Dear Dr. Brian,
Does the chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight?
And Dr. Brian Responds:
Dear Worried Hazel,
Don’t play games with me.
Although you might think that you’re being sly with this innocently-phrased question, you’re not. I’ve seen this feeble ploy thousands of times during my illustrious career spent patching up the damaged minds of countless souls who have strayed across the borders of reality.
And as is usually the case 99% of the time when people choose to use euphemisms in their pleas for assistance, this is really about sex. And, more specific to your case, the lack of sex. In other words, you’re not getting any, and you want to know why.
I just asked Lanae, my trusted assistant, to step into my office, at which point I made the international hand motion for “just got another email from a disillusioned nut job lying about sex, please get on the Internet and find out the real story”. Lanae motioned back with the international symbol for “why are you waving your hand like that, what does that mean?”. I sighed, handed her your email for review, recognition dawned on her face, and she scurried away to do the needful.
So while Lanae proceeds to violate your privacy in a number of electronic ways, I will offer you some preliminary advice based on your deceptive email and my own personal past experience with misguided sheep who wander into my pasture on a daily basis.
Firstly, you really need to change your name, or at least convince your friends and relatives to give you a more alluring nickname of some kind. I may be mistaken, but I don’t believe any newborn child has been given the name “Hazel” since the Truman Administration. This makes you sound very old. With very few startling exceptions, no one wants to have sex with someone whose “Use By Date” expired while “Leave It To Beaver” was still playing in prime time.
Secondly, I strongly suggest that you change your email address. “Desperateandlonely” is not a good user name, especially when coupled with the fact your account is with “Yahoo.com”. I’m sure the folks at Yahoo are very nice people, but the company name brings to mind visions of inbred farmers at a square dance. Granted, there’s the slim possibility that you would LIKE people to associate you with friendless and needy people bobbing for apples while livestock is being auctioned nearby, but I seriously doubt it.
Ah, Lanae has just returned with a detailed profile of your life, which she was able to obtain by simply typing your name into Goggle and hitting “enter”. (Technology is amazing, yes?) Let’s see what we have. Hmm. I see. Oh? That’s intriguing. Really? Yes, I fully expected THAT bit. Uh huh. Okay, then.
Now, the very first thing you need to do is hang up the phone. I can confirm that you spend at least 14 hours of any given day talking on the phone or texting someone with your phone. Not only is this annoying to anyone around you, it’s also completely unhealthy. How did you get to this point? I am starting an intervention right now.
You don’t need to talk on the phone while you’re cleaning your house. That’s just ludicrous. How can you possibly expect for things to be “clean” if you’re only using one hand? And of course, texting usually requires the use of two hands. If both of your hands are frantically occupied in a frenzy of meaningless texting, you are NOT getting any house-cleaning done, and are therefore lying to yourself once again. The madness must end.
And for God’s sake, stop SLEEPING with your phone, clutching the device near your ear. Some things can just wait until morning. You cannot possibly be getting restful sleep if you keep jerking yourself awake every three minutes to ensure you didn’t miss an update from one of your friends that they did, indeed, have a successful bowel movement.
If you really desire some physical intimacy with a willing partner, you will need to put all of the electronics aside, even the one that you affectionately refer to as “Mr. Happy”. Especially THAT one. It may come as a surprise to you, but it is not mentally healthy to be having extended late-night conversations with something that has to be recharged on a regular basis.
Next step, stop going out drinking and carousing with that female buddy of yours that claims to be your friend. She is not. She is miserably unhappy in her own personal life, and therefore she is determined that no one in a five-mile radius should be happy, either. She is sucking the life out of you with her manipulative and vengeful ways.
You should not trust this woman. At all.
She may claim to have your best interests at heart, but these are just miserable lies. She is, in fact, doing everything she can to scuttle even the slightest possibility of you making a love connection with anyone on the planet.
Now, I’m sure you’re a wee bit skeptical about me speaking so disparagingly of someone you consider to be a best friend, and I fully expected such a reaction. Therefore, I am attaching a video file that my assistant found on “backstabbingbeyotches.net”. This is surveillance footage of you and your bestie having drinks at O’Malley’s last Friday. (Why someone chose to record this, I haven’t the faintest idea, but we really don’t need to dwell on that, do we?)
Since you clearly haven’t been paying attention throughout your supposed friendship with this Lola person, I am going to point out certain time stamps where you should carefully review the captured activities.
Here we have you and Lola just arriving for the night of drinking. As you review the seating options, your friend is working her way around the tables, apparently greeting a surprising number and assortment of friends. You are slightly jealous that she is so popular, but you let it go.
In reality, Lola doesn’t know these people at all. Instead, she is making sure that all possibly-unattached males in the room are aware that your name is “Hazel”. Lola is using crafty psychology, fully aware that associating your face with an unattractive appellation will create a subconscious tendency to avoid social contact with you.
Now, some of these men are already so drunk that they could care less if your name was “Shrimp Salad” or “Pancreas”. You still have an outside chance with them. But several of the men immediately turn the other direction to avoid eye contact. And one particular gentleman, the one in the red shirt, will instantly have flashbacks of the mean-spirited grandmother who used to beat him with a blackberry branch. Notice how he then turns to the brawny stranger on his right and strikes up a desperate, fear-fueled conversation. Interestingly enough, they immediately fell in love and will be married in six months in Vancouver.
You simply walked into the bar and yet you’ve managed to turn another one gay. Poor girl.
As you finally take your seats, notice how Lola graciously offers you the better-placed chair so that you can survey the room with more ease. You think this is very kind of her. In reality, she has surreptitiously loosened strategic screws in the chair so that it will slowly come apart over the next several hours, eventually shifting dramatically to one side.
What this means, sadly, is that as you consume more beverages, you will not notice that your substantial breasts are no longer on an even keel. In fact, the degree of variance will become so distinct that you will take on a frightening asymmetrical look that will prove quite disconcerting to any lusty males who glance your direction. No one wants to sleep with someone who could have posed for Picasso.
Deceptive Lola is now happily prodding you toward one specific entry on the appetizer menu, speaking rapturously of the divine taste of the item. Again, you think she’s just helping you out. Rather, she has carefully researched the ingredients required for such a dish, and is fully aware that two of the main components will internally combine in such a way that you will develop a gas bubble the size of the Hindenburg.
She has also secretly snatched the GasX medication out of your purse while you were otherwise concerned with the consumption of an alcoholic shot bearing the curious title of “Pink Creamy Snapper”.
As the evening progresses, more beverages are consumed, and your hazy focus is not as crisp as it should be, what with the constant texts to your phone (“Cleaning the lint out of the dryer! Yay!”) and your growing physical discomfort, Lola becomes bolder. She knows you’re no longer paying attention, and she is swatting away the few men who have managed to get through her carefully-laid obstacles.
(If you turn up the volume, you can actually hear some of the outrageous phrases she whispers to these men. “I’m her probation officer.”, “She’s clinically insane. Would you like to see the papers?”, and “She’s had crabs so many times she might as well open a Red Lobster.”)
Of course, if any of these men are actually interested in LOLA, her game plan is completely different. In these instances, she jerks the man into the seat beside her and immediately shoves her tongue down his startled throat.
Despite all of Lola’s insidious efforts, one man finally breaks through and actually gets your full attention. He’s very cute, has a great smile, and just wanted to say hey. He politely reaches his hand across the table. You, beaming, and unaware that a line of drunken drool has just dripped off your chin, raise your own hand to meet him halfway.
Lola, watching all of this with a totally fake smile showing gritted teeth, nudges your chair leg with just a tiny little tap.
The chair collapses and you are plummeting to the earth. In your panic, you grab hold of the tablecloth, and manage to pull down a rain of plates, condiments, and beer bottles, creating a racket that stops traffic on the nearby Interstate. As the clatter finally levels off and the bottles quit rolling, the roiling gas bubble finally makes its debut, entering from both sides of the stage at once, if you will, and echoing about the room.
The man slowly withdraws his hand, glances at Lola (who glances back with a long-suffering “this happens ALL the time” expression), turns on his heel, marches away, and you never see him again.
Lola then helps you to your feet, wiping away the tears and the Teriyaki sauce in your hair. She helps you gather your things, waits slyly while YOU pay the entire check out of pure shame and embarrassment, and then escorts you to the door. Mission accomplished.
Poor, sad, in-denial Hazel. Please speak with Lanae about arranging your next appointment.