Whingeing (sp?) is a fine old tradition, and one gloriously indulged in the blogosphere, so it's time for me to do my small part.
In a world where "gay dating death" occurs for the most part on one's thirtieth birthday, the prospects get a little thin on the ground something over a decade later - even considering the currently distorted demographic.
Between the two-legged petri dishes, the bugfuck crazy, the well-marinated in various recreational substances, and finally, the ones that're already hitched - the ones both available and interesting are somewhat limited in number.
This, of course, is where Murphy arrives on the scene giggling madly at his latest madcap prank - of the remaining number of potential mates, barring hell freezing over, there will either be a distinct lack of chemistry, actual visceral repugnance (as one observes the howls of terror from the dogs and small children shrieking over the horizon after exposure to a regrettable visage or fashion sense), or other factors shredding any realistic hope of romance.
That's not to say there aren't good folk and fascinating conversationalists amongst all of the above; just a distinct shortage of marriageable, or even dateable sorts.
That will be the kvetch for the day. That is all.
Feh. In the cool gray light of morning, when less cranky about long walks chasing urban transit and other matters, it seems only fair to admit that I've my own share of flaws and "unavailabilities" that contribute to events. Simply, like an old pair of jeans that're on the verge of falling apart, they're worn in and comfortable and haven't irritated me lately. (edit 0700, 08/29).