Call me a hater…but don’t call me Kendra. I’m flabbergasted. How does someone who looks like an inbred pygmy, with the personality of sheet rock, become awarded with the ability to marry an intelligent and devoted man like Hank? How (why) has this idiot escaped the hell I know as D-A-T-I-N-G? I’m pretty, intelligent, hard-working, honest, don’t have a bobble head on top of a nine-year-old boy body, have HUMONGOUS boobs, and like to give head…so where’s MY Hank, goddamnit?! Instead of having an eighty-something, millionaire, ex-boyfriend who probably has a HEFty investment in Cialis/Levitra, I have Match.com. I hate Match.com.
I have gone on three Match dates. I’m still an angry-blogging-bitch, so that should tell you how well those dates worked out. For now, I will tell you about…let’s see…what shall I call him? Much Bitchassness Awry (MBA)! MBA and I were performing a cyber-dating tango. I spotted him on a non-Match dating site a few months back, started a chat with him, and then…well…I don’t know what happened. I may have met some other loser who, ostensibly, must have diverted my attention for the short-term. Anywho, I thought that MBA was a “perfect” dating candidate for me because of his height, extensive education (recently completed his MBA at a prestigious university), sensible age, ability to articulate himself, attractiveness, and his seemingly extensive knowledge of astrology.
He didn’t seem overly enthused by my romantic overtures, so I abandoned ship. Then, I joined Match…I read his Match profile and fell in love with his proper usage of the word “perdition.” I ignored the fact that he was leery of chronic wielders of sarcasm…ummm…because that would be me! I ignored the fact that, if he went through the bother of writing that in his profile, he is probably built with a weak constitution.
So, after what I deem way too much of cyber chatting, I leave him a Match message that says something along the lines of “Let’s take this conversation of the internet…here’s my number…” and he responds with “I already asked you out on Face Book.” I was like, you could have CALLED…I gave you my number (weirdo). Another thing I ignored, the fact that he chose to “ask me out for beverages” on FB instead of just fucking calling me! UGH! So we made plans to meet at a local bar/eatery at 1pm, actually, MBA said “between 1pm-3pm”…LOL! At 12:30, while I’m flying about 80mph in a 65mph zone, I receive a phone call from MBA. He says that time got away from him, and he really needed to reschedule because his brakes had gone bad and needed to be replaced.
A moment of silence, while we respect the blatant STUPIDITY residing within Mr. MBA.
I took that to mean we would not be meeting…ever. I laughed it off, and thought that maybe he chickened out on the date thing. Around 4:30pm, I receive a text from MBA. He wanted to know if we could meet at 6pm. I thought that was rather presumptuous of him…seeing as how he cancelled earlier. We agreed on 7pm.
My date with MBA was as eventful as shopping for toiletries. He reminded me of bosses I have had while working corporate jobs: the personality of sandpaper mixed with the sense of humor of a rock. I understood his aversion to sarcasm. He would not get it. When he spoke, I felt myself drifting off, slipping deeply into the monotonous drone of his voice. Thank God I had salsa dancing to look forward to…a spin on the dance floor always rights the wrongs of bad dates!
That bobble-headed Kendra, whom of which throws her panties on the floor and never picks up after herself, should thank her lucky stars that she doesn’t have to contend with the Match madness.
 The question is OBVIOUSLY rhetorical…It’s all about the Playboy, baby!
 At least, that’s what my gay boyfriends and my mother keep telling me…LMAO!
 And no, my stomach does not overshadow/avalanche my boobs!
 6’2” …I am 5’10” …Height can become problematic for me.
 He knew his sun, moon, and rising signs…IMPRESSIVE!
 Foreshadowing…Hello?! Dating IS the road to perdition! LOL!
 Yes, he REALLY wrote “beverages”! LOL!