What follows is the first response I’ve received from a woman on the website Match.com:
“Hey Jesse,
I did have the chance to read your profile. Do you have a picture? I’m wondering what you look like? Anyway, where did you live in California? I spent a few years in Stockton as a child. I loved Northern Cali, not Stockton so much, but the other parts. What brought you to Corpus Christi? What were doing in NY? Sorry for all the questions, it’s just that you actually seem interesting. Most people who have emailed me either seem crazy or just creepy. I read your story about that girl from Houston. Enjoy the cold weather and thanks for your email.
-***** ****”
(by the way this isn’t the girl I wrote the drunken e-mail to down below.) I wrote this girl as a normal person or I’ll never have a date to discuss and close this book with.
She seems nice enough. She even skips words like I do when writing. I tried uploading a picture, but the dickholes who work for Match.com won’t approve it. I need to work on that. This woman is from New York City - get the rope! I’m joking, but did throw in the fact I was recently in NYC and how it’s our modern day Rome. Did I steal that from someone? Not sure if I can take credit for that.
Anyhoo, did I mention she used to teach ballet classes? How rad is that? She’s an ex-ballerina who still dabbles when having the time. She loves “history, literature and the arts.” She’s 27 years old, wears glasses and quite attractive. How the hell this woman ended up in South Texas is beyond me, but I love it. Her beliefs and faith are very important to her. She’s looking for a man with “brains, passion for life and a good sense of humor.”
That’s so fucking me!
I mean, I’ve got shit for brains, but they’re still brains. I even once had a passion for life and as far as I’m concerned - funny as fuck. I just might sweep this woman right off her feet. The poor little thing has no idea what she’s in for, but I have to be good. I have to be normal. I can’t take her out for a drink and just rip on her the entire time. I’ve done that before. I once met a woman out and it got to the point where she actually had to ask me to stop making fun of her. In my defense, everything and I mean everything that came out of her mouth was prime for the taking. It was almost as if she was pushing my buttons. Testing me. Needless to say - we never saw each other again and I’ve yet to make this same mistake twice. Now when women say stupid shit I only smile and nod in approval. I’ll take this new girl to the movies, get coffee and be average. I should probably read something other than true crime so we have something to talk about.
I’ll be charming.
The old me. The one who still held a small grip on giving a fuck. I remember that dude, he was kind of bewitching sometimes. That guy got laid on a regular basis. He wasn’t at the bar every night slowly taking his own life with wine. This girl wants a man with passion for life!
Not a slurred speech and limp whiskey dick.
It’s time to revamp! Enough is enough. This New York City girl can be my first attempt at normality because it could take a few tries. I have a feeling she’s looking for more of a Gilbert Lowell kind of person and not a bad ass like myself and let me be clear: I don’t mean a bad ass as in I came here for two reasons - to drink some beer and kick some ass, but as in I’ll verbalize anything that crosses my mind regardless of my surroundings or care less if someone might be offended.
That’s not good.
I have the feeling I could be sniffing around for a good ass kicking. Ugh, I hope I don’t lose any teeth. That shits expensive. I need to wrangle this New Yorker in my arms so I have a reason to stop exploring the night life. I don’t want to get punched in the mouth. What if I get raped or something? Can you imagine? Picture me naked with a rope tied around my neck, thrown over the ledge of a downtown parking garage and an asshole that looks like a turned inside out sock. In this fictional situation I was gang raped by a pack of hate crime mother fuckers with homosexual tendencies. They fucked me, but couldn’t deal with the fact they’re all gay so they lynched this Ginge like a bug zapper in summer. If I survive this ordeal, I will never and I mean never get myself another date with a woman. You can’t bounce back from that, but thankfully people hardly ever survive a hanging.
Damn it, I’m not being very normal. That’s not a normal thought process. I will not verbalize this on our first date. I won’t! Women are clearly going to think I’m gay if I go around making jokes about being gang banged. I have to tell normal humorous situations about three different men walking into a bar. Like a Rabbi or something? How does it go? I’m too busy wondering what these assholes might have used as rope to hang me with. My imagination is picturing a pair of jumper cables.
Damn, that’s slick. I need to remember that for a script. Somehow tie it in with these cars you see on the 59 being towed into Mexico.
“In Tow.”
There’s your title right there! Can I write a movie centered around Hispanic serial killers who tow cars into Mexico and rape/murder the occasional Ginger? Or really any white person for that matter. They loath how we appear free and get drunk at the bar every night with what seems like an endless supply of money - while they work their asses off and must deal with the occasional power-abusing boarder patrol agent.
Fuck it, I’ll write a few scenes and see what New York City girl thinks. Maybe she knows the right people out there who can get this movie made.
See, that’s normal. I’m showing artistic ability and direction.
