so, about your dating profile ... .

Hey there, prospective person. I'm honestly glad you're interested enough to decide to make an effort to homework me and it took you here.

So if you're hoping for me to mutually swipe you right/superstar you/heart/smile/wink/message back or any of the other possible digital approvements, I'm going to address the following all-too-common facets found on most dating profiles:

All those emoticons & icons. Maybe emoji are the modern shorthand hieroglyphics of the texty new millennium, but fuck that girl, use your words. Words are sexy like a silk smooth sonnet or fun as freeverse. Seduce us with your personal expression.

Filtered photos are like wearing a stocking mask to rob a convenience store for its fountain drinks of sugar love. Nobody wants to get robbed this way. If honesty is your foundation, then mushy/blurry high-impact filters are no way to start a relationship.

Sooooo much makeup. If it all goes well, you're going to be seen in the morning. If the moment of judgment comes after the business, then odds are you're not going to get a repeat customer. Have confidence & security enough to post something with you not wearing a whole five pounds of slap on your face. Less is more.

That duck face. Cut it out. This relic of late aughties emo/scene selfies somehow still endures, and it is not cute, nor winning, nor transmissive of how anyone really looks. The duck face isn't used IRL outside of this one single dated cyberconvention to express reactions in any context, so unless you're actually an emo/scene gal, just stop, delete, and please exit your bathroom or car to go take a for-real picture.

Those GIF-y Instafilters. On Instagram you've got an endless roll to selfie-indulge in, but on your dating profile, you don't. There's this limited and bullet focus chance you've got to attract a person (which is why you're there, yes?), so choosing to overlay yourself as an animated dog, or with Harry Potter spex, or Wayfarers you can't afford, or rainbows passing straight through your ears, all tries to indicate fun but ultimately works against you. Anyone can use those, it's hardly original. Either compose/find a photo that shows you're for-true fun, or hey, even better, write about how exactly you are fun-fun which will be far more attractive than detractive.

Your theme of Lil Mosey's Blueberry Faygo. This begs the question if Spotify selects this track as a default, or if there's some SEO-boosted digital dating advice article that states most people swipe right to that, but it's baffling that like 1 out of 5 people have this as their profile's anthem. It's not a good song. And my observation that it's somehow a pop cultural lowest-common-denominator shows anyone's lack of individual merit in selecting it. Same for anything by The Weeknd, or most of Post Malones' tracks (excepting that Spiderverse soundtrack one, but still that's not really reaching for something distinctive). There's an endless jukebox of choices, go find the one song that is you and not everyone else.

Your "I'm an open book" isn't an open book, and you probably couldn't write much less be a book if you tried, which you haven't. I've written a book and that's no task for anyone who can't even adequately form three paragraphs about themselves. And if there's not enough inside of you to compile those few paragraphs then it's not a relationship you need, it's self-improvement.

If you want a partner in crime, I want plans for a scheme that will set us up for life. Show me your flawless criminal genius, and I will drive the getaway car. Let our togetherness raid the world like Vikings and beat this system for good.

The body shot. Where in your carousel of photos is it? While I'm sooooo definitely a face person, that fine face is attached to a whole being, a complete package, and you can't make a fair physical chemistry judgment about anyone without that full body picture. If it's because you have a weight problem, then maybe you should ease off on the weekly pizza. Not saying curvy girls can't look good, but you have to give us a look to begin with.

Remember that hiking was used to get place to place, not as a fun activity. While connecting with the majesty of nature's a redemptive & renewing thing, it tends to happen on a meditatively personal & individual level inside oneself. If I'm going to get sweaty with you, there are far better options.

And for people who all say they love to travel so much, somehow I bet that's more wishful thinking than your actual life recreation. None of that's cheap, believe me, I know. Pick your destinations wisely because odds are you'll never be able to afford nor see it all. And destinations never stand still, like a postcard, they change while you're away, so factor that into your unrealistic pie-in-the-sky travel budget.

"Netflix & Chill" is lame. I would probably sit on the Chesterfield with you to watch something, but we'd have to make out a little somewhere in there. But hey, fucking like to read. Books are sexy, they make you sexy. With each page you turn, you earn. It's a mentally proactive neural activity. New ideas, new ways of thinking, the gift of experiences/histories/possible futures -- it's the most rewarding of mediums, and if you like that, then you're already brilliant.

What I really, really, really find dismaying about the broad cyberavenues of online dating is that there's so much no, which I suppose is a large part of the reason behind this piece. It's like this whole universe of no you never knew existed. You'd think that in increasing the dating pool to a potentially global amount of people than you'd normally never run across in local meatspace would then give you tons more worthy candidates to choose from, but this is so not the case that I've encountered. Even moreso, I wish there were even finer granulations of criteria to scythe down this huge haystack of mega-chaff as it seems the few delimiters that influence the algorithms still sling all this time-consuming non-harvest of no at you.

This unforeseen dearth should just reinforce my self-worth, letting me know that my selectivity & relationship experience only confirms that I'm emotionally intelligent enough to know what I want. But it also lets me know how incredibly lucky I've been so far to date way, way, way more than my fair share of wicked smart, exceptionally beautiful, and joyously compatible women, given how very, very few are actually out there, at least ones that can convey that in the above context of a dating app/site. I sincerely hope dear reader that you are one of these brilliant exceptions, and that you

find me here.

[hardly the best Lichtenstein-styled homage, but you're artistically literate enough to see that, right? Right.]

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While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him.

that is what it's like.

It is like watching a film every afternoon of the one you held most dear but can no longer have, and not being allowed to leave the theater.

It is like a burning anger inside that you can't explain, nor vent, and you know if you were to hurl it all forth from your throat, it would solve nothing, and still be just as much inside you.

It is like walking at the bottom of the ocean, against the deepest current, and you can't breathe, and your heart is being crushed in an abyss of helplessness.

That is what this feels like.

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While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him.

a monday kind of love.

Maybe it's like George Sand & Chopin, or Henry Miller & Anais Nin. There's these bright shining passages of transcendent passion, but even if things don't work out, it's the achieving of those highs for a time if you're lucky enough to receive them that will live on in glory in your heart and within the hearts of others, in the story that hopefully gets told of your life.

In my desire for peak experiences maybe that's what I manifest for myself, instead of a long-lasting mediocrity, or hanging onto a faded shadow of what was once a past joy, but unsustainable, as most do.

Still, I miss my marriage, or I miss the ideal of marriage, the construct of permanence, an inviolate safety & sanctuary I'd thought I'd had and have lost through no fault of my own. I bet my emotional bank on my wife, a person who'd oathed by the Gods to keep troth with me, and it didn't work out. It was fucking crushing at a level I'd never experienced before. If after that a divorcé never lost hesitancy, or remained boundaried, or stayed emotionally guarded for the rest of their life, no one could blame them from learning those safeties from their deeply hurtful experience.

What is enough? What is needed? Are those wants just larger fears and shortcomings of self that actually have nothing to do with the other person, or are those needs real? And is my happiness with who I am a strength, or does my self-satisfaction rob me of the ability to change? It's not that I don't change, but my whole life I've changed so glacially, with consideration & care at such a slowly studied degree that my self-love will allow. If that change doesn't come at a rate or time that another person wants me to change, then what does that cost me or protect me from? But if I change for someone else, do I then become someone better or worse, or just someone different, someone less recognizable, a face in the mirror that has kept another's love but in a sacrificial ratio lost self-love, and possibly one's own center?

My writer's logic allows me to understand, to frame it in a way that gives it context, but my unquenchable romanticism, the feelings themselves, break my heart.

Again.

And again.

And I write about it, again, like an eternal return, a fire that never dies, a burning ship, a battle that is instead a brutally wanted kiss.

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[for K and the 68 Mondays.]

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While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him.

it breaks my heart.

I would send that photo of you on a clear blue day in SF, holding the flask. It's that bright and shining moment of perfection where everything you feel is unquestionable and more than real and so solid it flays you free of the unimportant past and cracks opens the future like a pomegranate, each bead a sweet red bit of life to come, and you know in your soul it'll all taste good from here on out.

You're holding the flask in your hands, the one thing you wanted more than anything for your 30th birthday, and it reads "fire in a bottle", and it doesn't matter that nobody else knew what it meant, only us, only us, only us, only we knew.

Later, there were moments and pauses where our love flagged. The difference was that I had to try and pay attention to the ones where it didn't: the nights of sweat, breakfasts of unneeded donuts and fritters, you in marabou slippers, us driving out to see that total tourist trap in Dragoon that was so stupid it didn't matter because we were there together snickering among the scorpions frozen in paperweights; leaving the apartment like a dream in the stewardess outfit at 4 in the mornings, sleeplessly sexy, touching down like the setting sun when you got back in the evening, rising, falling, rising again, out into the world and ovaling back to me where I waited with presents washed up on the shore of my nights at the store. In them, I saw you, and the desire I had for you.

It was you who doubted, who saw those same moments not as answers but as questions to be raised but for your own reasons, because in the end security was more important than love for you. Is it? Have you now found it a few just too convenient doors down? I can't say. I've always been secure with myself, safe in my own arms, self-contained. I still am, but you've cracked that container, and while it's all still together in my boundless soul, there's a space where you're missing, where the cold enters, depressurizing my insides when I don't expect it, and I see you through the hairline gap, and I miss you: the bangs, the full smile, eyes of dusk, charms you never even saw, but that never failed to surprise, seen as though it were always the first time. Through the heartfissure I accidently watch re-runs of the Christina channel, and what was once my favourite show now breaks my heart, and the fucked up thing of it is you don't even have to be there to do it again.

Yet I can't tell you, or send you the photo. Pride forbids it, my righteous anger tells me such offerings are undeserved, that they weren't adequate to save us in the first place, that maybe, after it all, they'll signify only to me, and are ultimately unasked for.

I wonder if one night you'll realize that more than that immediate family you love, the shoe leather father of impossibly high regard, self-declared asshole brother, sweater-vested aloofly uncaring younger brother, and especially your unwinnable mommy dearest, that for that time, I cared for you more than all of their small mouths could ever hold, and cared most of all.

And in the end, now a year later, in the wake of your unsober tear eyed unannounced visit to my parents, I'm right: love isn't enough. In the end I was the one left holding the bag, the bag filled with gifts left ungiven, gifts poured back into the oceans of unwanted things, these artfully wrapped presents that weren't just gifts -- they were years of I love yous to come, the red seeds of pomegranate that once shined and burned inside that bottle like a fire, impossible but true, if only for a moment of our lives, flowing away from you,
almost,
but not,
tasted,
given up ...
gone.

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While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him via LinkedIn or G+.

you are all under cardiac arrest.

Dominic stomps his way across the breakroom. A boyish early 20s only reinforced by the baseball shirt and toe cap sneakers.

"I'm just so angry."

I look up from week five's healthy meal selections. "At least you had a choice."

"It was my decision, and somehow I'm still angry, and I don't even know why."

Back down to the plate, I'm confronted by my pile of raw nuts. "What angers you is the futility of it all. All the time, investment of self, and when it should and still doesn't satisfy, it pisses you off."

"Guillermo, you're completely right."

"Of course I am." I am the goddamned cheerleader of broken hearts.

A week ago Abram's live-in lady Sarah kicks him to the curb. Not for the first time Abram reflects: "Think I'm going to be one of those guys who starts cross-dressing in his late 30s and figures out he's gay." I bring him empty boxes for his extensive wardrobe after work. He takes them resignedly in his overly ringed fingers, thanks me, and trudges back inside.

After years of unrequited forests of pining in FriendZonia, Donny's object of obsession Sofi, a svelte 20-year-old dance instructor from Mexico, finally decides to learn him a horizontal mambo. It is two weeks of golden bliss for Donny before she crushes it out as a "mistake".

"I can't stop thinking about it. She even moaned my name with that accent."

"Look at it this way: Most guys never get to have sex with their dream girl. You win."

Chris is given an ultimatum to read New Age books and change by month's end. Mira still uses him for sex, but then throws him out of their apartment come August 1st. He breaks down live on KXCI during his guest set that night, but soldiers on until the end.

By all accounts Mira was on wheels.

"Now you can go find someone who's actually nice."

"But she was the one!" he insists. "And now it's too late."

I sigh for him, but know he'll feel differently when he finds out she was cheating on him by August 25th.


"G, are you married?"

"Why Rose? You asking?" Her boyfriend Paul has the most inexcusable hair. It's like the mange, really. Last week she confessed to planning on leaving him.

She laughs and links hands with me, palm to palm. "No, but I thought you were."

"48 hours ago I just got my walking papers from a two-year relationship."

"Relationships suck."

We smile at each other, pushing away, hands parting.

[Tarjeta de Lotería #27: El Corazón.]

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While a mostly happy bookstore fixture for over two decades, Guillermo Maytorena IV is currently willing to entertain your serious proposals for employment as a literary/cinema critic, goth journalist, castellan, airship pilot/crewperson, investigative mythologist, or assisting in a craft brewery. Should you be connected to any of the above or equally interesting endeavours, do contact him via LinkedIn or G+.