"Science now tells us that if you put 24 jams out instead of six jams for people in a grocery store, people will buy less jam. The presentation of too many jams may lead people to believe that somewhere, out there, exists the perfect jam."
This was from an article that talked about pretty much the same thing I'm going to, but believe me, I didn't steal it because I also mentioned it back in 2010 after reading an interview with John Mayer (you know the one, where he called Jessica Simpson a sex bomb or whatever), in which he pretty much said the same thing as the above and as Katherine Fritz in her Huffington Post blog. So, I mean, my point is really, what the fuck?
I moved to Hoboken four years ago and thought it'd be funny to maintain a dating blog. A funny little story here, a "wow I can't believe I met that guy," a "hey, can you believe he did this?!" But you know what? I've had a funny little story, I've definitely met that guy (I reference you to the vagina man), and hey, can you believe I dated a guy that picked up a girl in front of me after a year? Or how about the guy where it all fell apart because I didn't like sushi, a week after burying Grams? (Clearly, not the full reason but that was the launchpad. Poor timing kid. You know who you are.) And you know what? After four years, it's not funny anymore. I'm not laughing. (Insert very stoic emoticon here.)
Say you meet a guy. He's incredibly handsome, but doesn't seem to realize it. He's smart, funny, and you two just talk for hours on end—a few days in a row. You think, well, experience tells me I should likely not get excited here. But you do, because you think, well, something has to stick at some point, right? Don't be negative, this guy has nothing to do with that other guy. Enjoy it! So, you do. But, actually, it turns out, this guy is kind of like that guy that was super into you for six weeks, until he texted you at 6 a.m. on a Saturday to say he "just can't do this." So again, I ask, what the fuck?
Does it really come down to a numbers game? For instance, was aforementioned Guy A or Guy B just walking down Washington Street and saw someone who perhaps was three inches taller, or had bigger/smaller boobs (whatever your preference), or maybe had shorter hair? At what point can you get excited about someone? (Well, in reality, I'm probably always going to get excited, because what fun is life if you don't enjoy the ride? No fun. That's the answer to that question.)
Granted, I'm not as worked up as this blog post would lead you to believe. Frustrated and a little over caffeinated, perhaps. I have awesome friends. I'm doing really cool things, like yoga school, traveling, and raising money for the American Brain Tumor Association. (I think this may be the most links I've ever inserted into a blog post. And maybe even the most parenthetical references. But, I digress.) It'd be cool though to, at some point, have someone say that I'm awesome and have them stick around long enough to see just how true that statement is. I have a big heart boys. You're missing out.