Lothario Manque

It never fails. Every time I accept a friend request from a dude I don’t know (or have mutuals with), I get an immediate rando direct message saying/asking “hi, how are you.” That’s it. If i don’t respond in less than 24 hours (I never reply to such obvious “I think Instagram/Facebook/Whatevs is the same as Tinder” bullshit texts), I get at least one or two highly indignant follow up DMs demanding to know WHY I haven’t replied yet.

These radish brained numpties don’t seem to understand that they:

A) have absolutely no game. Charm, finesse and them aren’t on speaking terms.
B) likewise, self awareness. Zero.
C) intelligence? ‘fraid not. WHY would I respond to someone who:

can’t be bothered to properly introduce himself?

is too dim to understand that Instagram is not eHarmony?

hasn’t done a lick of research about the chicky (yurs truly) with whom he’s looking to score?

I may’ve mentioned this already but, clearly, these plastic dudes have nothing interesting or worthwhile with which to bait their tiny hooks. Solid charisma fail.

These tedious spud heads probably believe that all the women on whom they unleash their mind-blowingly cheap-ass lines, are simply fluttering in their Jimmy Choos (high priced 4" skinny heels are a gender requirement, right?), in anticipation of the next limp text. Nope-a-reeno muskrats.

Nota bene, the reason you haven’t gotten laid in the past five years? (paying for it or slipping her a roofie don’t count) You need to look inward babe. No, NOT up your ass. Your head’s already spent too many years up there sans results. Give it up, mon petit imbécile.

Somehow the rat wankers have developed wholly undeserved mondo egos. Probably had mothers like mine who felt that boys were kings and girls were nothing more than spawn incubators, cooks and housekeepers.

Part of me is always tempted to write back with a critique of their imaginary razzle-dazzle (with a ten point opening summary). I’d provide suggestions for improvement—point them in the direction of actual dating sites, decent therapists and professional profile writers (since they’ve made it clear they’re incapable of understanding how this charming-a-potential-playmate shit works). Perhaps I could also send a link to Cyrano de Bergerac.

I’m all helpful like that, ya know.

What do I do instead? Block. Sure, that’s less creative of me but I’ve got better things to do with my time (like cleaning the grout in the rain room with bleach paste and an old toothbrush). Also, unlike my dearly departed Coco, I don’t enjoy toying with inferiors (in her case, mousies) until they admit defeat or die of exhaustion.

Wait a minute here, that might be a fun way to get through the frozen, dark winter months. Eh?

Did I mention? Yesterday’s loser, in his second text, asked if I hadn’t written back because I’m married.

A) sure Tweedledum, that’s the ONLY possible rationale for me ignoring you (insert sky shattering eye roll here). It couldn’t conceivably be due to your stone dullness OR that maybe I’m fucking BUSY.
B) I’m not married but I AM living in glorious sin…with Ten. You and your banal brain aren’t within parsecs of his league.

Ya know, It occurs to me that MAYBE my tiresome Xmas troll (not to diss trolls) wasn’t an egotistical, scum licking, butt-wipe who feels all women owe him their time and the right of first rejection. Possibly, the Witless Wonder (NOT an actual superhero) is desperately insecure. He might be suffering from crippling social awkwardness on top of his clear inability to pass a simple inductive reasoning test. So, it was really a kindness on my part to block instead of going all Coco on his tenth-rate tête. Sure, my impenetrable digital wall was employed for lazier reasons but I’ll claim the benevolence banner when and where I can get away with it.

Oh c’mon, you would too!