When considering leaving NYC, I thought, damn, there are a lot of East Coast cities I haven’t ever visited or visited in a while with a valid I.D.
Granted the Eastern Seaboard is filled with a plethora of American delights—you have the overt racism and fucking boring-as-all-get-out Boston (and what the fuck is with all the Irish people? It’s like they get off the airplane and go, “I can go ANYWHERE in America…Let’s go to Boston first!” You’d think one of them would spread the word already.); Philly, which is really just the Jersey Shore with fattier sandwiches; Baltimore, and let’s get real, we all saw The Wire, ain’t no one wanting to live in Baltimore; New York and all it’s in-your-face we’re-better-than-you New Yorkiness; and then D.C.
Fucking D.C. Where do I begin?
Now, the Eastern Seaboard in general is insanely tough for dating—everyone works all the time to afford the ridiculous standard of living—i.e. their 300-square-foot studio that’s $1,400 a month—and when they’re not working in their stupid industry of choice (Politics, Media, Finance), they’re out hitting the bars or their co-ed softball league or dog park to get laid.
In general, what the average relationship lifecycle spans through in three dates or so in ’Mer-Kuh gets crammed into about a four-hour night here in NYC. No one has time to learn your childhood regrets and fears. No one gives a shit about what you really wanted to major in in college. It’s get on that dick, get off and if you can remotely stand to look at each other the next morning over the Sunday Times Book section, then you got a shot in hell at a relationship.
That is, if the person you just fucked doesn’t express his desire to fuck your roommate over toast and eggs.
But at least NYC is NYC—it is the top, sorry guys, of the Eastern Seaboard cities. At least if you’re not getting laid, you can eat fantastic food, and go to museums and see fantastic art, and go to parks and see free music and immerse yourself in a truly international city. And, yes, I just said it, we’re better than you. And, yes, I know I’m a hypocrite.
But back to our neighbor to the South. Apparently, D.C., is an even tougher dating market than NYC. This I could hardly believe, but this article sums it up nicely.
Christy, you see, has some advice for Washington, D.C., women—leave. Apparently, she’s moved on to greener pastures of Pasadena, Calif., where she’s swimming in dick, we presume.
The article by Bloomberg News, which means it represents only the highest, most unbiased and truthfulness of all news organizations run by multibillionaire midgets, states that there are 112 women for every 100 men in D.C. And when you account for the gays (which these studies never do) you gotta take that down a smidgen. And I thought women in New York, where it’s been rumored there are as many as three women for every single guy (again, the gays skew that in the guys’ favor even more—love you, gays, but you’re fucking up my odds), have it bad.
So what’s a girl in the Junior Republican League to do? Go speed-dating, I guess. Or go hang out on U Street where you can meet prizes like this:
“Dating, in general, is pretty much ours to lose,” Subramarian, who has lived in New York, Seoul and Shanghai, said while scanning patrons at a bar on U Street, a popular strip for people his age. “It’s trial and error for pickup lines.”
While some doucebag with a micropenis is asking you if you like his $15,000 watch or negging you by telling you that one of your boobs is slightly bigger than the other but “still nice-sized,” you can look around the bar in D.C. and see your options. And let me tell you, I was just down there, and I didn’t see any. The Talent was severely lacking. It was like American U Beer Pong Leagues, little, angry Republicans running on the Mall and then a couple stoner hippies who seemed way too tired or disoriented to even care about something as remotely demanding as sex.
The article actually has the balls to end with a woman moving to NYC where she hooked up with her “musician” boyfriend on the LES and managed to have a relationship. I say this is just bad journalism. Next to no one meets a significant other in NYC—and if they tell you they do, they are either A) Lying or B) stuck in that relationship because they fucked everyone else in their respective scenes, gave each other herpes and now can find no one else to fuck. Fairy Tale of New York. The End.
But don’t fret, ladies, as Bloomberg article says, if you really want to get laid, you better leave the lower 48 and head to Alaska, where, as a friend once told me, “The odds are good, but the goods are odd.”