the back of my Buick?””
“Well, in five years I see myself hiding inside a very fat person, mostly to stay warm. But if the Mayans are wrong and the sun hasn’t exploded, I’ll probably still be hiding in a fat person, just for fun.”
“On a typical Friday night I’m either out with my friends or at home trying to wash the blood off my hands. So much blood.”
“Wow, that’s a pretty personal question. The craziest place I’ve had sex is on top of a guy who was passed out. How about you?”
“So for our date I was thinking we could have a picnic, go play some Frisbee, you could fall head over heels into the trunk of my car after you met my shovel, and then we could play a game called “Who can fit in the hole I just dug?” You first. No, I insist. Have you met my taser?”
