Alice 00101011 (Best online dating conversation ever) ...

Three years ago (near Valentine's Day, 2016), I sent a message on OKCupid to a person who stated on her profile: "I really enjoy it when people are funny. I also like it when they think I'm funny. Because I'm a narcissist. Even better is when I find a person with whom humor is shared, so that when we are together it becomes this epic conspiracy of hilarity."
To this day, I still regard our exchange as the best rendition of "Hey, stranger ~ want to go on a date?" that I have ever participated in. I hope this makes you smile as much as it made us do. (Edited for length and clarity):

...SUNDAY...

JOSH:

You sound like good company - challenging, but enjoyable :)
How would you describe your energy,

on a scale from mellow/warm to first-violin?

ALICE:
I think you may have lifted the "challenging, but enjoyable" line 

directly from one of my elementary school report cards.

I'd describe my energy as warm, inviting, and playful.

How would you describe your own energy? 

JOSH:

If we're playing three-adjectives, 

I'm going with enthusiastic, ruminating, and slightly intense

(I experience the world very acutely).

ALICE:

Mmm... I'm guessing you're a bit of an empath?

JOSH:

Dead-on. It's my super-power and my Achilles heel.
Seems like yours might be … getting a read on people through textual analysis? 

That's a useful skill on a dating site.

ALICE:

Being an empath is a great super-power.

Reading people through textual analysis is a bit of a super-power for me.

Today marks my first step into the world of online dating.

JOSH:

So I'm part of your experimental avatar-polishing. I can accept that.
Your profile's pretty great. (except for the photos:

cameras clearly have trouble hitting you ;) ) 

ALICE:

Haha... Well, thank you. I'm glad you like my profile.

The online thing feels a bit precarious at first, to be honest.

Something akin to choosing books to read

when most of them have the front and back covers ripped off,

and shirtless gym-mirror-selfies pasted to the majority of the pages of text.

Well look at that... the camera caught me... ;) [photo]

...MONDAY...

JOSH:

Shoot – you're cute to boot.

See, this is why it's better to get to know people from the inside first:

then you don't feel like an id-demon for saying hello.

We should start a website where you don't get to

"like" people and see their pictures

until after you've read their profiles.

We could call it "OKCan'tGetPeopleToUseThisSite" ... eh? 

ALICE:

Haha! Yes. I like it.

You and I would likely be the only two people to consider using our new website, Josh.

But... if I stopped using *this* site, my life would lack the enrichment

of messages like, “Y doesnt you're profile have pix???” and,

“oh shit i just read ur stuff ur really deep and stuff nm”. 

JOSH:

Are those real ?! Those are AMAZING!!
By the way, can I just say that I really want to meet you right now?

I'm deeply bummed that the live-version of this conversation is 90 minutes away :{

* :{ = sad walrus, I think.

ALICE:

Those were an amalgamation of a few messages, to be fair,

and thus represent the combined powers of *several* men,

not the communicative prowess of one supreme being.

I did have someone initiate contact with "Do you want to get married?"

(SUPRhottDoodXXX and I are thinking a fall wedding might be nice,

so keep November open and look for your invite in the mail).
And I'm with you -- I really want to meet you as well. :<

*:<= umm... sad prawn? I was kind of reaching with that one... 

JOSH:

The asterisk + the equal-sign makes it look like

a sad prawn with a flower in its hair, and a dress on --

trumped me once again.

ALICE:

It *does* look like a sad prawn with a flower in its hair and a dress on!

She's so festive. Sad, but festive.

JOSH:

I think I'm gonna put that prawn on a t-shirt.

Printed in salmon on aquamarine.
And then we're gonna meet

somewhere around Rancho Real Vineyard,

the next long weekend,

where I'll admit that

I don't drink wine.

ALICE:

I don't like wine either...

I actually don't enjoy alcohol at all,

with the exception of very old fashioned

or embarrassingly hipster drinks (like Brandy Alexanders),

served at speakeasies where I can pretend it's the 1920s.

But I want that shirt.

So make sure they print two,

and that one would fit a very small woman. :)

...TUESDAY...

JOSH:

How small is "very small"?

Are we dipping into kid's sizes?

pet-costumes?

ALICE:

Very small is... very small.

Like, sad festive prawn is to sad walrus

what Alice is to Josh, most likely.

Most of my shoes have Dora the Explorer,

some type of Velcro, or lights that activate when I stomp my feet.

And I once tried on a pumpkin costume for dogs while in PetCo.

It was too big.

JOSH:

I once tried on a jingle-bell dog collar at PetCo ...

I should have bought it; I felt so festive.

I swear my tailbone wagged

ALICE:

I think I could fit into dog costumes,

I'd just need to size down to "mid-sized dog".

How festive was the jingle-bell collar, on a scale from one to sad prawn?

JOSH:

How is "1 ------ sad prawn" a coherent scale for festivity?

I feel like I'm talking to Salvador Dali.

ALICE:

For all you know you *are* talking to Salvador Dalí.

I mean, I could be a 45-year-old-man living in his mother's basement, right (winky face?)?

Too soon? Probably too soon.

It is not, in fact, a coherent scale for festivity.

But it's a scale that lends to a greater degree of creative flexibility.

I would explain in greater detail, but I need to go melt some clocks.

JOSH:

I'll be honest, I've built you way up in my head.

So if you end up having a handlebar mustache and clock-residue on your hands ... :<

Either way, the bell-collar was probably 3/4ths up the festivity scale,

somewhere between 5 and a walnut wearing a "flash me, I'm a welder" tank-top.

ALICE:

You have now created *TWO* shirts that I need to have in my life.

I was an apprentice fabricator (And I love being flashed?) for a bit.

That response was why I gave you the scale that I did.

I actually laughed out loud and clapped,

I thought it was so funny.

And, um, handlebar mustache? ...Check that profile again... 

JOSH:

I got a clap!

I didn't think I'd ever get a single-clap out of someone ...

I feel so validated, right now, in this mome—OMG, your profile picture.

We're done [click-bzzzzzz..........]

ALICE:

Hahaha... his name is "Hans".

He is a fine, mustachioed gentleman

who used to guest-teach physics in my classroom

when I taught 2nd graders... They enjoyed his outrageous accent.

JOSH:

Hans.

Why can't people with fancy mustaches

ever just settle for Domestic names: John? Carl? …

Always has to be something exotic:

Salvador, Adolf, Hulk Hogan.

ALICE:

I know. It's so pretentious.

He's a fairly flamboyant guy all the way around,

so it suits him. But still. Over the top.

He has some real skill with guided inquiry instruction though,

so I let him join us from time to time.

...WEDNESDAY...

JOSH:

Easy Question / Hard Question:
1) What does your room/apartment/home smell like when you first walk in...

before you forget that it smells like anything?
2) What society or group of people do you conveniently get irritated with,

when you're in a glum mood?

ALICE:

Easy Response/Hard Response:

1) My (postage-stamp sized) studio smells like

a combination of eucalyptus, peppermint, and lemon, courtesy of:

these essential oil candles my friend makes and the eucalyptus hanging in my shower.

Unless I forget to put my mountain biking shoes in the laundry room after a ride.

Then I think my studio smells vaguely of feet when I first walk in.

2) Mmm… this is a really quality question.

My most transparent answer would probably be

what I’d describe as militantly evangelical Christianity.

The truer emotion behind the irritation is sadness,

but if I’m in a glum mood it sometimes manifests as irritation or anger.

ALICE:

For you (Easy Question/Hard Question):
1) What do you love to do when it rains?
2) How do you typically respond when you experience intense frustration or anger? 

JOSH:

Gaw, those answers: I like the story of you.
1) Wet hugs: cold on the outside, warm on the inside. Also, beach runs.
2) I used to get loud when I got hot about something:

my dad's a stress-yeller; picked up the bad habit.

My ex called me out on it though, so I reformed.

Now I look for where my ego is sticking itself into the situation

(wanting being 'right' over kind? 'appreciated' over present? 'loved' over loving?) ...

then I focus on feeling my breath, and observing the other person's.

ALICE:

Mm... Your answers.

More specifically, your willingness to be honest. I like that a lot.

... I get called "fiery" by both friends and strangers on a regular basis... ;)

...THURSDAY...

JOSH:

I never asked, but is your profile-name a reference to Flight of the Conchords?
Somehow slipped my mind for the last 40 messages...

ALICE:

Yes! Binary solo.

So, I'm not sure whether or not I'll continue on this online dating platform.

I didn't want to disappear without saying something.

It seems to commodify people in a way that I find heartbreaking.

It seems to damage the human element of meeting and interacting with others,

and to diminish the exploration of others

to an experience that feels more akin to shopping

than playing and discovering.

You've definitely been an exception to this for me,

and I've genuinely enjoyed our exchanges.

I would like to meet you...

JOSH:

I feel the same way—on both counts.

If this were what all online interactions were like

(i.e., like modern-day Jane Austin re-boots), then ...

well, then somehow dolphins learned how to type.

I'm in LA this weekend.

But how about next Sunday?

If I hit the road early, we can make a day of it :)

*Forewarned: there is a fair possibility

that my literary character exceeds the eloquence and suave of my reality.

(I'm conversely prepared to discover that you don't own a fake mustache

and Hans has a character named Alice).

But whatever's coming, ... THIS; this thing?

As close to ideal as I can imagine.
Josh = 310-xxx-xxxx

ALICE:

Huge smile. That's what I have on my face right now.

And even if you are less eloquent and suave,

I may still pull a Cece when we meet.

You know, just sounds and something along the lines of

a pantomime of a candle melting.

_ _ _

TEXT

Hi. Alice. Or Hans. Feel free to put me in your phone as either.

TEXT

Oh, you're gonna have an 'AKA' in your title, to be sure.

Stay in touch – I'm marking Feb 21 as “buy more gasoline” day on my calendar.

TEXT

You stay in touch as well.

Whatever we decide to do, it should probably be somewhere remote and dimly lit:

<< video-link: “Louis CK on Women dating Men” >>

TEXT

*This is the part where I tell you I have a flip-phone,

and you imagine me as a caveman while I hand-type this into Youtube...

TEXT

Um, I think I get more excited to meet you every time

you divulge another piece of information about yourself.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She met with someone else over the next week. 

In person, closer to home. 

She liked him. 

So we never met.

*:<=

But there was this, 

and always will be.

Don't be a stranger ...

                 When did 

         you         and I stop 

                          stepping in

                   our own heads 

                                and

                                                                                                    start walking

                                                                                               together?      Ten, 

  twanty-flah  

feet  ago,                          and already

                                                       this...

Together down a bluff                               into a taboo

                          of light                             dropping onto

             a wet mirror                       rimmed with waves—

like us,                                      as sparkling

   as it is                                 broken

        on its edges—                                                                           I was 

                                thinking                      of                      an empty space,

when really          all was full                   and in its             right place. 

  I'm looking          into my                       companion

    “looking                               into                 you”            she returns    like a greeting 

                        She is new      as my                                 face  after   a 

                            long          night.                                      

There is her                                            voice,

      a heavy scent (                             incense and                 slow coffee), 

                                 dark            eyes (more in depth            than    colors)

                         And me              (more with    than at)                  between

             empty crests of            thinking and listening,               over

         into broken  edges,            sounding water:

          “Don't be a stranger,”

                           says either-is-      both of us,                over 

                                                                                      and over;

           something in our arms       (spindle fibers, daughter cells)

        hugs and                              separates.                       I think 

         I probably                   will be, though,                coming 

            out with                  all my                     work to do—

                good                    as                                she 

                    was.                              Good as 

                          that                           walk was.

                                 It was,             and on that,

                                                           tomorrow 

                                                          will be.

Coping with ...

                         What to 

        do with                a chest full 

of butterflies?

First:                                      breathe in, 

so that they                                 don't die.

Then                                            test gently—       

ever so                                        gently—for

A shadow                            of flutters 

behind her             gray eyes.

   If not:                stretch your           jaw 

  until                      light warms        their 

      restless                         backs,

             and breathe,                  

               breathe out             slowly, 

              as they                 make 

         an escape.

     But        close your mouth 

     soon,     so to keep in the 

      slowest.

           Leave it       flexing 

                                  its 

                       wings 

                there...

                 just 

                    in 

                       case.

Capital offense ...

Murder me with “extra” cheese

Shackled in double plastic,

                                                        Blind me with three-sixty screens

                                            Blinking “FREE!” 

                                                                  “TODAY!” 

                                                                         “FANTASTIC!”

Deafen me with mounted speakers

Cannon-blasting a concession hall,

                                                          Numb my thumbs 

                                                                with console games

                                                                  and pay-pads 

                                                        wall-to-wall.

Slice me through with radio-waves

And cook my brain on a phone;

      Choke my air with 

        wi-fi hot-spots,

        Billboards, 

          crowd lines, 

                   drones;

                                        Melt my teeth with bleach-white

                                                                                    Flour, 

                                                                              sugar, 

                                                                citric acid,

                                                   Salted 

                                    syrups, 

                powdered 

    spirits:

Saturate me passive.

Fill my mouth with taglines

And empty my bowels with quips,

Plunge my veins with panic, fervor:

                                                             “SALE!” 

                                                      “APOCALYPSE!”

              Pour                 me 

                    wide-eyed 

              into          engines.

              Feed                me 

                      smiling 

              through machines.

              Shape me, 

                      use me, 

                           end me—

              Just             don't 

              ask                me 

              what   it   means.

Recovery ...

There is wood in these walls—

                     under plaster and paint.

    Who chose gray for the waiting room?

                                              I suppose, yeah—

                                           it's the color of wait.

                             There are stones under this floor—

                               past cement, wires: rock-bottom.

                          In that way, like a bug flying against

                                                        the window pane—

                                                 thump, drop: forgotten.

                                             Behind every surface—

                                          gray, sterile, still—

something is growing, or breathing, or moving:

                                  locked in, but twisting

                           with its own quiet will.

        They extracted all my teeth—

   in a bright, buzzing theater—

while father (back in a gray room) told them,

“He doesn't do meth...

he just really likes soda,” 

but I neither

Know nor care 

about saving face—

“Yes, yes” the doctor is nodding

while her eyes roll back 

over a thousand parents' lies:

                                     she knows

                             why I've been rotting.

                And the four denture anchors, she says—

                                        as she drills them in my jaw—

                                   will give my bones work to do,

                                                        so they won't shrink.

                                      Eyes at me: “That's a living law:

                            Use it or lose it.” I lost my soul for a bit—

                                                              I put it on a shelf,

                                        burning nights away on 'soda.' 

                           But I have bone down in these gums,

                                                      still clacking 

                        with their “feed-me” drive—

even behind white denture walls. 

                    I have to 

            remind 

       myself.

The nameless now (like this) ...

“Give me your hand,”

she said;                                                         I thought

she was a palm reader.                         But

no, she'd fallen into a stale

Summer job.                   Still wearing

a plastic name-tag        from

that   movie theater.

“Your hand,”          she held out

her own,                 waiting firmly.

So I added my                palm to her

finger curves.                    Then she spun

away,                           taking back

her face          (but keeping

my hand in hers).

So I found myself

with that one                            arm kidnapped,

growing warm                       on her

waist.                          “And the other one,” 

she said,             reaching over

her shoulder,         expectantly

returning half                  her face.

So I gave up my                last palm;

she placed it on                  her collar,

drew it down                          along

her sternum, to rest     on her ribs.

At this point,         I spoke up:

“What's your name?”

She whispered                                   “This,”

her short-ribs humming:                       “I watch

couples,           day on day,               sitting down

in the same felt-walled                   abyss,

staring toward           projector lights.

But not really, right?                                They

all go in like this:                              for this.

Just for this.” An hour like them, we stayed.

Finally, I broke the lock,               “I have to

go. But                             what's your name?”

“Nope,”                                               she held.

“First?”                                                   “No.” 

“Middle?”                     “...Just,” she breathed.

“Your last name, then. It's—?”          

                                                                “This.”

I laughed, 

                                                but she didn't.

Serene.

                                   Still I hear her:

“Nope. 

         No.

                           Just this.”

Trinity (love, accept, understand) ...

                                                Here's a test, 

if you're up tonight

        wondering if your relationship 

             is really “working right.”

            If not, am I to blame, 

                      or are they?

                                                  That won't find you 

                             anything useful, either way.

Blame, shame, and insults scream

               “I desire! I was planning on …

                     when I look at you,

                          I dream…”

                                                          But in those self-sorry 

                heckling-howls, we hide         

                                     the pink-juicy needs that—

                     fuckin'—everyone holds inside.

Those vitamins that we all want. Right? 

         Place those in your hand.

                     Look there:

        "Do I love, accept, and understand?"                          Look out—

                                      "Do I feel loved, accepted, understood?"

                        This life is not about “Working Right.”

                               It's about feeling 

    (and becoming) Good.

                * * *

                            Love! Is that selfless, aching part

                                       that we call “caring” “attaching”

                                                 “Your heart? moves my heart.”

                                                                You'll bump into love:
                                   someone, sometimes,  forgets themselves … 

                                         lifting your boxes, your sullen cheeks—

                                                               just to keep you well.

                               This is so basic: a desire to simply see 

                                                you flower into what

                                   you were meant to be.

Acceptance! Is that deep-eyed, calming trust 

                               that you—as you are—are enough;

                                                                that if I turn to dust,

                                                             you will carry on, being

                                                     good and worth it in this place.

                We call that “tenderness,” “respect,” “a safe embrace,”

                                 When someone leaves you the whole field 

                                                 to fall, learn, stand up, grow!

                    Patient as you rise from the ground; eager

                    to hear what you've come to know.

     Understanding! Comes from dipping—again and again—

                      into your universe: “It's always different from mine! 

                                                          So what did you feel, just then?”

                                               You'll notice this when someone doesn't 

                                                                                catch your meaning,

                                                                 And instead of just shrugging

                                        “I'm apart from your act / thought / feeling,”

              they inch nearer by your side (without scales for judging)
                                        just to know: a piece of you, like me,

                                                     too full to ever fully see. 

         We call this “presence,” “empathy,” “home.”

                             * * *

                      So here's a test,

                         if you're up tonight,

                wondering if your relationships 

                   are really “working right.”

Look in your own goddam hand:

                     “Do I love, accept, and understand?”

                There is No One to hate, or reject, 

   or dismiss. Now touch your own lips—

                                     be the first

                            one you kiss.

Big Front Door (song)...

Trucks on the road, loaded with beams

Two houses high.

Kids always laugh

When power rolls by.

Parents, they sigh, woken by noise.

They're workers by day:
Victims, accomplices—

One and the same.

I remember

dreaming my life

was up to me; they said “A-B-C –

which spot would you

like to fill in?”

Back then I was blind, so I got in line.

But now I see …

*

I am love, I am peace, I am heart and will.

And I work with my friends, and we fuel your hill.

You have bought this machine, but we pull its oar.

And we've rowed; now we'll climb to your big front door.

You make the parts, I write the code,

and others take calls.

Stuck in our place,

kept blind to the whole.

Carrying pictures, cats dogs and families,

cut-outs of dreams:

to cool my veins,

and remind me to breathe.

I can feel that

choir of young eyes

begging me to reassure.

But I can't say “It's

okay,” to my

own tired face, into the glass

behind this door …

*

I was born shining-eyed, then you bought my time – 

even health, even sleep – are these hands not mine?

And you'll push and you'll drive 'til I taste that floor.

Still I'll come, and I'll stand at your big front door.

You call down the police; now they scare my son.

Then you laze and you thieve, and you call me one.

You draw lines with your words, and you beg for war.

Still we'll come, open armed, to your big front door.

I remember

when “One nation”

was a pledge I knew. We'd shout it, too:

All of us

together, calling

“Indivisible.” Our lungs were full.

We made it true … 

*

You can see we're in pain; you shout, “Earn your way.”

So we step on your path; you shout, “Private! Stay!”

Press me back, push me hard, 'til I'm an open sore.

Still I'll come, just to bleed at your big front door.

Simple truths, Fair and Right, you divide Blue-Red.

Equal hearts, you have race- knowledge- sex- Graded.

Then I call to the sky—and you curse my Lord?

So I'll come, and I'll sing through your big front door.

Yes, we'll come, and we'll sing, through your big front door.