Our Anniversary

With my two year anniversary approaching in May, I have been doing some real soul-searching and trying to 'find myself' by means of alcohol consumption, sleeping fourteen hours a day and getting my jollies from movies starring a virginal Reese Witherspoon and a psychotic Mark Wahlberg. By two year anniversary, I'm not referring to sobriety or any other achieved status that implies stability. I'm referring to my relationship with my psychic, Jackie Lewis.

I came to Jackie's 'office' (a makeshift room at the back of a desolate bookshop partitioned off by mismatched curtains and bedsheets taped to a wall) in search of answers, guidance and a new lease on life. Upon peering into her crystal ball and massaging her healing rock, she noted that I would be free of financial struggles (as an only child, I stand to inherit a property that was won in a poker game in the 1950s), that I will allegedly write a book that will be published and that I'll eventually have two children via artificial insemination. This last part I disagree with. In the same way that abused Amish children try to 'break the cycle', I would rather take my own life than sire any doomed bipolar progeny.

After two miscarriages in one year, and desperate to carry on the family legacy of smothering mother-daughter relationships, my mother became pregnant with yours truly at the age of 35. Her psychiatrist in the 70s famously said that in his professional opinion, Mother would never be mentally stable enough to raise children. Even more famously, she mailed her by then ex-physician a picture of me after I was born, as viable 'proof' that she could do it, even against medical advice. If this psychiatrist were not dead, I would delight in sending him a current snapshot of his old patient's now twenty-two year old bipolar daughter. Despite her own setbacks, Mom did the best with what she was given in raising a manic-depressive teenager, going as far as letting me sleep in her bed with her for an entire year when I was too ill to go to school, and too afraid to be left to my own devices which included self-mutilation and making numerous compilation albums to soundtrack my upcoming funeral (as encouraged by my then psychiatrist). Though it means I would have never existed, I am still going to advocate that people with bipolar disorder should not have children. Your desire for companionship is not worth ruining another life with your toxic genetics. Get a cat or take solace in drugs, alcohol or gambling. If you don't heed my advice, here's an excerpt of what your future child's first report card will look like:

Jackie Lewis, psychic to the stars, made one other prediction of note. She stated in May 2008 that in three years time I would enter a 'serious relationship', whatever that means. By her clock, as of next summer I should be smitten with some mysterious suitor. At present, I have been single for nearly two years and I can't even remember when was the last time I had sex, though I do remember it was with a self-identified gaylord who admitted during the act she had never performed oral before.

Following that I went on a few fleeting dates with a 'musician' whose manager, financial sponsor, and roommate all happened to be the same person, her father. He offered me marijuana at one of her 'gigs' because her 'experimental choir' that sounded as if they were on the shortlist to soundtrack the Lord of the Rings trilogy, were just that bad.

After that experience I removed myself from the dating world in order to 'better myself'. As I'm having problems doing just that, I figure it may be nice to find a kindred spirit to suffer with me. However, would I be disobeying Jackie Lewis and all that is holy and spiritual if I attempt to date before I enter my future 'serious relationship'?

What I'm looking for in a woman isn't a tall order. All I'm asking is that she be blonde, funny, hetero, likes to drink and kinda maybe resemble/embody the looks and hilarity of these two specimens, Chelsea Handler and Iliza Schlesinger: