Tuesday, December 05, 2006

My Type

Her messages were always the same. Something like, What the fuck are you doing here, Scott? I was here first. Get the fuck off this site. Then they became emphatic, as if I were forcing her hand. This isn't fair. You need to let me live my life.

Even in her picture, she looked deranged. A wild woman with black olive eyes who didn't hesitate to push her cart into your leg to hurry you out of the supermarket.

This was not the behavior I expected from someone on eHarmony.

The facts were that her personality quiz said she was a "natural caregiver," a perfect match to my "churlish child" result. And we lived 800 miles apart.

I never wrote back. What was I going to say?

Hi, my name isn't Scott.


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