Being Singled Out

I accidentally came over an interesting political TV-debate the other day. Of course I will throw in an “oh, of course I frequently watch a lot of political debates on more important issues than what I am about to tell you about, all the time, all the time!”, before I tell you that it was about single people, and how they should have the same tax benefits and economical safety nets as married people. The topic really caught my interest, as I, amongst many other hipsters my age, actually like being single, to a certain degree, or just have been involuntarily single since forever because I suffer from the Seinfeld dating syndrome that renders me unable to not go hysterical over other people’s annoying quirks, and therefore I am left sad and alone, with need for a bigger lotion budget.

To me it sounds logical that singles should have tax cuts, being the only one to chip in on the rent every month, but a little text box at the bottom of the screen, enabling viewers of the show to share their sick opinions on the matter with the rest of the nation, showed I had a world of simpletons against me. One woman’s opinion in particular caught my attention though. She thought tax cuts for singles was outrageous, seeing as being single was completely voluntarily.

Oh really?

I don’t know what hippie crack generation this woman grew up in, but let me introduce her to the scene that takes place in all the bars and night clubs all over the country, hell, all over the world for that matter (welcome in, foreigners, now settle down). Saggy tits and steelhairy women’s legs popping out of way too tight pink tube tops and mini skirts, after dusk, like a reversed Cinderella fairytale. On the other side of the dirty bar, male chicken breasts are puffed up and doughy beer bellies sucked in to the spine, as the Ukrainian techno beats start their beautiful message of love and sheep. Standing close enough to other people will expose you to painful pick up lines and conversations, like ... (insert terrible or comical pick up line from last night, you know you have one).

In the toilets, dead drunken, divorced middle aged women toss about their lunch, dinner and cocktails all over the dirty porcelain, to the background sound of hysterical fourteen year old girls crying their mascara off in showers because one of them got dumped during the night. Back at the dancefloor, elderly, pasty and overweight men trail the crowd, shiny Kojak skulls and saggy trousers, blinking their eyes at anything that is still considered a mammal, having to fight off immigrants from all parts of the world just happy to be able to get laid without having to marry anyone, or anything.

Think about it. You won’t have to try too hard, because I know you’ve seen this. These are the beautiful souls you are supposed to bring home and tell intimate secrets about yourself to, like how you’re afraid of clowns and Tom Jones, and then let that person loose at family gatherings, where the story of how you wee’d in all your mothers guests shoes that one time when you were three will ricochet across the room, in between dead dry cake crumbles and luke warm coffee. This is the person you will share a bank account with, knowing that half your income will be spent on shiny, pink, crystal unicorns or geeky cosplay action figures. This is the person that will raise your kids to believe that “Desperate Housewives” is as good as life gets, and soon you will start to agree, quoting the show every now and then, like a proper Hitler-jugend would.

Yeah, yeah, I know, most people don’t even meet their significant others in bars, but through friends or at school, but SOMEONE has to be friends of friends of that scary bunch filling those night clubs every evening. We just don’t like to admit that sometimes horniness takes us to a dark place.
Either way it can’t be said that we choose this lifestyle of loneliness completely voluntarily, it would be like saying all Iraqis love Americans because they don’t all go busting a bazooka-cap in their American asses. From a distance, the opposite sex can be kind of cute, kind of like lion cubs are, before you put your fingers through the fence and discover a new way of screaming.

Sure there is a small community of hard boiled singles that actually enjoy being alone all the time, but usually their need for solace is followed by an incredible amount of involuntary body gases and intimate itches. It may very well seem like young people today have become so egocentric and focused on their own special needs, that we would all be superstars under a microscope. The perfect mate has become a believable reality now that we can talk to anyone everywhere online, see genitals in free flow on webcams for free, and if you no longer can find a perfect mate in a café or bar, you can order him or her online, no one gives a shit, unless you try to pay in cash. Which reminds me of an urgent matter; where the hell is my 2 metres tall Christian Bale clone, delivered complete with batteries, a loin cloth and serving tray??
Still, having all these opportunities of finding the perfect mate only leaves us in realisation of one thing, even the world isn’t big enough for our special partner needs.

Some things just don’t work as well when you’re alone. Who’s gonna file a missing person’s report when you following a drastic Mexican dinner, where you showed off by juggling five chilli’s with your tonsils and had a swallowing accident, end up in the bathroom for five days with the complete collection of Conan the Barbarian comic books, chewing the shower curtain in this ritual to manhood?
Who will you send as a trusty representative at boring family parties when there’s a really important football match on, and your cousin has squeezed out a pair of twins that need to be praised for hours on end?

Personally I’ve come to the point where I don’t really get excited by much other than chocolates and pretty, shiny things (no unicorns yet). I’ll function just fine on my own when I go insane and start eating cat food whilst watching women’s football, but i bloody want a tax reduction whilst being that damn happy.