If you're a woman and you're:
1. At least average looking.
2. Employed.
3. Not already married with kids,

Then you shouldn't need this service. Any woman satisfying the above three traits will be approached by men all the time. The fact is, and I say this without emotion, as one would state the time of day, the game of interpersonal relationships favor women by 14 points. So therefore if you're using this service and you've satisfied the criterion I've mentioned, you couldn't be anything but an inflexible, rigid, demanding woman who nags and always must have her way. Because those are the only traits that would keep you pushing away the constant barrage of suitors any normal looking-and-seeming woman naturally gets. What I'm trying to say is, you don't know what the fuck you want, and you're not going to find him here. And for that matter, neither do I. We should get together.

For Catherine:

Are you out there?

Swindled into 21st first century love. Words and pictures bundled together creating the illusion of existence. Things should be carefree and light, actions and desire should have minimal meaning attached.

The algorithm is remiss. Compatibility doesn't exist for those borne of the land of hollow trees and parched grass. Divided by decay, unable to branch out.

But there is that singular hope that the tree's last dried-up, withered seed will catch the right gust at the perfect instant--a moment of beauty as it's pushed and pulled landing finally in a thriving pasture.

Every time I do it, it's a rush. From start to finish. Waking up that morning is light, effortless, easy. Each day of the entire week at work leading up to it blends together to one seemingly continuous day. The drive to the airport, the conversation with the skydiving instructor, Ken. Not strained talk that so often characterizes, for me at least, the banter between anyone except family. Our adrenaline and excitement levels are so high, we're like fellow potsmokers--we have an instant connection. Putting on my gear, boarding the plane, rising in altitude. These events occur with the clarity of glass. I foresee and control their outcomes like a God. Reality is inert. I can grasp the time leading up to my jump in my hands.

And then the utmost intense rush one human can ever experience. Those singular moments, spanning about fifteen seconds, contain a month's worth of emotion. Your mind's eye eludes you as in dreams. I've found that whatever I thought about during those moments happened to be or would become the central concern of my life. It is the ultimate dream--fifteen seconds of do-or-die reasoning and emotion occurring at a velocity that's 100 times faster than normal.

And every time towards the end of the free fall, I contemplate whether or not I should pull the cord this time. Whether those last 14 seconds of hyper living, the symbol of my life as it is and will be, discouraged the continuation of this fragile existence. And every time I have decided the same thing: there is no reason not to pull it.

Even though my life feels horrible, shackled by child support payments, my excruciating job, my utter loneliness after work and how my co-workers don't know that I just go home Friday night waiting for Monday when I have to go to work again. At a job I can barely tolerate. No hobbies or interests except skydiving.

It occurs to me that I shall not pull the cord this time. But Ken's business might get in trouble. Wouldn't want to do that. There will be an investigation but it will show my equipment was functional. Just that my emergency Co2 cartridge didn't exist. An experienced diver like myself should know better. Ken should be cleared.

These thoughts and feelings flush my mind as the ground approaches.

The most fantastic manner of personal destruction, in four easy steps:

1. Go Skydiving.
2. Jump out of airplane.
3. Revel in the sensation of free-falling.
4. Make a conscious decision not to pull the cord.

As I feel the cold wind biting my face, I think just now of this predicament. Six counts of assault and battery, resisting arrest. The reality of the situation stings as I pull up to my lawyer's office building. I leave the bike on the rack between a few others, hoping no one will notice that mine has no lock. Just one of those small expenses I can do without. For my kid I think. Another stinging thought--my boy. I walk up the narrow steps to the small waiting room of four partnered lawyers. Maybe they're partners, maybe they just share office space, I don't really know. I feel the cold slowly release from my body as the red fades from my face. He has tactics for getting rid of me. I ask questions, pose possible situations. In the waiting room, on the bike path, at home alone waiting for my ex wife to drop off Darren, my mind runs through scenarios at trial. My mind doesn't race--a racing mind neglects certain things, it leaves some stones unturned, in the name of velocity. My mind carefully examines every angle, powered by anxiety, it views every tangential route as possible doom. Of course these thoughts don't occur to me as such: I just think, "I'm fuckin' stressed about this court shit." Any idiot who picks a fight outside of a row of three bars with a standard issue police presence hasn't the refinement necessary to form cogent sentences. But intelligence transcends lack of verbal ability and courseness. Proof of this is how I handle my lawyer.
He arrives at 8:05, a tall waspy middle aged man. Up the narrow stairs which dumps, like a tributary, right into the waiting room. He mildly recognizes me with a head-nod-grunt and strides towards his office. Two minutes later he returns and we meet in his office.

---

Another Monday morning arriving late. Reasons and causes penetrate my mind all-at-once. Each event so familiar, they appear like landmarks in memory: Morning routine alarm, shower, shave, food, vitamins, dress, teeth, weather channel. I didn't make the 7:28, had to wait for the 7:38 local weather. Ever since they went to the "local on the 8s" format...Cut that line of reasoning off. It does no good to complain about the weather channel. Look at why you're complaining--because a "local every half-hour" format leaves less room for manuevering, you either catch the 7:00 or the 7:30 or you don't catch the weather at all. Knowing this adds the slightest amount of extra stress, but this is just enough to hurry me through the routine, to keep me from hitting the snooze bar. The solution to this problem is to add a little bit of extra stress, or consequence if I don't catch the 7:28 weather forecast. Tommorow if I miss the 7:28 forecast, I'm not permitted to watch the 7:38. One day I'll miss the forecast of rain and look foolish without an umbrella and shawl. Blair, Cutting and McGuire will see and I'll face disapproval. This only needs to happen once to keep me fastidiously watching the 7:28. These thoughts morph into my morning clients--three this morning, but nothing special, nothing really needing to be done just yet. As I walk into the waiting room I notice my 8 o'clock, bundled up in Old Navy clothing waiting anxiously. I hang up my coat, fetch his file and skim it before I summon him from the waiting room.