doggy bag. of shit.

The last two serious long term relationships I ended up with a partner
(I=dude) who didn't give me the lovin' I need. I mean real talk
loving. The first was better, always excited to see me, but we always
fought because she likes alternative medicine and crystals. The second
was always holding out on love, I mean ruthlessly pulling back just
enough to feel like I was getting an indian burn 24/7. For some stupid
reason I love them both and can't just say "they were not a good match
I need someone who can provide meaningful mutual respect, admiration,
blah blah blah." I am looking for long term settle down love. Second
one kept getting there but only after crazy confrontation on her part-
dumping me, pulling a temper at a party, etc.

ITS NO GOOD. I think the problem is decisions I make about who to date
or how to react or something. Yes, they are not a good match, but I
should see this. The hell is wrong with me.



OK, based on the scenario you're describing, you are an abysmal failure in this department. You may be a failure elsewhere, but we'll focus in on this for now. Listen: you are a disaster and you need to stop trusting yourself right away. Seriously - like yesterday.


Here's what I'm getting from the pair you're describing - it's like one of them is a dog shit on a rained-on greasy pizza box that fell out of a garbage can at the park, and the other one is a dog shit that's in one of those classy tinfoil swans from a fancy restaurant. MOST of us - at a glance - go: "Huh. Dog shit," and move on with the business of living. YOU, however, seem to go on a few dates with each dog shit, maybe even get serious about each dog shit, and, yeah, maybe even take the plunge and move in with the by now crumbly and sun-bleached dog shit. Which would be fine - IF YOU KEPT IT TO YOUR FUCKING SELF. But no. Not your style. You're the dude who holds your buddies hostage - you're like "I mean, I know Pizza Box Dog Shit is really down to earth and really gets my humor and everything, but there's just something so regal about Restaurant Swan Dog Shit - she's such an amazing kisser, and I just daydream about her in a wedding dress, you know?" And you fucking agonize about how Pizza Box Dog Shit is a righteous log marching in one direction, but Restaurant Swan Dog Shit is in the alluring form a helix ("Kind of like a turban," you think to yourself) and you JUST DON'T KNOW HOW TO CHOOSE. And your buddy, to the extent that he's listening to you - which, trust me, he is not - is like. "Dude. Can we just shoot some darts, or what?"


And you will fucking terrorize your friends, and your co-workers, and your mom (cause you call her at least every week, don't you, bitch? Yes you do), and the chick who cuts your hair, and your letter carrier, and the dude who picks up when you call for takeout, and all the guys in the steam room at the gym, and the crossing guard at the school on your block, and the guy in tech support, and anybody hapless enough to step onto an elevator with you FOR FUCKING MONTHS about who you should be with and which one feels right and who makes you happy and about your hopes for a future with them and what your fucking kids will look like - all because you have demonstrated an appalling and vast failure to grasp the actual problem, which is, if you'll allow me to sum it up: THEY ARE DOG SHIT. 


Parsing dog shit does nothing to change its essence. Interrogating dog shit will not make it otherwise. Enlisting the input of friends to help you examine the dog shit, and list with you its virtues and vices, makes you the fucking Emperor, friend - your dick in swinging in the breeze and the cabinet of advisors you have gathered around you, after you have gone to such lengths to convince yourself of the splendor of your clothes, is not going to tell you you're bare ass naked. You have to SEE your nakedness before they will help you. If you don't - they'll just keep marching behind the Grand Marshall in the Fucking Retard Parade. But the SECOND you have the courage to see your nudity, they'll all go: "Dude. My God. What a fucking relief. If I had to stare at that mole on your left ass cheek for one more fucking minute, I was gonna have to punch you in your dick, man. With a cast iron skillet. For real."


Same principle applies to your dog shit problem. You can't see it. You know now that you can't see it. Go to your best friend. Now. Ask him, point blank - no fucking around, no dodging: "Dude. Peel back this Swan Foil and tell me straight up: is there a hunk of dog shit in there?" And if he's really your friend, he'll tell you. "Total, man. Total dog shit. And not even a quality dog shit, either. That's like a loose-stool heart worm dog shit, bud."


So here's the news, Dummy: if you wanna hop off the dance floor that's got Dog Shit Mix 2011 on perma-shuffle, you need to pay close attention. Here's what you do:

1. Put down the dog shit. Let somebody else step in it. 
2. Burn your shoes. They're lousy with dog shit.
3. Go get some other shoes. Barefoot = hippie = throw you off a balcony by your pony tail. You've already demonstrated sub-par decision-making. Don't make it worse.
4. Identify your prospect. Attracted to somebody? Good. Fine. Do and say NOTHING about it.
5. Focus group. Go to your friends with a clipboard and a quiz. "Is this a log of dog shit? Is it s coil? Is it a crescent? Is this person little Morse Code shit nuggets? Is this maybe a shit smear? Is this a chain of shit sausage? Or a pearl necklace of shit? Is this like a soft-serve minaret of shit? Or a Bloomin' Onion® of shit? If I open this heart-shaped box, will I find little pieces of shit in crenelated paper? Is this a croissant-style shit? Shit patty? Is what I'm looking at here really just a wad of shit? Might it be a tower? Is this a tower of shit situation? Shit blossom? Is that a thing? What about a shit muffin? Is this a shit muffin? Or loaf? It's a loaf, isn't it? Is this a brick of shit, maybe? Or a block? Has this piece of shit sculpted itself into a block? Is this some weird, exotic-type of shit that's formed like driftwood or coral? Shit rope! This is a rope of shit, am I right? Or a braid. Level with me - is this braided shit? Or a shit knot? Shit bow? Is this maybe like a sheep shank of shit? Or is it more like shit-spatter, or shit-sprawl? Or niblets? Is it niblets of shit I'm confronted with, here? Or like little rabbity jelly beans of shit? Is it a wafer, maybe? Or a puck? Is this a shit puck? Shit curds! How about shit curds?"
6. ONLY after you have exhausted EVERY dog shit permutation you can conceive of AND your friends have signed an affidavit that this prospect is by their reckoning not a piece of shit, ONLY THEN may you talk to her.
7. If you remain attracted to her after a series of conversations, you must then RECONVENE the focus group to ascertain where she falls on the Nut Job/Psycho Spectrum™. If yes, begin a the beginning with a new prospect. If no, then you may meet her for coffee.

If this seems extreme, fine. Don't do it. Have fun at the Dog Shit Buffet you keep returning to. 

You're a shit junkie, man. This is your intervention. 

It's not even that your friends care particularly who you're dating - they just want to go for wings and shoot pool. It's that when YOU date a piece of this, THEY gotta make small talk with a piece of shit, which is a form of agony you shouldn't wish on anybody. 

So go round up some shoes, get yourself a clipboard, and get quizzing. Otherwise you'll find yourself friendless, lashed to a piece of dog shit. Again.