Flaming dandelions and the Four Horsemen of Tomorrow.

"So are you a fan of Joe Haldeman or George R.R. Martin?"

This is a very common question I ask when courting for a mate (which is always...). It has come to my attention that this question has never been answered adequately enough, forcing me at this stage in life to reassess the wisdom of incorporating science fiction and fantasy fandom into such a fragile sales pitch for sex.
I should, instead, focus on other things I am good at. Things that really separate me from the rest of the herd. So I decided to sit down and take stock of my assets.

These "things" include writing poetry on the cuteness of "Build-a-Bear" bears, cooking Indian food under the strict guidance of my Mom, sleeping on a couch and building anthropomorphic sea creatures with lego blocks. Certainly, these are the skills in high demand nowadays. I've even included these skills into my curriculum vitae, putting special emphasis on my advanced knowledge of design using Lego blocks. I hope this catches the attention of a wayward recruiter, swimming through the seas of Indeed, Monster and AdultFriendFinder.

So, being the hottest thing on the block, why is it that I am still single?! How can anyone resist the above mentioned qualities? Is everyone blind to my genius and good looks? I pondered this question when I awoke, shuffling out of bed and scurrying blindly into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me, turning on the light, only to come face to face with a murderous cockroach from the nether realms, ready to draw blood.

My suspicions that we (my roommate, Mike and I) lived in a residence once zoned for atomic weapons testing and/or mutant accelerate juice dumping had been growing as of late. The evidence starts with having negotiated terms with a sentient hand puppet in the form of a frog, named Sir Thadeus McDermot, on living in one of our closets as well as another occurrence where I took a leadership role in mediating peaceful terms between two waring biological masses, now occupying our refrigerator, on the brink of mutually assured destruction. Their actions threatened our meager food supply (which consisted of bread, a 2 lb bag of shredded cheddar cheese and an assortment of condiments) which was to sustain us till the next week when both our paychecks would arrive. I was not willing to tap into my savings to purchase more ramen noodles.



It was a scene of terror beyond anything HP Lovecraft could conjure from his deranged mind. The thing was as big as my fist and it's "hombre's" were beginning to crawl out of the cracks and spaces in droves. Soon I found myself signing over the bathroom rights to the gang, which granted them access to toll charges on our use of the bathroom. Mike was not going to be pleased.

But alas I digress. Before leaving the bathroom in shame and disgust at my own cowardice, having succumbed to the whims of psychotic roaches, I took one good look in the mirror.

My hair has always been an abomination from hell. Its as if, on some dark and distant blot of history, I thought it was a good idea to use a single blade razor to cut my own hair. I have permanent bald spots on the sides of my head. It was once described to me as "Mad Scientist Hair". Surely this is the source of my misfortune.