Cook Me With Sweet Potatoes

Just when I thought the low point of my week was going to be grabbing my phone out of a public toilet, I log on to OKCupid to find out who my potential mate in both love and life may be, only to be notified I am a 92% match with a marshmallow.   

I am now going to put away my computer. Strip naked. Roll around in honey and offer myself to the nearest ant mound. Based on this new found information, I’m considering the possibility I’ve outgrown the need for love and dating. Perhaps it’s time to retire that aspiration like a pair of chewed up Converse sneakers which have lost both their souls and their laces, but dang if they don’t still feel like little hugs on your feet. Maybe now is the time for me to finally throw them in the garbage disposal and move on to pursue other life endeavors like learning how to build a fire out of wet leaves and despair. Or maybe my energies are better invested in watching the lady across the street parallel park. I think if I really put some muscle into it, I could learn how to make homemade candle koozies. Because as of right now, my faith in finding a significant, or even fairly adequate other, has been completely lost.

From here on out, I will spend my Friday nights wandering the aisles of Manny’s Fabrics N’ Crafts Emporium looking for ways to sew quilts with all of my unmatched socks. I’ll teach myself how to mosaic my bathroom floor with pennies and toothpaste. I’ll write letters to my representatives in the hopes they will respond with the cursory, “Thank you for your letter, your voice and vote may or may not matter depending on the election year.” I will learn the remaining 21 letters of the American Sign Language alphabet so that I can say more than, “bed” and “cab”. I will adopt a stray plant and name it Plantey. I will dress it in orange and blue ribbons and take it with me to restaurants so I can sit at the bar and watch my Broncos game without the worry of being hit on by a drunken Raiders fan.

If being paired up with a golf ball sized gelatine baby is my best chance at happiness, I think I can officially call it quits.

Of course, if I step back from the outrage and stop crying in the closet for just a moment, I can see the possible benefits of dating a marshmallow. Thinking fast and without reason, here’s what comes to mind on the plus side of such a union:

1. Aging for both of us can only make the relationship stronger. (Have you ever eaten a Lucky Charm?! That’s just an old marshmallow, people. And it’s amazing.)  
2. Great listener.
3. Won’t monopolize the conversation.
4. The best cuddler.
5. Soft skin.
6. The standard to which all my white laundry will have to live up to.
7. When I’m sleepy I can lean on its shoulder and not have to worry about it feeling  bony.
8. Conversation starter (at parties)
9. Conversation ender (on nights when I have a headache)
10. No matter how angry it gets with me, even punching me in the face won’t hurt. And vice versa.
11. Campfires. Wait, scratch that. Will it like to go to campfires? Or will it worry about its survival? Fuck. Toasted marshmallows are my favorite thing in the world next to being in love. Oh, wait. Nevermind. We’re good. Campfires.
12. Fantastic foot massager.
13. Thanksgiving dessert made so much easier.
14. Great with kids.
15. My family has an insatiable sweet tooth, so I know they’ll love it.
16. I’ll love my in-laws.
17. Multi-colored marshmallows babies.

You know what? I take back everything I’ve said. I think this might be the greatest thing to happen to me since I learned how to pee standing up. (Minus dropping my phone in the toilet.)

OkCupid, you do know me!  Well played. Things might be looking up for ol’ Storey.  So keep an eye out for the wedding invitations. I’ll be the one embracing the Michelin Man.