Let's just blow the whole dang thing up right now.
I'm totally on a phone call right now with Philadelphia. Except he's actually Delaware. And he asked if I knew where Delaware was.
So far, we've discussed masturbation, how chocolate chip cookies are going to kill me and that he wants to go to Canada and I think wants me to go with him. Except we're not going to move north and live happily ever after, we're going to sneak across the border and live a life of adventure and illegality.
Also, he told me that at 30 years old, my odds of getting married are pretty much nil. It took a lot of self control to not say, "So why are we talking again?"
Are you kidding me? What did I do to deserve this?
It's been half an hour, and some of our exchanges have been really funny. Others have not been. Masturbation? He asked why I thought women didn't masturbate as much as men do. And he guessed that 'DULTG'G was probably horny (sure) because he was desperate because he wasn't getting any sex. And then he asked if that was correct. Like I'd asked the crazy online stalker the last time he got any.
The Greeks didn't have a word for homosexual. Socrates had sex with young boys.
Brigham Young thought love was second to duty in a marriage.
He referenced Jane Austen. And Twilight. And said love is a form of emotional pornography based on women who want to get to emotional third base after a first date.
He just asked me what character in literature I want to be. I said Rapunzel. He told me he was hoping I would say Margaret Thatcher and assigned me to see "The Iron Lady."
I'm getting a lecture. I'm on a phone call with a guy who theoretically could be romantically interested in me and available for me to be interested in, and he is lecturing me. And then he asked incredibly personal questions and didn't understand why I wouldn't answer them.
At least now that I know my chances of getting married are statistically lower than Paris Hilton's chance of ever being good at anything, I can stop trying, guilt-free. Bring on the cookie dough!