Romance By Numbers & The Statistical Probability Model

Romance By Numbers

For those of you who believe in romance and would like to continue to be fooled, please stop reading this now. I have some soberingly tragic news about what relationships actually are. A relationship is an understood contract between two people who are hopefully looking for what they claim to be looking for. There is not someone for everyone, things are not meant to be. These are fairy tales told to children, not unlike Santa Claus and Cinderella. I’ll admit that it’s fun to visit Oz every once in a while, but eventually you’re going to wake up to find the cowardly lion was really just Uncle Zeke. This is not to say happiness is not possible, but please don’t count on fate to steer your life raft. As dry a pill as it can be to swallow sometimes, there is another edge on the sword of free will. It would be so easy not to be responsible for your actions, but you will end up where you end up as a direct result of your choices. Relationships are no exception.

So once you can accept that there is not one person for everyone, what can we say of relationships? Does love actually exist? Actually, love is a separate problem altogether. Love has no meaning. It is a word we throw around in songs and bedspeak to make our relationship partner feel better about the contract. It means something different to everyone and cannot be measured from one person to the next and often times, not even from one instance to the next and can therefore not be described. Coincidentally, much like pain. The same people that tell me there is someone for everyone also like to say that when you are in love, you’ll know it. Well, I’ve known it about 3 or 4 times now. So that theory is bullshit. Same thing with Ouija Boards, by the way. But don’t worry; all hope is not lost yet. (to be continued)

The Statistical Probability Model

(continued from 8/3/08) That’s where the “Statistical Probability Model” comes into play. There are a finite number of people on earth. Assuming there is not one person for everyone while still living under the unfortunate constraints of monogamy, we are looking for one of these people. For sake of simplicity, I will eliminate one entire gender from the dating pool. There goes half of them. There are also age restrictions and under very conservative, yet legal parameters, that will probably eliminate about 75% of the one gender. Also, for the sake of argument, we’re not trying to break up any marriages, happy or otherwise, or live the life of the sordid affair. That will probably take out at least half of the remainder. We’ve just very conservatively narrowed our focus to 6% of the population.

Now there are certain deal breakers that everyone has. No smokers, no diseases, no fatties, no Republicans, etc. There go about 65-90%, depending on one’s standards. Then there are categories of high importance, such as religious affiliation, children and the willingness to perform certain sexual acts. These are closely followed by categories of less importance, such as hair color, preferred room temperature and the willingness to perform other sexual acts. While none of these are deal-breakers to some people, a companion must earn a certain number of compatibility points in order to qualify for the contract. Each individual can decide on his or her own what the minimum number is and how much weight is given to which categories, but there is a number, whether we write it down on paper or just do it on the abstract abacus of compromise in our heads. This will probably eliminate about 80-95% of whoever the heck is left. This leaves us with approximately 0.156% of the world’s population. Thankfully the world has a lot of people. However, you will not meet all of them. So we apply that percentage to our geographical area, which depending on size, may not be statistically significant enough to apply these numbers without serious revision. Still, you will be compatible enough to have a relationship with one person for every 640 that you meet.

That’s still not too bad. You can certainly meet 640 people in a little over a year’s time. Now the trick is to meet them, get to know them well enough to realize that they’ve fit into your statistical probability model, hope they’re not seeing anybody else, and cross your fingers like hell that you fit into their model and that they realize it too. I don’t have odds prepared to discuss these percentages.

So this is sadly what relationships really are. There is no meant to be, there is not one person for everyone. Romance is dead. Love is a set of formulas carefully calculated on an excel spreadsheet. But there is still a chance for happiness. And on a long enough timeline, even the cynical heartless creator of this formula will find his 1 in 640. And when I do, I am convinced that I will tell myself that this is all bullshit and this girl is the girl that was destined for me from the beginning of time and fate brought us together. Again.

Playing the odds,

Busted Nuts.

Still Standing Right Here…

QOTD credits: Joe Titlow – (The Statistical Probability Model)

The Confused Narcissist

The Confused Narcissist

So last year at Valentines Day, I talked about hope and how I had a chance to finally catch a break in the form of a beautiful young intellectual who seemed to be really into me. Well, some of you may remember how that turned out. That break I thought I was finally catching turned out to be much like the road runner that the coyote always thinks he’s catching. The road runner magically got away and the device which I tried to use to catch it somehow malfunctioned and defying all laws of physics, hurled a 20-ton rock onto my head, leaving me to limp my accordion-shaped body back to the drawing board.
Another year, another trail of heartbreak and despair. And honestly, I can’t even really say that heartbreak has been a part of this past year. I haven’t gotten close enough for heartbreak. But the despair makes up for it. And for those of you who think that I’m a player, a commit-o-phobe or a relationship saboteur, I’d appreciate it if you could somehow manage to kick yourself in the throat right now so that I don’t have to do it myself and so I’ll never really have to know about it. It’s better for all that way.
Really, whether I’ve been the punching bag for an emotionally troubled 19-year-old, the butt end of a joke for some hot 21-year old or falsely impregnating people 500 miles away (yeah, there’s a fun story), this year has beaten me down. Every year does. And every year, I try to figure out why. I just need it to make sense because it doesn’t.
And so I approach the situation rationally. What the hell is wrong? The easy answer is that’s it’s me. After all, I am the only common link in all my failed relationships. And honestly, for years I have assumed that is was. But let’s take a look to be sure.
Am I too picky? I think we all know that’s bullshit. I’ve limited myself to girls that will say yes. As long as they meet the minimum requirements that the league has in place. This only applies to first and second dates. Subsequent dates need to be earned. And yes, I am still limiting myself to girls. It’s not that bad yet.
Am I not good-looking enough? Sure, probably for some bitches. But those are probably the ones that are too good-looking for me anyway, so we’ve reached an agreement.
Do I not make enough money? Probably not for some people. The ones that are destined to live their lives submerged in their superficial bog of money and toys. One day, these people will look back at their lives and realize that they did everything they had to do to lead the lives that they would truly enjoy. Sorry, there’s no moral here.
Am I not funny enough? OK, go kick yourself in the throat again, please. You’d better stretch first though in case you have to do it again.
Am I not romantic or caring enough? OK, that’s bullshit and I think anybody who knew me when I actually had someone to care about knows this anyway. I once covered a girl’s room with 100 balloons and had the sheet music to a song I had written her lying on her bed with a dozen roses for when she came home. Sadly, the most romantic thing I’ve ever done was back in 1993. Even more sad is the fact that I haven’t had a relationship last as long since then.
Do I beat women up too much? No. I couldn’t hurt a fly. At least not a female one.
Do I cheat on them too much? No. Probably not enough in some cases.=
Am I not good enough in bed? 937-396-7974. Ask for Becky. Or Kiesha. They only know me as Extendo though. I was a clown at their daughter’s birthday party. OK, none of that is true. But by the time we’re that far in our relationship for me to fail at that, I feel the job of getting someone to know me has been accomplished. But I do know how to please women in bed anyway. I give them all the covers.
Am I a weirdo? I don’t know. Everybody’s weird. I don’t really come out and talk about Magic the Gathering and Warcraft on the first date anyway. Unless they bring it up. And if that’s a trap I’m falling into, the hell with that. If conversations we’re having are really just impossible tests designed to make me fail like all other men have before me to make you feel better about yourself when the relationship goes sour, you can go sit on the bitter bus with Meghan “The Ultimate Quizmaster” and enjoy your life in Bitchtown.
Am I too cocky? Only when I get to dress up as Capt Jack Sparrow. And that has been pound for pound my best strategy anyway.
Am I not confident enough? Aha! We found one! But why would I be? I’m a confused narcissist. I have every reason to think that I’m the greatest person in the world but absolutely no evidence to back it up. I have been able to fake confidence for a long time though in short enough bursts. I usually either channel the Jack Sparrow character or just actually drink that much rum instead.
OK, I’m getting tired of this charade. Mostly because I honestly don’t think it’s me. I can’t believe that. I’m a catch. As long as you don’t need money. Or a car radio. Or a guy that can match his clothes. But honestly, as easy as it would be to blame me, or at least my characteristics, I won’t sign off on that. Because not only does it not make sense, but that would be admitting defeat anyway. But with your help, I’m going to figure this out, people! We have some work to do if we’re going to fix this so that I have the first ever truly happy Valentines Day QOTD next year. Feel free to help me out by telling me some other things that I’m good at. Or suck at. Or let me know if you have a hot cousin who just got dumped or something. Again, females only.
Making nothing out of nothing at all,
The Confused Narcissist.

Still Standing Right Here…

QOTD credits: Dave Walker – (The Confused Narcissist)

The Stupidbowl 2008

The Stupidbowl 2008

I hate Eli Manning. It’s true. It may be completely unjustified and unreasonable but I can’t help it. Even more than I hate Tom “Condoms Are For Losers” Brady. Since draft day four years ago, I have never wanted anyone to fail at life more than him. This includes people who have done me actual wrong, such as ex-girlfriends, evil credit collection agencies and the ass hole bartender at Steinkellers who cards me every time just to piss me off and then will tell Bill his money is no good there. We come in together all the damn time! I’ve been in there at least 50 times, ass hole.

Anyway, this Superbowl ruins all that. Even on the rare weekend when Eli didn’t suck at life, I could always hang my hat on the success of San Diego and the fact that all his bitching and whining about the wrong team drafting him first overall got him in the world’s most critical market on a team that sucked. And I lost a little respect for Chris Berman that day too. He talked about how classy Eli was by holding up the San Diego jersey even though the world knew that he (nay – his dad) didn’t want to play in San Diego. What the hell else was he going to do!? Throw it down on the ground and take a dump on it? Light it on fire and yell “Fuck you and your silly draft rules, Paul Tabliabue! I’ll play for the team my dad wants me to play for!” No, what he did was far more spineless and cowardly. He was the George Bush of the NFL. He got his dad and big brother to fix it. “Wah! I don’t want to play in San Diego! Wah! The country voted for the wrong guy. I’m telling my dad! Him and my brother can fix it.” And then Eli lied to the UN and started bombing other NFL teams based on improper intel. What a dick.

Apparently the Mannings are the Corleones of the NFL. Archie gave San Diego an offer they couldn’t refuse. And that is the day I grew to hate that damn look on Eli’s face. Like Screech could probably go up and steal his lunch money from him and elbow him in the face and he wouldn’t do anything if his dad wasn’t around. And things looked so good until this year. Eli has more interceptions than anyone in the league and he gets throw around and beat up like a scared little rag doll every night on SportsCenter. But not anymore. Now he has a Superbowl and no matter what happens from now on, he’ll always be able to say that. And there goes my argument. It turns our Archie and the Giants knew what they were doing. And I hate them for it. I’m still going to steal his lunch money. If there’s any left after Tiki Barber sees him.

QOTD credits: Dave Walker – (Tom “Condoms Are For Losers” Brady)

The Tipping Point

The Tipping Point

Since when did stores start this “tip us before we serve you” policy? It took me long enough to accept the fact that I had to give extra money to certain professions after they did their job. It’s kinda nice that a waitress’ tip depends directly on how good the service is. OK, makes sense. I’ve you’ve ever eaten at Denny’s after 11 and gratuity is already on there, you know what I’m talking about. They could give a shit if you like what you get, if you get what you want or even if you get what you ordered. So I’ll go ahead and tip my waitress. Also, if you don’t tip her and leave your phone number, she definitely won’t call you. Actually, she probably would. Maybe I’ve been doing this wrong.

Anyway, I’ve decided that I am not tipping bartenders anymore. I don’t give enough money to charity as it is. There are people out there that don’t have jobs or homes and can’t afford their crack and I’ve been neglecting them for all my life. And yet, I’ll happily give somebody an extra $5 for pouring beer from a nozzle into 3 glasses. Or worse yet, one that opened three bottles and gave them to me (I only have 2 friends in these scenarios). The guy that bent down to pick up the quarter I just dropped probably did more work for me than they did. Maybe I should tip him. So yeah, the days are gone where I tip bartenders for opening a damn bottle. And don’t look at me in disgust just cause all these other suckers play your little flirting for money game. I will NOT be exploited with flirtation. I know better now. Take your cute little laugh and pathetic attempt to wink and you’re “what can I get for you, dollface?” little voice and go practice taking caps of bottles. You’re not good enough at it yet to impress me.

Oh, and I don’t tip strippers either. $40 for 4 minutes worth of work is damn good money. David Beckham type of money. Plus, I really look out of place when I break out my percentage card after a lap dance.

Yeah, so anyway – The Great Steak & Potato Co. has a tip jar out in the front by the register when you pay. Well before you actually get the food, and likely, much much earlier than you actually eat the food. What exactly am I tipping? The service at the cash register? Wow! Awesome rudimentary math skills you got there! Are you taking a class now or do you still remember that from 1st grade? They pull this same shit at Pita Pit too. Well, I devised a plan. The first time I go into one of these places, I’m not tipping them. Then every subsequent time I go in, I’m going to tip based on my previous experience. It sounds like a great idea right? (Oh sure it does. Can’t miss). Well, this takes dedication and organization that I’m not willing to put into this project. I had to remember the service and the approximate cost of the food and I had the have the right change on me after my current purchase. It was a disaster. I was making spreadsheets and getting ulcers from this whole process. And this was before I decided to stop tipping people and just give their money to charity anyway, so it’s a moot point now. Except Pita Pit. I still tip them because their tip jar says “Pita spelled backwards is ‘a tip’” and I feel that I need to encourage such creativity. Plus it’s usually 3am when I stop in there and I’ll tip the guy holding the door open for me at that point. (Ed note: total money given to charity since revelation: $0.00)