The well of souls

I'm not really up to blogging this evening because I am pissed off. I have so had enough of Guardian Soulmates. What fiend invented this ultimate aid to pitiless self-assessment? The details are too boring to relate and I know certain parties round here have been there too. The fact is, I am not a profile, I am a complex ever-evolving being, an imago in metamorphosis. Quick, nurse, the blue pills, hurry for god's sake! I'm so evanescent I can see my hiatus hernia pulsing anxiously away.

Update: perhaps I should explain this is nothing dramatic or tragic, such as love spurned. It's the whole process that gets me down. Profiles tell you pretty well zilch about anyone, like CVs. Even assuming the profilee isn't actually lying or glossing, as many do, the contactee usually turns out uncannily different from your idea of them, because you haven't learnt the important stuff: "Divorced", OK but when and why and how do you feel about that? "Education" is totally meaningless. I've had terrific letters from people with little further education and misspelt, incoherent ones from Ph Ds. Allegedly. And so on. Second beef, extreme unreliablity of many allegedly looking for mates (perhaps one of the reasons they currently find themselves on the shelf). I reckon 90% of the correspondences I've initiated amount to two-and-a-half transactions, with the second shoe never dropping. What's up with that? Some giveaway between the lines? I write pretty good letters. So, unreliable types and possible timewasters abound. Thirdly, the person in the flesh hardly ever lives up to the billing. "Attractive" (until I gave up bothering 20 years ago); "gym junkie" (I just use the jacuzzi and the pool). A big giveaway. And blah blah blah.

The one thing that keeps me from packing it in is that I have made one or two wonderful friends (they know who they are), and that makes up for everything, most of the time ...