See, had I been born Heracles, this would have been one labor from which I would have emerged a victor. (Emerged, yes. As a guy named “Victor,” no. Not that I’m slamming the name, mind you; I just feel that when it comes to ancient Greeks, “Heracles” sounds a bit more masculine than “Victor”. I’m sure, say, that a guy named Victor could have had a future back then, it’s just that most dung salesmen who are cruelly–yet ironically–run over by an out-of-control dung cart don’t figure into many hero stories. But don’t blame me; blame the ancient Greeks. I mean, dude, they’re the ones running around without clothes all the time and having sex with animals. Huh. I wonder if Victor had sex with animals…) Thanks to his brawn, brains and an excellent PR firm, Heracles ended up the winner in nearly all of his stories. Sure, sure, there was that “But he killed his kids!” nonsense, but I don’t plan on having kids, so that’s all right.
But I wasn’t. Born Heracles, that is. So, when it came time to fight my own personal Hydra (as illustrated in this poetic post portraying a poignant puppy-love purpose ), I found that I stood no chance. Not that I didn’t try, of course. Oh no, I tried crying out for help (and a few brave souls did come to that valiant cry, true), but no one ever told me to just stop dating the gal.
Confused because you didn’t read the other thread? Well, don’t say that I never gave ya’ nuthin’, because here’s a brief synopsis:
Me: I dated again, help!
Others: Good luck with that.
Me: No, what did this whole date mean? Is there romance, is there love, is there–most importantly–a slim chance that she will give me a booty call tonight 'cause my booty is best?
Others: Good luck with that.
Me: But I’m already semi-naked, wrapped in my furry, tiger-striped comforter. Oh, and I also have “Debbie does… her taxes” playing on the VCR. Who can resist that seductive combo?
Others: Yeah, we changed our minds. All of us. Bad luck with that.
Me: You’re right. I shall wait for her call.
Anyway, the first date ended and then we started a second date. (The next weekend, not right away.) Much to my dismay, she agreed to a third date the weekend after that. And then a fourth. By then I was a bit 'scairt because she just wouldn’t say “No!” when I kept asking her out. “Let’s try something different the next time,” I suggested.
“Like what?” she asked.
“How 'bout you tell me that you’d rather date your brother before you go out with me again?” That was sure-fire suggestion because no one in their right mind would–
“I’ve done that,” she said. “He’s a horrible lay.”
Thus I was stymied; I had nothing else to give her in way of stopping the madness. It looked like we would be going out for a fifth time. And then a sixth, seventh, eighth and higher! (Large numbers always impress me, but I can’t usually count that high.) As Heracles, my torches would have already been doused, the Hydra would have swallowed whole my own pant snake (kinda like a Twizzler… only, don’t chew) and the end of the world would have been nigh.
And now we’re engaged. Sigh (“But Official Which,” you protest. “What up wit dat, eh? In your last thread, you mentioned her brilliance, her beauty and her engaging [hrrrumph!] personality. What the hell are you complaining about?” Exactly. THOSE girls are the ones you can’t get away from!)
Anyone have a torch?