The Beginning and Purpose

From the Minx:

As a successful and witty mid-twenty-something woman, I, the Outrageous Minx, find it difficult to find a date with someone who is equally driven and not a fuckwit. So one day, while reading some random book on home interiors and avoiding general responsibility, I came across a passage about how rearranging your home can lead to a successful love life - it could "help one find love".

Immediately, I knew this was bullshit. You can't find anything in your own living room but furniture. And it wasn't about love you already had, it was about finding something new and of the romantic variety. Unless re-arranging your apartment or house called for the services of a carpenter, I doubt you'd find much love in your own home unless it was there to begin with. And with the carpenter, well, enter snare drum and nothing more.

But after I thought about it more, I realized I'm not doing anything beyond hoping for a date. It's not that I'm not actively putting myself in situations where dating might occur, but that I'm automatically discounting all these interesting date-finding tips from whackos. Why shouldn't rearranging my furniture work? Why shouldn't I try?

So here we are. Youthful Curmudgeon and I have collaborated to work on this blog, The End of Emotinonal Fuckwittage, as a way to discover if any of these wacky ideas will work. While I will be trying to see if any of these attracts a Mr. Right, Youthful Curmudgeon will try to see if any of them repel men.

From the Youthful Curmudgeon:

I am the Youthful Curmudgeon, and as my mother says: “I’m not sure I could even picture you with a boyfriend.” I don’t find this offensive; after all, she has a point. Which is not to say I haven’t dated – I have; but after the not-quite-Communist who lived in a 1970s camper, the bill collector who conveniently forgot to return my laptop, and the ex-marine who told me he didn’t care about any country that ends in –stan…yeah, I’m disillusioned.

As, furthermore, the sole employee of my town’s only bookstore, and bearing the nickname “The Redhead Who Walks Everywhere” (I don’t have a car), I have been privy to many an asinine pickup line. I have no desire to encourage this, so with any luck, these man-ensnaring methods will work on the Minx and backfire on me.

A curmudgeon can dream, after all.