So, there are plenty of fish, right? Well, it’s mighty rough seas and my holds are empty, that’s for sure, and after spending no little time here on POF I feel too much like some grizzled character out of a Hemingway novel who’d been strapped into a sweat-stained fighting chair bolted to the deck in the c-o-c-k-p-i-t * of old Pilar, struggling with a record-book Marla---errr, marlin for 16 hours, nothing but tepid beer and spoonsful of stale peanut butter to sustain me as the rod belt dug purple welts in my midsection and the swaying, lurching line of the transom against an endless, white-capped pelagic horizon turned my rumbling guts sour, chewed up like the shaky unlit stump of Cuban cigar clamped in my aching jaw. It’s not as much fun as it sounds, I assure you, and I may be painting too pretty of a picture, not doing justice to the grim horror and dismay of the enervating boondoggle that is internet dating, but I suppose my naturally optimistic construction disallows self-indulgent, querulous jeremiads, though the unvarnished truth might better serve the unwary and unwitting gudgeons who wander this uncouth, fishy gyre.
P.S. I find it amusing that POF insists I choose 'one word' to describe my personality and 'beach bum' is an option provided. ; )
P.P.S. Women on this site who choose not to respond to a simple, polite question are terrible, terrible people. The worst. Period. I mean, really, there's no other possible explanation. Lucrezia Borgia and Liz Bathory ain't even in it. : )
P.P.P.S. After wasting a small fortune on a gallon bucket of Ralph Lauren Crisco Blue Spritz cologne, I realized I am no one's biggest fish to fry on POF. : (
P.P.P.P.S If you own or ride horses--iron or otherwise--we're probably not a match (unless you're supermodel good looking, that is, and, let's be honest,why would a supermodel waste even a nanosecond of her time on the likes of me, right?).
* Thank the incomprehensible censorship of POF for the need to hyper-hyphenate that terribly wicked word.