Dear Mr. Sarcasm,
I’m not what you would call a “regular reader” of Sarcastic Voyage, but I do occasionally skim past your little humor thing when there’s nothing interesting being offered in the Beanie Babies area on eBay.
Recently (last week, I believe it was), I noticed a passing reference to a major change in your personal life. Enquiring minds simply must know, Mr. Sarcasm: are you really living with your girlfriend? If so, what does it say for the state of world cynicism when “Mr. Sarcasm” has become so obviously enamoured of another human being to share living quarters with them? In essence, doesn’t being “Mr. Sarcasm” all but forbid you from doing something sensible like falling in love?
— Curious in Cuckamonga
P.S. Congratulations if it is true.
Dear Curious:
I applaud your vigilant powers of observation! The reference you mentioned was but one of countless dozens with which I’ve been peppering Sarcastic Voyage for nearly a month now. I suppose it’s ironic that a casual reader like you (rather than my countless hordes of adoring fans) would pick up on this first. Ironic, perhaps, or maybe just sad. But we won’t be spiralling into the bitterness of the unrecognized today; not with things going as well as they have been lately.
You are indeed correct—I, Mr. Sarcasm, like Shakespeare before me, am in love. Hard to believe, I know, given that I’ve been compared negatively to everyone from Andy Rooney to Hitler—and those accusations are just from the girl in question. Still, those are terms of endearment (no, really!), this girl really is nuts about me, and I for her. They say that every person has their exact match someplace out there; I appear to have found mine. Not only is she attractive (several of my coworkers described her as a “babe” as she recently toured my place of employment), but she’s also a fellow geek—we met on the inernet and bonded over Mystery Science Theatre 3000.
I wasn’t sure how living with her—even just for the summer—was going to work out initially. It had, after all, been about five years since I’d lived with anyone else, and that had been with a fellow Lazy Guy. Imagine my surprise, though, when I learned that women can be just as slothful as men! (I should probably interject here, as I did with the “Hitler” reference above, that this is actually a compliment in our twisted little world. Don’t bother trying to make sense of it all.) Forget the whole “differences between men and women” nonsense. Aside from the obvious differences in anatomical plumbing, we’re essentially the same, as far as I can tell. Well, with the possible exception of what I’m calling The Toilet Paper Issue. I don’t know why women use approximately 1200% more toilet paper than men. I honestly don’t want to know. I am assured by several men currently living with women that this is indeed a normal situation, however.
Aside from that (which wasn’t so much a problem as a learning experience for me), everything has proceeded smoothly. So far, she’s been here about a month. We’ve done precious little, productivity-wise, aside from the initial moving into the new house, and I couldn’t be happier. We spend most of our days after work playing Nintendo and computer games, eating junk food and watching The Simpsons, Futurama, MST3K and Friends. Remember a few weeks ago, when I mentioned what my idea of heaven would be? This would be the closest earthly incarnation of that—if only we didn’t have to go to work. Life, as I have probably mentioned many times before in my uniquely smug and no doubt obnoxious way, is good.
So what does all of this mean for Sarcastic Voyage? For nearly three years, my writing has at least somewhat revolved around the basic condition of being a hermit, stranded miles from anything remotely resembling a social life. What’s going to happen now? Am I going to lose my sarcastic side from all this blissful living? Will I settle down and become a bland and productive member of society—a role against which I have fought consistently my entire adult life?
Doubtful. Fortunately for me, I’ve managed to find someone around whom I don’t have to censor my thoughts—I can really be as obnoxious as I want to be. It’s practically encouraged between the two of us. In fact, we’ve found ourselves sort of pushing the envelope lately—seeing just exactly how unfathomably bold and offensive we can be in the privacy of our own home. It’s getting to the point where I’m almost frightened to let someone eavesdrop on us, but it’s bound to create a healthy environment for writing Sarcastic Voyage.
Of course, we did meet over the internet, so she’s probably going to end up being a 60 year-old man or something. I’ve only lived with her for a month so far, so that other shoe is bound to drop any day now.
Thanks for writing!
