Sour Pickles

"Your smile and eyes are mesmerizing. Is your inner self as well?" I could have sworn I'd cancelled all cyber dating accounts, but maybe some messages just transcend the rather pedestrian concept of membership.

I looked in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, my smile is reluctant -- in part because of circumstances, in part because of cracking teeth. It don't get any more mesmerizing than that. My online photos are deceiving. Yes, they're fairly recent, but they were taken light years before my divorce became a hideous nightmare with no end in sight. Within a few months, my eyes and smile will be so fucking mesmerizing people will find it difficult not to stare.

But this knight in shining armor had asked about my inner self. "Totally," I responded. Why not?

His next email was almost instantaneous. "Well then I want to take you for a walk on the beach you'll never forget. You definitely won't want to write about it in your blog!."

I blinked a few times, almost certain that when my eyes achieved some focus I would see psychedelic flowers painted on my wall and Jim Lange of the Dating Game standing by my side, leering at Bachelor Number 1's suggestive response and urging me on to play the game, to pursue the innuendo. Oh, Bachelor Number 1. You bet your ass I'm gonna write about it in my blog. A girl has to get her jollies somehow!

But where are my manners? The guy had been decent enough to ask about my inner self. My heart's been twisted, my brain is addled, and every muscle in my body feels sore. There must be something in there that might capture somebody's attention though. Surely the remnants of the deep fried pickles I had for lunch would be somewhat spellbinding.

I'll probably pass on the beach walk. It's not that I couldn't use some new blog material; it's just that I don't have the energy. The guy is probably better off fantasizing about a barefoot stroll with the chick in the pictures, and I'm probably better off popping a few sleeping pills and visiting the dentist.