Your resident nerd/tween-superstar Mount_Prion here, with an important message.

Online dating blows. And yet, I still participate.

I recently went on a date with a gorgeous, intelligent woman, with tons of dorky quirks and nifty tattoos. Also, she had big boobs. Everything was going swimmingly until two days later-when she was sober-and she realized we had no romantic future.

There were a number of reasons for this, she said, but the real important one, it turns out, is that I’m “too into music.”

Translation: Your pheromones scream out, “The only thing I’m only good at is masturbating and weeping while Venetian Snares skitters along in the background.”

Well.

Faithful reader, as you can no doubt imagine, such a painful failure brought forth a mighty deluge of angst from deep within my fuzzy chest. When I stopped drinking (alone, in the dark, to Venetian Snares), I awoke and questioned my value as a human being, the fairness of the universe on the whole, and the fairness of OKCupid in particular. I cried.

My profound conclusion: life is not fair.

In the world of online dating, women put in little effort for a surplus of attention, while the overpopulated males must scramble for a nod from anything that still comes with all its teeth and limbs. Admittedly, many of the men who a woman might hear from have the intellectual nuance of krill, but at least the attention is there. If I were a lady of comparable attractiveness to the opposite sex as I am in my current, bepenised state, I think the online dating world would be much easier.

So I’m doing something about it. If you’re thinking the something I’m doing is writing this post, then I applaud your metapacity, but you are wrong.

I have decided to become the perfect woman. Unfortunately, I would make a very hairy woman, but that’s why god created lasers.

And what, dear reader, goes better with lasers than Anime?

So, I will be surgically metamorphosed into a huge-breasted, cyan-haired Anime heroine, with the torso of a centaur, carrying a gigantic double-sided phallic symbol. Also, my breasts will be filled with delicious ramen. Ramen spiced with spirit particles.

You might say that my 3D to 2D, male-human to female-cartoon transition is impossible, but I have faith in science. Science made the bubblegum meatball a reality, so anything is possible in time.

And since all will be possible in the bright, shining future, I will vindicate my murky, angsty history by traveling back in to the past to date myself.

The astute of you will say, “Bring a tissue.”

The astuter of you will say, “Great Scott! If you date yourself, you could disrupt the entire space-time continuum, and potentially throw the entire universe into a naked (heh) gravitational singularity! Flux capacitor! Chronosynclastic infundibulum!”

But the astutest of all will say, “Back to the Future is just a movie. So, worry not, and go fuck yourself. Literally.”

And that’s why I’m unconcerned and finally free of angst. I know that any second now, my brand new self will appear and-

Wait! What’s that cyan glow?

Oh! You saucy centaur, you (me)! Bring that sweet, soup-filled hunk of horsemeat over here and let’s git it awn.

Eh? Does this room suddenly feel smaller to you?! Oh no! I was wrong! How do I even have time to type thi-

THWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWP!

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