Thanks internet!

I am bad at dating. I am good at the internet. I’m turning to the internet for dating advice.

Or, at least that was the premise of this column when it began and I lustily took bow to string, first in celebration of Elton John, then in celebration of all things recursive and disorganized — dating included. Now, as the column strikes its final chord, perhaps it is time to reflect.

Am I better at dating? Yes.

How much better? Medium.

Is this asking-myself-a-question format annoying? Very.

Here’s how much better I am at dating: Right now, my roommate is watching some stupid baseball game on television, and drinking a bottle of Lucky Star pinot noir, and I’m not even lettig it effect the qualitey of my writing. That’s focus. You need focus to date. This column has been an exercise in focus.

The other day I found myself out of breath because I had been slouching in a weird position while eating pizza.

You see, I hate television. But I’m in the same room with one of these boob tubes (I just came up with that) and am tolerating it. Tolerance. That’s important in dating. You have to date people who aren’t you, which is very inconvenient and frustrating, and you have to tolerate their imperfection—for a long, long time.

Stamina. Dating is all about stamina. You just have to get out there and keep doing it. Then, you find somebody you like hanging out with and you have go in there and keep doing that.

I’ve just been notified, by way of a casual remark I’m pretending my roommate made, that some readers have difficulty telling when I’m speaking about actual events in my life, exaggerating, or fabricating whole cloth. Does it help to know I have had similar difficulty discerning verisimilitude throughout? This has either been some of the most honest writing I’ve ever done or the least—or somewhere in between, or not.

Honesty. This is as important in dating as it is everywhere else. It’s good manners to let people know your intentions. Honestly, I’m happy with 80% of this column, which isn’t bad when you correct for the strong possibility I’m a perfectionist.

Correcting for the strong possibility I’m a perfectionist. I suspect in this lies the actual root of my (erstwhile) dating woes. You want some real advice? Give yourself a break. Give other people a break. Give fate and situation and romance a break. The next time you find yourself reading dating advice, just stop. Get off the internet.

Stay on the internet. The real world is scary.

Finally—and this is the most important piece of advice I can ever impart—don’t ever, ever, ever be like Gene.

See you on the internet.

I Am Way Better at Dating Now was originally published in Dating Advice From The Internet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The penultimate installment

I’ve always said you can tell a lot about somebody by what he reads. More to the point — since this is, after all, a dating column written by a heterosexual cis male—you can tell a lot about somebody by what she reads.

It probably comes as no surprise, I’m generally attracted to well-read women — also, to women I can’t read, but that’s a story for another time. So, in order to find the woman that’s perfect for me, I’m hitting the books.

The plan is to figure out everything I can about the kind of ladies who read the stuff I read — what else they like, where they hang out, their opinions on all this creepy research I’m doing. Then, I can focus my energy on finding just those special kinds of ladies, because I’m pretty sure my continued dating woes are the result of casting too wide a net, and not of any deficiency on my part.

So, what do I like to read? Let’s start with periodicals, since those reader demographics should be easy to find.

I really enjoy reading The New Yorker. In fact, I bet if I used The New Yorker as a starting place, I would soon encounter a warm, empathetic, talented, hard-working, and beautiful woman, whom I would start dating. That, of course, would make it so difficult to connect with the premise of this column, I would take a month off, slightly irking the column’s literally tens of elevens of fans.

So, right. Let’s start there. Well, according to this article (somehow related to the University of Virginia), which keeps coming up in my Google searches, “the affluent middle-class professionals who read The New Yorker constituted an insecure and anxious elite …” and I stopped reading right there, because what more needs be said? At least one fifth of that sentence applies to me, so it must apply to my dream ladies. I’ll start a list of traits I should be looking for in my dream girl.

• Insecure
• Anxious

Great start!

Hm, I wonder if there is any advice out there on how to prey on women’s insecurities. Well, certainly not in any of the literature I read, so I’ll just take these two data points and go back to my research.

I also enjoy reading Mother Jones. Lucky for me, Mother Jones is big on data, so they have some numbers readily available for me to explore. Here are the self-reported demographics of the Mother Jones readership:

This is great! I’ll just add to my list.

• Insecure
• Anxious
• Optimistic
• Active
• Risky
• Opinionated
• Educated
• Married
• Male
• 35-70

Brilliant. Of course I’ve been having trouble finding the right women; I’ve been looking for women! Instead of thinking about what women might be interested in, I should have been focused on what my real spirit animals — middle aged married men—are going on about! This fresh perspective might be just what I need to crack the case.

Let’s stick with literature and search “what middle aged men read” which, of course, brings us to …

What the—

Hold everything. I have to worry about estrogen now? Are you kidding me? Forget finding a women, I’m apparently about to become one. A fat one, at that.

I don’t like this one bit! I’m a heterosexual cis male! I shouldn’t have to put up with thinking about my appearance! I was put here to be the standard to which the world conforms, by hook or by crook, and that is where I shall remain.

New. Plan.

Ladies, you have to come find me before the estrogen does. This is now up to you. I done with this entire dating pursuit. I’m heading to the gym to stave off the hormones which will soon erode my precious masculinity. There is no time to waste, least of all on the stupid Internet. I came into this column with an open heart and open mind and what have I learned? Nothing. Or, at least, nothing but bad news. Thanks a lot, Internet. I’ve tried everything — revisiting my past, asking hot men for advice, trolling for pageviews, Gene — and now, I give up.

You know what? I’m the perfect one. You should all start columns about trying to find me. I am man! Come and get me! I am … oh wait, sorry, one moment … okay, I’m very sorry, but I have to wrap this up. My girlfriend is free to hang out and I don’t get to see her very often.

There’s one more of these to come. All I can say is this: listen to me. My name is Jason Oberholtzer. That is not my real name.

You Know What? I’m the Perfect One was originally published in Dating Advice From The Internet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Is This the First GIF Feature Image On Medium? Edit: It Totally Isn’t

I’ve always said you can tell a lot about somebody by what he reads. If eyes are the window to the soul, books are the curtains. No, I’m not sure what that means.

My own reading pile functions similarly to the mirror in my bathroom; it allows me to study myself to make sure I’m still into sleeping with myself.

Do you think those people in creepy couples who look like siblings are extremely self-aware?

While we’re on any subject, I haven’t been so into myself lately. What’s to blame? Maybe it’s the continued failure of this column to net me the girl of my dreams. It’s almost as if turning to the internet to solve my dating problems is a ridiculous concept, or some postmodern exercise nobody (least of all, Gene) signed up for. Or, maybe my mood has something to do with my new pen pal, Bandish, who has been in a savage mood lately and taking it out on me. Whatever, I’m not talking about him or to him until he stops icing me out on Snapchat.

Oh, by the way, I figured out what a “d—— pick” is. The hard way.

Anyway, my self-esteem has been flaccid lately. I need a haircut. All the shirts I like are in the laundry. I’ve been wearing these erstwhile skinny jeans that are now kind of loose, straight, denim shafts, which, anchored by a pair of Sketchers, make my legs look like toothpicks somebody bought in the 90s. Because that’s when Sketchers were cool.

It’s the “S.”

I wonder what an “s—— pick” would entail.

At some point, wearing these jeans every day and not washing them will render them JNCO toothpicks.

I wonder if I can bring hemp necklaces back.

Regardless of how I feel about myself now, I looked good in the 90s. I just know it.

Sometimes, when I’m drunk, I go to The Facebook, pull up pictures of myself, lean my face to within an inch of the monitor, and deconstruct them like some nostalgic, self-loathing facial recognition and physiognomy expert. Who the hell is that person? What did he know that I’ve lost? What have I gained? Why am I sad he is gone? Does anybody else worry about losing him?

I think they call the process I just described “aging gracefully.”

The earliest pictures I have on The Facebook are from 2000. I no longer have any idea how I looked before then. So, let’s just assume I looked great. From 2000 on, I have far too much proof to the contrary.

Did you guy know that Fred Durst did an AMA last month?

I have less idea how I look right now than at any other point in my cognizant life. My face feels different than when I last knew it well. I suspect I would be surprised by the way my expressions fall across my features. I just don’t look at myself enough anymore. I’m too busy working, or reading, or looking at people I care for. From the apartment across the street. With binoculars. And Snapchat open.

This is turning into the Southern Hemisphere version of this column. The spiral is going the wrong direction. So, let’s pull out of the spiral, Goose. Speaking of aging gracefully, isn’t it amazing what happened to Val Kilmer’s head? Do you think he ever looks at old The Facebook photos and wonders what the hell happened?

What if this is what all Buzzfeed articles were like? And by that, I mean not shitty.

I don’t mean that! Not fair! That’s low-hanging fruit and … backpedal, backpedal, backpedal.

Here’s a way to get at the elusive point (yes, this column occasionally has a point, often more than one, and sometimes I’m even in control of how and when they are delivered): A brief story.

I was big in 2011. Things directly related to my ego were going well. I knew how I looked. I was depressed often.

Now, what am I? Less big, by choice. One might even say smaller; worse looking, maybe. I’m not even sure. I think I’m happier. Much happier. That’s pretty nice.

I bet I was happy in the 90s too.

I’m still not sure I would sleep with myself.

Shit, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, right. Okay, let’s get going.

I’ve always said you can tell a lot about somebody by what he reads … nah, I’ll just save that for next time. I think I’ve made my point here. Actually, I’m not sure I’ve made my point here. You know what? I’m not going to over-think it.

I Was Big In The 90s was originally published in Dating Advice From The Internet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I was at a party last weekend. Yes, people invite me to parties. Some of them don’t even involve Dungeons and Dragons.

Anyway, I was being a social creature and I overheard some young ladies remarking that they were having trouble finding men. Specifically, they were having trouble finding venues in which they could find young, datable men. Apparently, these young women weren’t so keen on finding eligible bachelors at bars.

I listened to their complaints from afar. They were, after all, eligible bachelorettes, which means there was no way in hell I was going to actually approach them. I analyzed their complaints and developed the following hypothesis: It’s not my fault I am horrible at dating; I am fantastic at it. The problem is that women don’t know how to find me. They are clearly wookin’ pa nub in all da wong paces.

I figure I should be using this column to give the ladies some advice. So, that’s what I’m going to do. After all, it’s hard out there for them!

Doing some deep-diving internet research I compiled the following bits of advice on how to find eligible men like myself, which I will now share:

• Go to yoga

This, of course, makes sense because there is no better place to find a definitely-not-pervy young man than in a venue in which women are wearing yoga pants.

• Go to the Apple Store

Because there is definitely a correlation between those who are tech-obsessed and those who know how to treat other humans well.

• Go to a bar

Because one should always turn to Business Insider for dating advice tailored to women.

• Go to New York

Look how many eligible men are in New York!

Wait, I’m in New York. This is perfect! There are more single men than women in this city! You should have no trouble finding one … specifically me.

Let’s focus on what’s important. How do you find me? Okay, let’s assume I am a hunk (I am). A simple Google search for “hunks in NYC” should lead you right to me.

The first search result is … Times Square Hunks. I’ve been in Times Square before! This is promising.

Perfect. These guys look exactly like me. Well, maybe they are slightly better-dressed, but that’s the only difference.

Figure out their preferences, and you should be able to extrapolate mine. We might as well start by clicking on Valentino there in the middle. He … wait, he’s making money on this whole dating thing?!

Do you mean to say that, as a male in New York, I’m in such high demand I could be charging? Why haven’t I been doing this? Check out how much these ladies are willing to shell out to date us hunks! I’d be crazy not to get in on this action. And ladies seem to love it!

Personable and with a great personality? Those two things are right in my wheelhouse. Let me just check out some job opportunities here …

Why do they need my height and weight? That seems a little invasive. I’ll just fill in “tall” and “big” because it never hurts to round up.

You know, I wonder if there are other opportunities for big, tall men like me. I’ll just search “big tall hunks in nyc.” Perfect. It’s like looking at a page full of mirrors!

Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find a way to get in touch with them. I’d like to ask these guys some questions about how to break into the for-profit business of being big, hunky NYC dudes who date ladies. Please recall, ladies, that I am undertaking this research for your benefit.

I need to find one of these guys to talk to. Let’s just Google “i want to meet a hunk.”

Alright, second result — 1man.in seems to be able to help. Wowee, look at all these men!

If I can’t find good dating advice here, I don’t know where I can. (Hm, I wonder what a d—— pick is; I’d better ask about that too.) Okay, I’m looking for a man, about my age. Also, I definitely want a photo, just to make sure I can trust the guy.

Damn, all these guys seem to be from India. But they do seem hunky enough to give me relevant advice. I’ll just try to message one. Shit. I need an account. Okay, give me a minute to sign in … great! All set up.

Anyway, I should probably get going now. I’m sure I’ve bored you all for long enough. I’m going to message like 30-100 of these kind, handsome, Indian lads and ask them what one has to do to find them. I will report back to you, my loyal female readers as soon as possble. I have a feeling all my dating problems will soon be at an end!

You’re welcome, ladies.

How To Find Men Like Me was originally published in Dating Advice From The Internet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Webster’s Dictionary defines a “hack” as a person who begins an essay with the words “Webster’s Dictionary defines.” I define a hack as a person who shrouds his or her voice with artifice and nonsense, then rationalizes the approach as anything other than fear-based.

This week: No bullshit. Just when you thought you knew what to expect from this postmodern dating column, we will boldly kick out in a new direction. Today: the straight Truth.

So, can I kick it?

Well I’m gone … check this out.

There’s a girl I want to see. I don’t get to see her this week, but maybe I will be able to soon. I’ve been trying not to think about it (the potential date), her (the her), or me (the neurotic). I suspect I’m afraid further examination will engender excitement and I’d rather not allow myself excitement, a necessary precursor to disappointment and a physiological mirror of anxiety.

Since self-preservation prevents me from focusing on what is clearly principally on my mind, I turn my energy elsewhere. I clean the house. I read books. I look outward to humor and art. I turn inward in similar pursuits. “All speed” toward anything fulfilling but with limited consequence. Whee!

However, sometimes in my flight, I run into an idea, a thought, a vista, a performance, a piece of art that grasps me and pulls me to a stop. Whatever stops me grants me its perspective and I see that perhaps all the acrobatics, rhetorical flourishes, intimations of oblique intellect, especially those employed in the service of a dating column that avoids addressing dating in any—

Holy shit, why haven’t I ever tried to put a GIF in this column?

Yes, that is the first GIF I found on my desktop. No, you don’t get to know what it was doing there.

The third paragraph of famous fitness writer Rachel Cosgrove’s advice column on how to distract yourself reads as follows.

You know that moment when the chocolate starts to call your name or the bread basket is taunting you and you are having the discussion in your head of should I…?

That’s the entire paragraph.

You know that moment when you set out to make fun of somebody for writing one-sentence paragraphs and you are realizing how many one-sentence paragraphs you’ve just written…?

Back to Rachel’s advice. What does it mean? I don’t know. I got bored and never made it to the rest of her article. But doesn’t it seem like a perfect analogy for my predicament? This girl is a bread basket. I need to distract myself. Because carbs, or something.

Butter. Bread. They wanna toast me.

Let’s get distracted!

You know who’s not Rachel Cosgrove? Rachel Cosgrove Payes is not Rachel Cosgrove. However, she is also a writer. She wrote books in the Oz universe, as well as romance novels. I can distract myself by researching her and perhaps I can even pick up some super-romantic dating advice to pass on to you dear readers!

One of Ms. Payes’ books is called Satan’s Mistress. It looks like this:

According to Goodreads, this is what it’s about:

With dizzying speed, beautiful Fiona McQuade went from shopgirl to protege of a duke and duchess. Dazzled by the luxurious living, Fiona forgot her lowly origins and even dreamed of marrying Viscount Will Huxley, the duchess’s handsome lover. But of course the arrogant duke and duchess had other plans for the lovely Fiona. They all were members of the dreaded Hellfire Club: jaded nobility who satiated their decadent desires on the young and innocent. And so the unawakened Fiona was ravished by many men, the handsome Will Huxley among them. She had been sold into sexual slavery, and Fiona vowed they all would pay, even the man she loved.

Whoa. Move over, Stephenie Meyer! There’s a new—

Holy shit, is that really how she spells her name? S-t-e-p-h-e-n-i-e. That’s awful. Although, I bet there are worse name spellings out there at which to scoff. To the mommy blogs!

Here’s the good stuff. Moms talking about names.

Great question, backonthedecaff. Why do people do that to their children? It’s just plain wrong! You ain’t havin’ it? Good, me either. And to answer your second question: Stephenie Meyer.

Now that I think about it, “jaded nobility who satiated their decadent desires on the young and innocent” describes a healthy swath of New York pretty accurately. Lest I turn into a jaded New Yorker myself, I’m going back to bringing the Truth. Sorry for all that nonsense. No more distractions.

Truth time.

So many one-sentence paragraphs.

Dating is hard. Making it silly or absurb helps. That’s why this column exists. Keep your head (both of them) where they’re supposed to be. Butter. Bread. Toast me. I think I’m going to text that girl.

Reasonable Distractions was originally published in Dating Advice From The Internet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The building is a phallus

Last weekend, my two roommates and I moved from one part of Crown Heights to another, a whopping five blocks away. The move took an entire day — nine in the morning until eleven at night. It was over 90 degrees outside. Allow me to re-create the sequence of events.

• 9 AM to 3 PM: Carry three people’s belongings down three flights of stairs and into a moving truck
• 3 PM to 3:05 PM: Drive moving truck five blocks; park
• 3:09 PM: We’re here! They didn’t do any of the renovations they said they would! It’s a complete mess! FFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUU …
• 3:10 PM: Walk to bar
• 3:11 PM: Rehydrate
• 3:12 PM to 5 PM: Get drunk
• 5:31 PM: Begin cleaning up the spilled varnish and sawdust and dustdust and general-disappointment-dust
• 6 PM: Down to 25 percent remaining of my buzz
• 6:45 PM: Cleaning complete; begin moving the accumulated belongings of three people up a flight of stairs
• 7 PM: Sober
• 11 PM: Finish; drop off moving truck

The next night, I went out to celebrate my new place, because staying in my new place to do so would have been too depressing. Yes, I appreciate the irony.

I went to an establishment of vague cultural purpose around the corner. It was offering live music. The band was good. There were racks of vintage clothing and cans of beer and bins of records and clusters of pretty girls who probably would appreciate that I appreciated the irony in that last paragraph. It was, in short, what I had hoped my new apartment would look like.

My apartment does not look like that. In my apartment, if you lean against any of the moldings for too long, you stick.

I considered talking to some of those pretty girls. I had recently formed new opinions about Mark Duplass, and I bet they would have loved to hear them. I could totally segue from those opinions to a recounting of my move via a carrying-a-puffy-chair-into-my-new-place story. Then I could have invited them to my new place. Then we all could be in love. Then this column could end.

I didn’t talk to those pretty girls. I must have been too tired from the move. The column continues….

While I do own a puffy chair, one of the reasons for this move was that we wanted a place that had space for a couch. I’ve found it exceedingly difficult to bring a lady home during the early stages of wooing without a couch on which to make advances.

Before: “Hey, wanna come over and sit in separate recliners in my tiny living room/kitchen and feel cramped yet distant? We can watch a safe-choice movie we’ve both already seen and aren’t totally into rewatching.”

Now: “Hey, wanna come over and sit on my couch and watch me cycle madly through the guide menu on the cable box while I try to think of ways to make you laugh, because I don’t know how to lean over and kiss you? Keep your shoes on, or your feet might stick to the floor varnish!”

See? What a difference a couch makes — better yet, a couch near a bar. I’ve been around the block a few times (watched TV), so I know that bars are where pretty girls go to be talked at by aggressive boys. So, here’s the plan: Bar, couch, bed, chapel, town house, stately manor, pine box.

(I think I finally used metonymy correctly! I’m going to call some professors and gloat.)

Now I just need to pick the best couch for this plan. Naturally, I’ll google “best couch to have sex on,” which, of course, brings me to “how do you do sex on the couch?“ on Answers.com. Here’s your answer:

You can have sex on the couch with a girl or a boy by just laying down and busting a move then take off all your clothes including your bras and underwear then make sure the boy has condoms so that the girl wont get pregnant and then be sure that the boy slowly pushes his penis into the girl’s vagina then do it over and over again while you kiss and make out, that’s what I do to have sex with my boyfriend.

Did this answer my question? I’ll go with “Partially.”

All this talk of metonymy and these run-on sentences remind me: I went to my college five-year reunion this weekend. How could I have done that while also moving this weekend? Because I lied about the chronology, that’s why.

Reunions are great places to hit on people. It feels like you are on a good third date with every person you run into. You’re really excited to see her again, surprised at how good she looks (how did you not notice those eyes before?) and best of all, you feel relaxed. There’s an intimacy you didn’t count on. Things feel safe. You get the prospect of new sexual experiences and an established rapport.

Better yet, there’s a definite end. This is fake life, and you get to go home. Yet this is even better than other fake-life dating situations, like being on vacation or in your early twenties, because there’s still some meaning attached. Everybody is (consciously or subconsciously) settling old scores. Some people come to reunions to let their wallet do the talking. Some come to let their jiggly bits do the talking. Everybody comes to set the record straight somehow.

So, did I hit on people? You bet I did! Did it work out? Stayed tuned….

After social events, I often wonder how thoroughly I will be researched by people I meet or catch up with who express interest in what I do online. How important to them is our new Facebook friendship? What is my EdgeRank in their lives? Will they google me? Will they find their way to this article? Is that cute redheaded photographer I hit on reading this right now? If any other classmates are reading this, you remember her, right? She was supercute, right? Are any classmates reading this? Is anybody reading this? Is Gene here? Hi, Gene!

Now that I’ve either wasted half a paragraph on an audience that doesn’t exist or mortified a nice girl from Clinton, New York, let’s get back to the point: How do you do sex at a college reunion?

Well, let me put it this way: You can have sex at your reunion with a girl or a boy by just laying down and busting a move then take off all your clothes including your bras and underwear then make sure the boy has condoms so that the girl wont get pregnant and then be sure that the boy slowly pushes his penis into the girl’s vagina then do it over and over again while you kiss and make out, that’s what I do to have sex with my I-didn’t-have-sex-at-my-college-reunion, but then, that’s probably because I was staying in a sticky dorm room, which totally trumps the couch; fake life imitates real life, and I hate my new apartment. Byyeeeeee.

Old Flames and Sticky New Starts was originally published in Dating Advice From The Internet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Gets Pageviews

Dating. The rosy glow of anticipation. The slow burn of desire. The itch of passion. The flaking away of defenses. The lathering up in aloe.

I’m going to take a break from all the cogent dating advice I dispense in this column and offer some post-Memorial Day weekend advice: Never search Google Images for “sunburn.” Ever. Regardless of the circumstances.

Did you know that Kim Kardashian features prominently in the Google Images results for “sunburn”?

Those two points are unrelated; I’m not trying to shame Kim Kardashian with cheap shots couched in sunburn talk. I have no opinions worth expressing about Kim Kardashian the person. I honestly just want to type Kim Kardashian a bunch of times and revel in the page views. Kim Kardashian.

Here’s the point: Kim Kardashian gets page views almost as easily as the author gets sunburned. She appears seven times in the first set of image results for “sunburn.” None of the pictures are that remarkable, with the possible exception of this one, though her costar in it is what interests me the most.

Here’s a question: Does Kim Kardashian appear so often after this search because she gets sunburned frequently, or because she is Kim Kardashian? Sorry, that’s a horrible question with a rather obvious answer. I’ll put it another way: When something happens to Kim Kardashian, does she become the most famous person to have had that experience?

Some evidence in support of the possibility:

• Kim Kardashian is the autocomplete for the following searches: pregnant, the letter k
• I don’t have any more evidence

Isn’t that enough, though? When you type “pregnant,” the first thing Google assumes you are interested in is Kim Kardashian.

Think about this: For every person on the earth, at least one other person got pregnant. Or this: In the history of all mankind, there are more pregnancies than people. With all that to pull from, Kim Kardashian is still number one in the world for pregnancy. Not impressed? Well, how about this: You know who else is pregnant right now but didn’t even get a mention in the autocomplete? Beyoncé.

Case closed.

I will now refer you to the standard pregnant-and-naked-on-a-magazine-cover pose — support the belly, cover the boobs.

What does this have to do with anything? It proves that I probably got heatstroke yesterday and that I know how to make a sloppy collage in Photoshop.

So, Kim Kardashian’s is the most famous pregnancy the Internet can come up with, and she has the most famous sunburn the Internet can come up with, and the most famous sex tape the…wait, this can’t be right.

Apparently, the most-famous-sex-tape honor goes to “Selena and Justin Bieber,” which is pretty amazing, considering a tape doesn’t even exist (at least in published or available formats, at the moment; but don’t worry, I set up a Google Alert for the subject and I’ll let you know when the situation changes).

I’m a bit surprised Kim Kardashian isn’t anywhere to be found in the “sex tape” autocomplete. I blame the crew more than the talent on that one — lax direction, bland set design, inconsistent palette, fractured narrative, and incompetence all the way down to the key grip and best boy.

There are certain search queries whose autocompletes reveal a lot about a culture’s sexuality. Here are a few.

Hm. Moving right along.

Here’s an observation on which I would rather not dwell: I’ve used more colons in this Kim Kardashian piece than I’ve used in anything else I’ve written.

Kim Kardashian may not be the undisputed champion of Google searches, but I bet if I Googled the most Googled woman last year, Google will come up with…

…what?! Damn it, Lana, it’s you, it’s you, it’s all for you. Well, Lana had a big year, but Kim should still be up there.

Twenty? Who are you kids googling? I feel so out of the pop-culture loop. There can’t be nineteen women more famous (Internet search-wise) than Kim Kardashian. She and Kanye started dating last year! Who possibly could have dethroned her?

It all makes sense now. God save the new Queen of the Internet. Now let’s get some page views: Honey Boo Boo. Honey Boo Boo. Honey Boo Boo.

Kim Kardashian. Kim Kardashian. Kim Kardashian. was originally published in Dating Advice From The Internet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I have the flu, which is disappointing because I was sure this was going to be the week I finally rendered this column moot by finding true love. I scheduled four social events for this week and only all four of them were Dungeons & Dragons-related. Oh well, it’s just the flu. Unless, of course, it isn’t.

I haven’t had health insurance for a few years now (because I’m an entitled narcissist), so I’ve become a solid self-prescriber. My process goes like this: (1) notice symptoms (2) ignore them. For best results, add water.

However, whatever I have right now is hanging around most unmercifully, and causing me to pen epistolary protest like a dandy, so I may need to seek additional medical counsel — from the Internet.

[I promise, I will not make a joke about the frequency with which WebMD diagnoses cancer.]

First, to look up my symptoms: sore throat, fever, aches, nasal congestion and finally, “It’s hard to write this column because I think everything is funny because of the flu in my head,” which is what I just Googled. And … holy shit! Look what came up:

Do you guys remember this article? Back in December, 2011, Gene Marks, a self-described “middle aged white guy” was so moved by an Obama speech that he decided to pretend he was a poor black kid just long enough to tell real poor black kids how to succeed. One assumes that, after writing the article, he went back to being a middle aged white guy.

I mean, I get it. Full disclosure, I have a Forbes.com column myself, so I know how these things work. First, you write a link-bait headline on a topical issue. Next, you sit back and cash in on the pageviews. However, Mr. Marks claims most vociferously that he is an unpaid contributor. So I guess he just likes the attention.

Then again, what do I know? After all, this is Gene …

and I don’t even own an umbrella; if it were raining money I’d just get bruised.

Anyway, the article received much justifiable backlash and then everybody forgot about it. Gene is back to doing what he does best — blogging about small business things for a variety of outlets. Good for him; he’s doing it right. And good for everybody who continues to employ him because pageviews. And good for me for getting out of bed for the first time today. Take that, flu!

So, it’s all good. Right? Wrong. You know what pisses me off? I bet people sleep with this guy. Probably even attractive people. And that’s horrible. See? This is a dating column, damnit.

I don’t know Mr. Marks’s sexual history, so let’s not even make this about him. I’m not mad at him so much as at what he represents — the stereotypical “that guy.” Money umbrella guy. Wears a shirt that is slightly too roomy and balloons out above the belt and at the elbows guy. Self-satisfied guy. Thinks poor black kids are dying to hear his advice borne of an entire evening of putting himself in their pennyless loafers guy. This guy is getting laid, right now, all across our great nation. I know it. Think about him! Getting laid! Think about him getting laid! You all know this person. If you are struggling, try picturing the last guy you saw wearing his cellphone in a belt holster.

That Guy’s happiness is like a cudgel to my loins. That Guy clearly has no capacity for the introspection empathy requires, or the ability to cultivate a self that transcends stimuli-response. That Guy…uh oh. Oh no. Look deeper, Jason. This doesn’t feel right. There is something problematic here.

I don’t like the way this is going. I think this is where Nice Guy behavior starts. First, you hate the man (often The Man); then, the women who like the man; next, you generalize the characteristics of all parties involved, play the martyr, and, finally, hate women categorically. That Guy begets Nice Guy, begets another; there’s a litany of Guys to avoid becoming. It’s the hate version of the classic literary love triangle, only nobody is being killed by a gun that’s really a penis…yet.

I don’t want to go down that path, so let’s return to the health theme and do some healing. I will now say the following aloud:

• It should not matter to my self-esteem that That Guy loves his life and is adored by many, including those he sleeps with.
• It is not on me to judge That Guy’s worth based on a character I’ve foisted on him.
• If I’ve search-optimized and linkbaited this properly, Gene Marks will find this article and it will upset him. He will not be able to understand the postmodern dating column in which he is now an unwilling participant. I should not hate him for this. To be fair, I barely understand this column’s conceit myself.
• Hi, Gene! (I bet people who are friends with Mr. Marks have to work on their “Hi, Gene!” Slow it down.…)
• That was worse than a WebMD joke.
• This is no longer a list of things for me to say aloud, is it?

The bottom line is, That Guy deserves happiness. That Guy can enjoy money and small business and can pat himself on the back all he wants. This isn’t about him; it’s about me. Time to look inward. Let’s take it to the moral.

[Cue Scrubs end-of-episode music]

You can go through life angry at strangers, but that just leaves you sick and lonely. Instead, focus on your own happiness, because if you are a thoughtful person, you will need to tend to your happiness. Being a thoughtful person is difficult, occasionally painful work. You will harbor concern for impoverished minorities for longer than it takes to fire off a pithy, self-serving article. You will allow for the possibility that your dating woes have more to do with you than with your potential matches, or the assholes they may or may not date. You will edit out that paragraph you wrote about what somebody’s bald spot looks like.

Finally, as a thoughtful person, you will care about the author enough to find him some health insurance, or at least a fresh box of tissues. Or an umbrella. You know, if I were a poor white blogger.…

[/music]

I Hate “That Guy” was originally published in Dating Advice From The Internet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It’s possible the sorry state of my love life has little to do with Elton John’s connection to Google-invested Portuguese royalty. I’m a reasonable man. I will turn inward for answers. It’s probably my apartment’s fault.

The most romantic thing in my apartment right now is the 3/4 empty bottle of Lucky Star pinot noir sitting on the counter. Well, that and the copy of Alan Moore’s Lost Girls in the book pile on our coffee table.

Boy, what a lineup. Nothing says ‘romance’ like a William Appleman Williams reader, right?

Williams did once write an essay titled “Historical Romance of Senator Neuberger’s Election” for the Oregon Historical Quarterly, which I’m sure has a fine record of romantic writing itself. And Neuberger’s own romantic history includes a marriage to Maurine Brown, who took the seat her husband vacated by way of a stroke in 1960, making them the Senate's first husband-and-wife legislative team! Though, tag-team is perhaps more apt, but I digress.

Where was I? Oh yes, the empty bottle of Lucky Star pinot noir lying on the floor next to me. If I am to be the Lothario I fancy myself (men will one day die from sadness writing accounts of my seductive prowess), I need to outfit my habitat accordingly. If those late night sex-music infomercials are to be believed, this means a fireplace, candles, a bathtub and rose petals are in order. Well, there is no fireplace here, so short of arson, that’s out. The bathtub is too small to fit even one person comfortably; that’s out too. Candles and rose petals I can do though.

Candles are easy. I have a whole box here left over from the halcyon years of Yankee Candle, before Forstmann Little came in, took the company public and ruined the product — you see, YC candles used to be the top of the market , boasting a nasal ton of fragrance at a reasonable price, but then … you know, I should save this gem of a story for the lucky lady who gets to smell these.

I appear to have digressed again. Back to the point: Why did my roommate think he could hide this second bottle of Lucky Star pinot noir behind the bagels? I have clearly found it. Also, is Mrs. Dalloway a buzzkill to have in the living room? I mean, her party does end up going pretty well…

Rose petals. Where the hell do you even buy rose petals? Do you buy roses and de-petal them? That sounds incredibly expensive. Flowers are way too expensive. They grow in dirt. Back when I had girlfriends (the aughts) I had a sub rosa approach to gifting flowers. I would head to a grocery store, pretend to thumb through some cards, sidle over to the flower section, then pull a single flower from a premade bouquet and run like hell.

(Two Chuck Klosterman books seems like overkill. Especially since David Foster Wallace is, in a few ways, sitting right above him.)

I’m a grown man now, so my flower-stealing days are over; I am going to buy rose petals from the internet. Let’s just head over to freshrosepetals.com and … boy, those are expensive, aren’t they?

Ahem.

I’m a grown man now, so my flower-stealing days are over; I am going to buy fake rose petals from the internet. Let’s just head over to Amazon and check these out:

Perfect. Now I’ll just check the reviews to be sure of my purchase and hello … who have we here?

I respect a man who orders 200 heart shaped red rose petals and counts them. Z.S. Proctor has put a lot of thought into this. He clearly has a beautiful mind. He will purchase more if needed. Clearly this is somebody with whom I would like to associate.

See? Romance!

Okay. This needs to stop. How did I get here? Who are these yahoos? No offense, J. House, but how the hell is J. House getting married while I’m stuck here marrying together the remnants of these two empty bottles of Lucky Star pinot noir? No offense, J. House, but I’m completely out on this rose petal idea.

I give up. I’ll just make sure to invite nobody to my apartment, ever, unless they want to help me wade through the viscous sea of proper nouns Mordecai Richler so fancies. I’m going to call it an early night, light a candle, and thumb through Lost Girls for a hot minute…

Petals, Wine, and Books was originally published in Dating Advice From The Internet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I am bad at dating. I am good at the internet. I’m turning to the internet for dating advice.

However, I’ve used up all the regular advice (e.g. be yourself, be engaged, stop being so depressed, maybe leave your house once in awhile, Jason, this is your mother and I’m really worried about you please answer your phone) and refuse to turn to PUA literature, so I have to take paths less trod in hopes of picking up a thing or two about love. What better place to start than with an Elton John music video in which Robert Downey Jr lip-syncs?

In this classic bag of saccharin angst, Elton Johney Jr wants love. But it’s impossible. Because he’s a cold, scarred, celebrity portmandude. In his own words:

I want love, but it's impossible
A man like me, so irresponsible
A man like me is dead in places
Other men feel liberated

I can't love, shot full of holes
Don't feel nothing, I just feel cold
Don't feel nothing, just old scars
Toughening up around my heart

How novel. A man with a frozen heart needs it melted. I’m not sure this is helping me a lot, but let us press on. Perhaps there will be a manic pixie dream girl? Let’s see what the chorus brings us.

But I want love, just a different kind
I want love, won't break me down
Won't brick me up, won't fence me in
I want a love, that don't mean a thing
That's the love I want, I want love

You see, he wants a love but not one that makes him work. That would be too much stress, I’d imagine. After all, there’s a whole empty house of lonely metaphor in which to pace about.

I want love on my own terms
After everything I've ever learned
Me, I carry too much baggage
Oh man I've seen so much traffic

I think this video came at an interesting time for RDJ’s career and personal arc because … ugh, who even gives a crap? I barely remember the details and don’t want to look them up. It was a thing that RDJ was in this video because of something, rehab maybe? Whatever, this isn’t helping me one bit. Let’s get on to the more important business of reading YouTube comments.

The top comments:

Uh oh. That portmanteau joke aside, my French is really rusty. Thankfully, we only have to look futher to the internet for help.

And by French, I clearly meant Portuguese.

Either Google is tricking me to keep me cycling between it products, or both these top commenters got to the video because of Google Earth, which is what came up after I Googled “Historical Imagery Portuguese.” Apparently, Google Earth lets you travel in time now. In Beijing. Is this what they meant?

Wait … aha! You can also travel in time in London. Elton John is British! There’s the connection. How deep does this conspiracy go? Will the Google time travel capabilities take me back far enough to unravel it? And how are the Portuguese to blame?

Let’s see. Google owns YouTube, where this mess all started. And Eric Schmidt, longtime Google CEO went to Princeton, named after the town in which it resides, named after a … prince … who might be of the same royal lineage as one Sir Elton John … and … there have also been three Prince Johns in Portuguese history!

All the pieces fit together now. I can’t find love because Sir Elton Johney Jr comes from some line of Portuguese nobility that now controls Google, which has been sabotaging my relationships to ensure I’ll remain single and have time to look at YouTube videos.

It’s a perfect plan. Google provides easy access pornography and then leaves your browsing history and email account one haphazard turn of the back away from the snooping eyes of your significant other. All the tools to destroy a relationship in one place.

It goes deeper than just YouTube though. Google is ruining all our love lives in an effort to destabilize our support systems so that we’re forced to rely on its products. Who has time for YouTube or Googling saucy pictures of Elton John when they are actually having sex? Nobody. That’s a loss for YouTube, Google, and, most of all Senhor Elton John; it’s his worst fear realized. Our love is his misery.

[Is this the different kind?]

Thank God (Graças a Deus!) those brave Portuguese commenters came along to expose this conspiracy. And, in a round-about way, I think I found the advice I was looking for. I’m going to get off the computer and talk to women right in their faces, in the real world, away from the prying eyes of Google.

So bring it on, I've been bruised
Don't give me love that's clean and smooth
I'm ready for the rougher stuff
No sweet romance, I've had enough

I want love!

I Want Love was originally published in Dating Advice From The Internet on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.