My "craft" is more like Kraft -- cheesy and fun, but of little substance and questionable taste.

A man sent me a first OkCupid message that alternated between asking me out and asking me for writing advice (my profile says I freelance, he's trying to).

Well, your message was 407 words, so I'd start with revisions. People are busy; make it snappy. (This entire post is 100+ words shorter than his message.)

Second, I don't know SHIT about writing. I vomit out whatever's in my brain, then shorten it – that's my “process.” Sometimes I consult a thesaurus. I can't advise you when I don't consider MY writing a skill. I haven't honed any craft -- I write what happens. Anyone can do that. So...do that. Start a blog. Ask to contribute to sites you like. Apply for writing jobs.

His profile says he's starting over, mentions being "codependent and childish" in the past, and now, at age 43, really trying to man up. His message said he probably shouldn't even be dating yet, but his discomfort tells him he should.

Dude… Respect, for sure, but I am also codependent and childish, starting over, trying to man up, and dating when I probably shouldn't be.

I can't date myself when I hate myself.

I'm not posting his whole message because it was honest and took courage, so I can't mock him. But seeing those issues laid bare straight away is, for my own issues, overwhelming. I know he's not asking me to help fix his life, but that's what it feels like. No can do, man -- I'm working on my own. Only one of us can be the fixer-upper.

Fat-armed and dangerous

I'll give my self-hatred credit: sometimes it gets really good with specifics.

I put on a sleeveless shirt, because whoo hoo, nearing 80 degrees in Philly today! Suck it, seasonal depression!

But then I got a gander at my upper arms, and... Jesus Christ, can you get arm lipo? I bet you can. I should look into that. Arm lipo sounds much easier than hoisting my fat ass off the couch, popping in a Shaun T DVD and actually, um, WORKING on it. Pfft. This IS America, isn't it? Suck out my fat and then give me a snack.

Joking. FINE. I'll do a pushup. FINE.

P.S. If I could do those pushups on TOP of Shaun T, I'd be far more enthused. I know, I know -- he's gay, and married. Like I'd have a shot if he weren't. LET ME DREAM, people.

The Smug Hunter's Field Guide

See, the deal with my particular self-hatred is, I have BEEN clingy (more on this later), and I talk too much, and these are things I've hated about myself. So as my potential suitor, YOU can't be clingy and talk too much, because I will hate it even more in you.

I am attracted to guys who are...not unavailable, per se (though I've clearly been there). But definitely less emotive than I am.

I'm like a skittish baby deer, and if I feel like you're coming on too strong, I'm taking my fluffy ass back into the wild. None of my meat for you.

...OK, wait, I lost control of the deer metaphor.

Don't be clingy, is my point. Once you've pushed me to thinking "OMG, PLEASE STOP TALKING," we're probably done.

Like an ADULT. No, really.

A friend pointed out that I'm kind of shitty to myself when it comes to my ability to be an adult: "You are constantly talking about being incapable, an unfit adult, generally sucking at everything, along with other negative talk about yourself."

Hm. That's because I genuinely do FEEL incompetent probably half of the time, like I can't even believe I'm allowed to drive and make life choices. But I think the difference is, unlike everyone else, I say it out loud. And probably too often. 

A Facebook friend who doesn't know me very well went so far as to imply it was my "thing," and a coworker sent me a JPG of an "adulting honorable mention" ribbon that said "I put on pants today."

I really don't want ineptitude to be my "thing." Especially at work.

We'll add that to the list of goals to work on with the therapist, because I'm really not sure how to go about fixing it. (Other than to just shut the fuck up, which I guess is probably the best option.) But I can't get butthurt when people treat me like an incompetent asshole if I continue to act like one.

But ssshhhh... I'm totally going to go eat Froot Loops in my blanket fort. And the pants will be gone as soon as I walk in the door.

I'm bad in bed. Staying IN bed will help, no?

Lying in bed this morning, my brain wandered to that handjob song I posted yesterday, and then to my own sexual abilities, and now it doesn't want to get out of bed in part because it's telling me I'm terrible at sex and now I'm sad.

Um, brain? You do know we're not a prostitute, right? Even if we ARE bad in bed, that's not really gonna come (heh) into play during our workday. We probably will not be evaluated on sexual prowess today. And staying IN bed alone really isn't going to help us improve. 

Please get up. We can lament being crap at sex once we've had coffee. 

(What? This doesn't happen to everyone?)