Something weird happened during one
of my many moments of wallowing in self-pity before Christmas.
I was idly checking my email box, which was appropriately empty save for a promotional message from the French railway company and a super important message from PayPal, when – before I knew what was happening, I’d clicked on the ad-link to the right of the screen (damn those clever marketing bods), entered all my particulars into a profile, and whipped out my credit card.
Heaven help me, I have joined an internet dating site…
I got instantly inundated with lazy, inane, impersonal, bland blurbs, or at best poorly spelt two-liners devoid of any punctuation, from people with as few of the characteristics I expressed an interest in as can be… On reflection, perhaps I do need to spell out that having a pulse and living in France isn’t quite enough?
Anyway, politely rebuffing wannabe Mister Es – or would they have to be Sir Es by association, I wonder…, and simply managing my inbox quickly turned into a full-time job. Ok, so see how two paragraphs ago, I was complaining because my inbox was empty? And now I am complaining because it is too full?… Mmmm, I wonder if perhaps I am not the sweet, easy-going, glass half-full kind of gal every single bloke in the Rhône-Alpes region seems to be looking for?
Oh well, hum,… anyway, I have dates. In fact, as I write this, I am about to set off on my first date, and I am mildly intrigued, a little bit excited, but mostly scared senseless. So, this is a personal message to the voice inside my head still whispering “T left you because you’re not good enough”: Feck off, and let me get on with my life, will you?
For some reason I cannot work out, I have been under this song’s spell for the last couple of days. It’s literally called the gold-digger but I hasten to clarify that this title does not in any way relate to the above post 😉
Arthur H- Le chercheur d’or