Not My Type

As many of my friends know, my single, dating life (many moons ago) was abysmal.

I had less chance of success than the ISIS barber shop down the street “taking a little off the top, please.”

The girls I met all had the same excuse. “You’re not my type.” If I was the paranoid type, I would conclude that they all somehow colluded in rejecting me. BUT I’M NOT PARANOID ABOUT GIRLS THAT ARE AGAINST ME!

I looked for all kinds of situations in which to meet my match.

One time I met a girl while designing a newsletter for a big client. She said I’m not her typeface.

I went to the blood bank beside Jimmy Carter’s office and asked a girl, “Hey, I’m a bleeding heart Liberal, would you go out with me?” “Sorry, not my blood type.”

On a date one time, I treated a girl to all the Krispy Kremes she could eat, and she said, “Um, you’re just not my type two diabetes.”

I met a really cute girl at an audition, and she said, “You’re not my typecasting.”

I wrote a sweet love letter to a girl and misspelled “love” as “live”. “I live you.” “Nope. You’re not my typo.”

I tried playing romantic music. “You’re not my stereotype.”

I gave out phone number after phone number. “You’re not my teletype.”

I used every excuse in the book.

During a really bad rain storm, I told a girl it was flooding and she better hop in my boat. “You’re not my archetype.”

My twin brother below, the same genotype as me, never had that problem.