I have to be honest, I have never been what is traditionally considered “lucky in love”—I had a childhood sweetheart who I basically became obsessed with when she did the French thing of greeting me with a kiss on the cheek, for which I almost immediately fell head over heels, my face at the time riddled with acne. The Elephant Man hasn't felt so accepted since he boned the stunning Esmerelda in Notre Dame.

The closest we got to having sex was when she began fondling my penis through my boxers, and I was too naïve to go for it, instead thinking, “Ah, she's probably asleep and doesn't even know she's doing it”; the blue balls that ensued made me cum in my pants that night to rather pleasant and humbling dreams, I'd say. Nothing says stoic more than inching out of a bed you're sharing with a teenage love who you've yet to admit feelings to and rinsing out lumps of semen from your matted pubes into her sink.

Suffice to say that the relationship didn't work out.

The only other times I've been in love was with an unfaithful woman in a long-term, long-distance relationship while I was suffering from a drug-induced psychosis, and then to an engaged woman (who to be fair was lovely)—both of whom were born on the exact same day. Often I think someone with a bearded smirk, sitting on a cloud is pulling strings at my expense, that sick, fat fuck.

I've yet to find “the one,” basically, and the older I get, the less likely this appears to be happening the more picky and unexceptional women are becoming.

So at 30, single, tired of the vapidity of most day-to-day women, being an intellectual who smokes pipes, reads books, and is a snooty cunt-writer, I accepted a friend's suggestion to try speed-dating.

To women, it's either “absolutely not” or “full-throttle from the first handshake, I'm going to wrap my pussy around this man's wallet judging the shine in his shoes.” I say friend, but what I mean is, someone who would laugh at the zero matches he knew I'd suffer from, and boy did he get his money's worth that night as I stupidly, forgetfully, and thus unknowingly walked from table to table with a bicycle helmet marked all over it with the words “CUNT,” “SADFACE” and “BELLEND” (which my friend had actually written on there a month prior with water insoluble, white ink). For some reason it failed to occur to me to leave the helmet off the table as I approached the women I was trying to woo.

The layout was simple: fifteen men, fifteen women, meet at a coffee and cake night, tick who you like, and if two people match, the organizer (a self-professed fetishist of watching people falling in love; I think she also attends the first handful of dates and initial lovemaking to make sure they do it right, with tenderness and to maximize fertilization) exchanges the numbers of the parties involved. There are but three rules: respect one another, have fun, and NO ORGIES!

The first time I went speed-dating didn't deter me, despite the zero matches that came out of all the positive conversations. The second time I went though, I went unprepared. I had been sleep-deprived as a result of growing tension between myself and a neighbor. For two weeks I slogged through my life with the animation of a well-fed zombie, drinking heavily to keep my eyes from seizuring shut because I was too tired to chew and liquids were a convenient way to ensure my intake of daily calories.

On the day itself I sat out in the sun all day and drank five pints on an empty stomach, thinking this was a well-balanced diet on which to function, and that the trance-like motion of my body language would certainly hint at the assertive yet laidback manner women crave so as to subconsciously feel they are being told to put my dick in their mouths. I felt as though I was stepping up my game, learning from my initial experience in the speed-dating world.

What happened the second time around wasn't much more encouraging. For one, those women who meet society's criteria of a “beautiful woman” are typically those less considerate, their blank stares, how to say, the blankest. They act as if they are doing you a favor, but in reality, because they've had kids early on in their lives, and I'm childless single and moderately successful in an economy where most single men are unemployed, the food stamps I wave in front of their faces beg to differ.

One thing that's always an ice-breaker with women is employment. In fact, out of the fifteen conversations, some ten began with “What do you do?” often preceded with a “Soooo….” It's pretty much how they ascertain your net-worth while remaining polite.

But when a woman is unable to talk with sense about what she does, yet rambles on anyway with that innate superiority that it should be me trying to impress her, I get combative that she's not able to meet me on an intellectually-level playing field yet somehow unable to be thoughtful either.

Too often, a woman's selectivity often boils down to the six-figure income and the dead mother, or at least someone who will be dead by the time they become the mother-in-law, someone infirmed, and easy to kill with untraceable levels of cyanide cakes. I have none of these things, ladies, and my mother still has a lot of bite in her, actually, especially during her electrotherapy sessions.

You also get career-fed women, who are quite explosive; their relationships have disintegrated because their partnerships seem to have interfered with their own life goals, making them erratic. It's as if once they've achieved one lifestyle peak, it's time for them to reach a norm, to focus on that other one that combusted and faded to nothing but resentment, see if they've learned any from their mistakes. These are the lucky women harvesting your seed while you're still young(ish) and virile, trying to live your dreams.

So how well can you know someone in four minutes? Well, the way these things go, according to men, these events “could use some more time.” To women, it's either “absolutely not” or “full-throttle from the first handshake, I'm going to wrap my pussy around this man's wallet judging the shine in his shoes.” (Hint: don't wear death-metal hoodies at speed-dates; apparently they are gauges as to your worth as a human being).

The heightened awareness as to the quality of a man's sperm and his sense of humor (that, frankly with me, takes a while to warm to, as with the sperm) becomes secondary as the “liked him, tick him box” butts heads with the “he's drunk, sleep-deprived, and smells like slightly spoiled milk and sperm… there must be better men out there” mentality.

Me, I'm a depressive alcoholic writer; my semen is so down-and-out they need to be punched out from the balls and led down my shaft, crawling out from my urethra. My glans is so used to dry-spells and not wanting to be disturbed that it cries orgasms while I sleep so as not to disturb me from the dreams it is getting off to.

My glans is not a man.

I think this is where a woman's sixth sense comes into play; they can smell the desperation… and the sperm I didn't even know I had on me ‘cause, well, it had dried by morning and I needed a drink and a good cry. Yes, and both those things would be nice at regular intervals throughout the day.

Really though, the women leave without giving but half a chance at most guys. Even those women who audaciously went out of their way to call me “very interesting” at the ensuing social did so knowing full well they hadn't ticked my box. That's pretty damn cold.

Personally, I honor and respect women—I ain't down with “smashing the shit out of her,” and that makes me about as tolerable a new age man as you're likely to get. I will never, for example, discuss with my friends the noises that you make in the bathroom first thing in the morning. I'm a steady lover, too; don't expect anything from me, and I guarantee not only will I not smash in your pelvis but I will merely stroke myself into your vagina with varying intensities so as to delay my premature ejaculation—all you'll have to do is lay there and I will buy you kitchen appliances.

Admittedly though, if you do contract I will have to tell my friends as I think to myself, “I did that! ME!” When I snore, polar bears take it as their cue to ovulate.

I am also good at making money by trading and maximizing our family's income. When I was but a wee child, I traded a headless Superman toy for a brand new Robocop with some poor kid; even before I had pubes, I was able to fully exploit the less fortunate than myself. This here is a white man you want to be with.

What the women of speed-dating fail to realize is that being overly selective, picky for their own means, and simply just not giving a half-fuck to anyone except the overly appropriate, is what is liable to make love so tortuous. When you rush into commitment out of fear, don't act surprised and curl up into a ball when it all goes belly up.

So yes, I did become a short-lived alcoholic when I lost the woman of my dreams, but I still put that fuel into being creative and not blubbing for a perfect set of cards I expected life to deal me. Although I did cry a little, it's all learning and not based on a desperation for everything in life to be perfect. It's quite alright to die alone, you know.

I have certainly over-exerted myself chasing dreams that have turned to shit through obsession, instead of allowing things to just come as they do; if you truly wanted to respect your search for a potential significant other, this would be your doctrine by ticking the goddamn box and not worrying about it, in the meantime drinking, masturbating, crying, and laughing when it comes—you know, being happy, expecting nothing in return.

And I think that is why I'm not “selected.” I am too grounded. I will not be able to fulfill their unrealistic expectations of buying a castle and fathering and mothering their eight children, all of them girls so that women can finally achieve political equality and world dominance through intense breeding. Perhaps they are in fact smelling out the men who are likely to shoot X's; my balls are huge after all.

I don't believe in suffering for the past, and I don't like people who insist that I do. Women are notorious for holding that kind of grudge when they fail to feel remarkable for anything else, and my response to that is simple: “Suck my dick now because Public Enemy and God told me to make the most of the present.”

If I cannot make you feel remarkable purely by mixing and matching our differences, if you can't tick a box on the basis of a four-minute conversation, then at least be honest with yourself that you are being resentful because you think you are worthy enough to demand better and treat people unkindly in order to find it.

Essentially, my success at speed-dating was like a revolutionary Skrillex song where every note was a drop, the pain being echoed in impossibly low drubs that get under the skin, rattle the mind but are imperceptible to human ears; just one long, desperate dirge clinging to the hope that a box will be ticked, a vagina stuck into.

A shout of, “Someone please love me as a down-and-out alcoholic writer who has a billion ways to write about your vagina and lives as a bum with an indefinite, substandard income, tiny dick and massive balls.”

In summary, my attitude to life is one projecting a person who would be unwilling to fight for his children's survival, or perhaps women just don't want their spouses happy and confident but instead prefer a partner who will eventually fold and die prematurely because of the infesting brain tumor from withholding all that resentment as a retarded “yes-man.” Then he'll leave her all of his six-figure income and that house in the Bahamas. That there is pretty evil.

So my advice? Don't go speed-dating. Stick to funerals, where bereavements and emotional vulnerability will guarantee you long-term commitments. The days of good, real women are fading, and drastically, judging from my experiences speed-dating, when compared to the rare times I have fallen in love based on my development as a thoughtful human being.