Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Teensy, Tiny Kitchen

Oh my god, how do you cook anything in here? It's like trying to cook a meal in a dollhouse. Your kitchen is small, narrow, and uncomfortable, like a Chinese finger trap. Two people can't even fit in it at once. We all have to take turns like we're waiting in line at a deli.

The "stove" is little more than a hotpot with a door which burns everything we try to bake in it. Since the one square foot of countertop space has a coffee maker, toaster, and a dishwasher rack piled on it, there is literally nowhere to prepare food. What is the point of this kitchen if you can't even prepare food in it? It's failing at the one thing it's supposed to do!

If I try to grab a beer from the fridge, I end up having to say "excuse me" or "sorry" a minimum of three times because I keep banging into you. It's like a mosh pit every time I want another High Life. It's madness.

This small kitchen is a drag because we will never be able to prepare a meal together. We'll never be able to put on my iPod and dance to Motown music while the pasta is cooking. And, we'll never be able to do that thing where you are making tomato sauce and you put a bit on the spoon and ask me to taste it to see if you need to adjust the seasoning. And, that just makes me sad.

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I Feel I Failed To Impress You When I Ordered Such A Fantastic Dinner For Us

Goddamn, I FUCKING ROCKED at ordering this dinner for us. First, I suggested we get some MUTHERFUCKING spring rolls. Fuck you, these were FUCKING PERFECT because there were two in an order so we each got one. YUM TO THE MAX, FUCKHEAD!

HOLY SHIT I rocked it again when I ordered a plate of Mee Siam noodles for us to split because they were SO FUCKING GOOD! I wanted to GRAB YOU BY THE LAPELS AND KICK YOU IN THE DICK BECAUSE THEY WERE SO FUCKING TASTY. And, that vegetable curry should've BLOWN YOUR FUCKING MIND, it was so fucking fantastic. IN YOUR FACE, EMPTY PLATES, BECAUSE YOU'RE MOTHERFUCKING EMPTY. BOO-YAH!

Then, when I suggested that we get some fancy gelato around the corner you should've FLIPPED YOUR SHIT because that was the perfect counterbalance to a such a SPICY FUCKIN' MEAL, you SHIT STAIN.

But, you didn't even seem to notice you FUCKING FUCK. Good luck finding someone who can expertly order a meal for two the way that I just did. I AM THE MUTHERFUCKING WORLD FUCKING CHAMPION OF FOOD SUGGESTIONS! AAAAAARGH!!!!!

*rips shirt off and flexes muscles*

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Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Love Kraftwerk

I remember when I first moved to Philly a few years ago, there was one guy who knocked my socks off. He wore white t-shirts, dark, cuffed jeans, and black shoes; a total science nerd Get Up Kid. Of course he also wore black-rimmed glasses which was like the cherry to his hot guy sundae.

I did a William Zabka-esque double-take the first time I saw him. I was Wayne Campbell staring at that guitar in the window: "You will be mine! Oh yes, one day, you WILL be mine!" I think I even shook my fist in the air to really drive the point home.

The next time I saw him was at a house party a few weeks later and he was wearing a Kraftwerk shirt. Swoon-a-fuckin'-LOON! I practically had to roll my tongue back into my face because it was draggin' on the floor.

Of course my dream guy liked Kraftwerk. Of course he liked sparse, European proto-techno, skinny-tie-wearing knob tweakers. I mean, I liked him before the Kraftwerk shirt, but that shirt catapulted him from cute dude-land to "how much would it take to bribe him to be my boyfriend like Patrick Dempsey did in Can't Buy Me Love because he's just that hot" dude-land.

Guys who listen to Kraftwerk, I love you. Let's listen to "Computer Love" and lay around your apartment and talk about cinema or some shit.

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Look Who's Talking! Spoiler Alert: It's Us

As a reminder, the Social Media Club of Philly has asked me to lead a panel about digital love tonight from 6pm-8pm at Jolly's Dueling Piano Bar, which is on 20th and Chestnut. Sorry dudes, but like the Jonas Brothers concert tickets your little niece wanted for Christmas, it's all sold out.

So, for the lucky people attending tonight, what will you experience? Well, think of our panel like Cirque du Soleil meets the Ice Capades meets the Disneyland tea cup ride meets the video for Cher's song "If I Could Turn Back Time."

It'll probably feel like you just ate a pot brownie AND downed a Sparks at the same time: You're gonna experience all sorts of sensations listening to us talk about Shmitten Kitten. It's gonna feel like you freeze-framed the end of a Toyota commercial and you're stuck jumping in the air. Forever. See you there!

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Things That Make Me A Bad Boyfriend: I Will Move To Portland After We Break Up

This has happened to me more times than I'd care to admit: Shortly after breaking up, my exes tend to move to Portland, OR aka the farthest possible corner of the United States (excluding remote Alaska or Hawaii). C'mon, was I seriously THAT bad?

So I've decided to turn the tables. After we break up, I'm going to move to Portland.

Yep, that's right. A few weeks after our teary-eyed breakup, I'll be packing my bags, renting a truck, and moving out to Portland to become a copywriter or a graphic designer. Or maybe a green architect. I'll probably end up waiting tables for six months to a year, but whatever.

And you're going to HATE it. I'll make sure of it.

I'll kick things off by posting Facebook photos of my EPIC cross-country roadtrip. They'll be of me in front of the Grand Canyon, standing under the Las Vegas sign, eating at In 'n' Out Burger. While you're sitting in your boring apartment working your boring dayjob, I'll be twisting the knife in by having mind-blowingly fun roadtrip adventures.

Once I arrive in Portland to my modest apartment that I'll share with "some guys I knew back in college," I'll proceed to send you e-mails documenting the following highlights:

- I'll tell you about the amazing locally-grown organic free range coffee shop I found right around the corner from my new place. In your imagination, the lattes there will be 1,000 times better than any latte you've ever tasted.

- I'll tell you about all the great indie record stores that I've discovered, where I just so happened to find an original pressing of your favorite record. Not to mention, I totally bumped into the banjo player from Fleet Foxes there too! Great dude; we totally hit it off.

- Then I'll post photos from a really amazing kayaking trip I took with some granola-loving backpacking kids I met at work. Every single picture will look like it came from a coffee table book titled, "The Most Beautiful Natural Setting You've Ever Seen."

Lastly, I'll tell you about how I started playing cello in an instrumental space-rock project. We started playing shows at the Food Not Bombs collective house and the dude I met from Fleet Foxes totally joined the band too! Now, we're opening for Fleet Foxes on a few West Coast dates.

Basically, with each e-mail, I'll make you despise me more for all the fun I'm having while you're trapped in your boring, uneventful East Coast life. By the time you move on, find someone new, dump him and move out to Portland yourself, I'll be long gone. You see, there will be a new hipster mecca by then. And, it's so obscure you probably haven't even heard of it yet.

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Bonerkiller: You Are Waaaaay Too Nervous

Holy moly! This is a date, not a march to the electric chair. You look terrified, like you didn't do your Social Studies homework and I'm about to make you to tell me what the ramifications of the Magna Carta were. Take it down a notch, dude! You're more wound up than a Hot Wheels matchbox car.

I'm just sitting here sipping on my vodka and cran watching you oscillate between awkward, stilted conversation attempts, straight-up conversation avoidance, and sheer terror. I'm not an IRS agent performing an audit on you; I'm your freakin' date!

Not that I would consider touching you, but you look really sweaty sitting there trying to think up things to talk about. I thought about sprinkling a crushed up Xanax on your mashed potatoes when you excused yourself to pee, but I feel like drugging you without your consent would be frowned upon.

For a split-second, I wondered if this might be my fault. I flashed through a checklist: Did I have something in my teeth? Did I forget to put on deodorant? Is this dress on inside-out? Did I mistakenly blurt out that I was going to perform oral surgery on you without anesthetic after dessert? Did I do anything to cause this extreme reaction?

Hell no, this isn't my fault! Oh lord, you're shaking more than Sandy and Danny did in the Shake Shack (and that was a lot!) Chill, homie! This will be over soon. Like, super soon. Like, now.

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Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Had A Zine in High School

Guys who had a zine in high school are a special brand of nerd that we adore. It's so cute to picture a younger, rougher version of them assembling their zine on their bedroom floor, their fingers gooey with glue.

Once the thing was pieced together, they'd scam photocopies from either school, their job, or Kinko's. If they were the more daring variety, they might've even swiped some office supplies too. Pretty slick, zinesters.

Most of the zines had quickly drawn sketches and badly photocopied graphics, but whatever. The really good ones would stand out because they were constructed with not much more than talent, staples, and love.

They'd feel a jolt of pride when their zine was favorably reviewed in Maximumrocknroll, Punk Planet, or HeartAttack; they'd run their finger over the page in disbelief. Their parents' address was listed as the contact info. If they were serious about their zine, they'd have a dedicated P.O. box listed. Impressive!

Guys who had a zine in high school rule. They probably all have blogs now, which is fine. But, we gotta give those gluestick samurais from yesteryear props. We love you!

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Story Time: Your Worst Date In Six Words

Six from Blossom. Get it?

You know how they have that thing where you have to tell a complete story in six words? We thought it'd be funny if we told a story about our worst dates in six words. Here, let us start:

Short in height, mean to waiter.
Fought about politics. The entire time.
Lived at home with his parents.
Was so nervous he got drunk.
Loved his iPhone more than me.
Wow! His ex-girlfriend sounds super bitchy.
Square-toed black shoes, unbelievably sweaty dancer.

And, those were all different dudes! What are yours? Leave 'em in the comments.

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Little Known Fact: We Judge You Based On Your Netflix Habits

The second time we came over to your house, we noticed the Netflix envelope on the coffee table. It was looking pretty rough; the coffee rings and thin layer of dust told us that little guy has been hanging out for a while. "Hmmmm. Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers." Whatever.

Flash forward to date number four. The same DVD is still on the coffee table in the exact place we saw it last. There are two more dusty discs on top of the DVD player. One is a random disc from the second season of Lost and the other is a pilates workout DVD. "Since when have you taken up pilates?" we asked.

"Oh, I got that out for, uh, my last girlfriend. I really should return those."

"Yeah, you really should," we agree, with a hint of sarcasm in our voice.

Guys who don't return their Netflix DVDs in a timely manner get on our nerves. Do you want us to pop 'em in the mailbox for you? Should we do your laundry while we're at it? Maybe chop up the food on your plate too? Get it together, man! We're the ones that lose out because when we come over to hang out you never have any good movies to watch.

If we suggest we watch something off Netflix on Demand to tide us over, we enter the barren, neglected land known as his Netflix ratings. You haven't rated a thing! They're suggesting 101 Dalmations and The Pink Panther 2 as movies you'll love. No ratings? There are algorithms that could expertly suggest quality movies that you are choosing to not employ. It's crazy! And, your queue looks like shit. There's four movies in there and half of them star Jean Claude Van Damme.

Why don't you just take your money, ball it up into a wad, and chuck it out the window. Netflix means nothing to you. You don't deserve those expert algorithms. You don't deserve them.

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Reasons Why We Love Our Readers: Exhibits A through Pee

As if we needed more reasons to love you guys, this little gem popped up on the ol' Craigslist. The title of the post is, "You Peed Down the Stairs at the Shmitten Kitten Party." Read on:

"Ah, my unknown love. I'm not sure what it was that struck me second about you. Maybe it was the way you smiled. Or your dark, stunningly gorgeous eyes. Perhaps it was the way your hair danced over your face.

What struck me first, you ask? I'll never forget it. You stumbled up the stairs, loudly whispering to your friends that you had just peed down the steps of the Khyber.

I swooned.

At that moment... that VERY moment, I knew. You were the kind of girl I could bring home to my folks.

If you see this, email me. We can pee down some stairs together, now and for the rest of our lives."

Yes, it was A GIRL who did that! HAHA! Now this is what I'm talking about! We Motley Crue it UP at our parties. It's like a Ke$ha video in there. We fight for our right (to paaaaar-ty!) Oh man, I wanna print this out and put it on my fridge. Thanks @mssmellymel for sending this along. 

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Ugh! There Is Nowhere In My Internet Life That I Can Complain About You!

We're Facebook friends, you follow me on Twitter, and you subscribe to my blog updates in your RSS reader. You are stalking my entire Internet life! Where am I supposed to make thinly-veiled complaints about you?

Do I have to start some secret, password-protected blog where I can vent about all the stupid things you do, like how you still have a Hotmail email address and you drive like an asshole? It's killing me!

I just want to complain about you to the anonymous masses in a place you'll never see it. Is that too much to ask? Maybe I gotta take this complaining business underground. I need a Fight Club situation where me and a bunch of people can all go and complain about people without them ever finding out who did it.

Well, the site Ex-Boyfriend Dead Letter Office is a good start. It's basically a complainers anonymous meeting. You can anonymously submit letters you'd write to your exes. It's really fun. And cathartic. Try it out!

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Tip Our Hat: Guys That Embrace My Flaws

As totally hot lady-types, we’re used to having our assets called to attention by men. We know you dig our dumps like a truck, killer gams and luscious racks (or at least, that's what rap songs tell me.)

So it takes a special gem to hone in on my uneven teeth and the chicken pox scar sitting next to my nose. Truth be told, I’m a little flummoxed that my foxy dress and the new eye shadow that’s supposed to bring out the green in my eyes wasn’t enough to distract you from those things. But I kind of dig that I don’t have to pretend like my flaws are not there.

While these parts of me top my list of “Things I Would Pay to Have Fixed/Hidden If I Had Mariah Carey's Airbrusher” you find them cute. Better still, you like them because they make me me.

Like Jewel’s snaggletooth or Paris Hilton’s lazy eye, these special quirks apparently set me apart from the other ladies you’ve lusted after. Thanks for letting me know that you not only don’t mind that I’m not perfect, but that you actually like it.

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Come Hear Us Talk About Love, Love

The folks at the Social Media Club of Philly have asked me to lead a panel about digital love. It's all going down on Wednesday, Feb. 24th from 6pm-8pm at Jolly's Dueling Piano Bar, which is on 20th and Chestnut. This place has the word "jolly" in the name. How can it not be a good time?

I know what you're thinking: "Digital Love? What's that? Like robots hooking up?" No, I won't be talking about robots hooking up. However, I will be talking about:

• why we decided to blog about dating
• how we built an audience/following
• the stories. oh my, the stories.
• the process of monetizing the site
• safety tips of using social media when you're dating

Have you ever seen me speak publicly? I talk like this:

Now is your chance to ask me anything you want! I'll be a Formspring come to life. Fire away with your toughest questions. Hit me with your best shot. Everyone is invited and it's FREE! Grab a ticket here. Hurry up, because we expect it to sell out. Well, even though it's free. Can free stuff sell out? Is that possible? What is in this brownie? Why do we drive in a parkway and park in a driveway? I could really go for a pint of Phish Food right about now. These colors are delicious.

Just come! 

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Surprisingly Not A Bonerkiller: What You Wore To Shovel Out Your Car

To set the scene, let's start with me. I am wearing snow boots, jeans with leggings underneath for added warmth, two t-shirts, a sweatshirt, a winter coat, a scarf, hat and gloves. These are all totally normal things to wear when shoveling out your car when it's buried under a foot of snow. Can we all agree on that? Ok, good.

Now, let's focus on what you are wearing to shovel out your vehicle: slippers, no socks, pajama pants with Homer Simpson saying "I am so smart" printed on them, a ratty t-shirt, a winter coat and...that's it! You're not even wearing gloves! Or a hat! Hands down, you are the most ill-prepared snow shoveler I've ever seen.

Besides your outfit being insane, the way you're swiping at the snow on your windshield with the sleeve of your coat makes you look like a maniac, too. You're hopping through the snow like Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream because you don't want to get an avalanche in your slippers. I have an idea: DON'T WEAR SLIPPERS OUTSIDE! I mean, who wears their slippers to shovel out their car? That's crazy!

But, I have to say, you looked really cute flapping around in the snow. And, your pajama pants are cracking me up. At least you looked like you were having fun out there. You didn't even mind that I tossed a snowball at you and playfully mocked your outfit. I approve! I almost asked if you wanted to grab a cup of hot chocolate to warm you up because seriously, you look like you're gonna catch hypothermia in about two minutes. Let's get you inside.  

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Upstairs Neighbors

I swear to God, your neighbors must be wearing brick shoes and they all have to be at work by 7am seven days a week. Seriously, I can hear every little squeak they make above us. It's torture! How do you sleep like this? There's an entire family above our heads squawking around like angry turkeys. It's like they're re-enacting scenes from Children of Men up there!

Why do they have so much to say this early in the morning? How many times do they have to traverse their apartment? I can hear every movement they make. And the worst part is that you're immune to it. You're deep in REM sleep as I'm trying to stuff a pillow over my face to drown out the sound from the traveling circus above our heads.

Wait! Are they blasting "O.P.P."?  *checks watch* It's 8:04am on a Saturday! WHO THE FUCK ARE THESE BRICK-SHOED, NAUGHTY BY NATURE-LOVING PEOPLE AND WHY DO YOU HAVE TO LIVE UNDER THEM?

I can't deal with your upstairs neighbors. And, that just makes me sad.

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Quick Rant: I Don't Want To See You With Your Ex In Your Profile Pictures

I'm not sure why guys seem to think that their profile pictures on Facebook are a free-for-all. They have all sorts of weird shit in there; random Internet memes, sports photos, sometimes even random images that they've tagged all their friends in as an inside joke. Whatever.

The WORST thing that they do is to post pictures of them with their ex. Hello! This is Facebook, not your desk drawer! I don't want to see you relaxed with your arm around her, smiling like two goofballs. As I understand it, you are trying to date me. I enjoy imagining us in situations where we are relaxed and smiling like goofballs. To see you do it with another woman you dated is...strange. It's definitely not hot.

Guys, why do you do this? I don't want to compare myself to anyone, but how can I not with her snuggled up in the crook of your armpit? The whole thing makes me feel weird. The last thing I want to do is confront you about it because it'll make me seem insecure, which I'm not. I just don't like being reminded of my place in your conveyor belt of girlfriends.

And, don't tell me that they only reason you have it posted is because you like the way you look in it. Sometimes you'll even crop her out in an attempt to salvage the picture. Sorry, but the ghost hand floating around your waist is a dead giveaway that some girl was obviously there. You are not Osama bin Laden; you have access to cameras to take lots of other pictures.

I'm just letting you know that unless you crack me up at about two chuckles per minute, the fact that you still have pictures of your ex makes you 90% less desirable in my eyes.

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Philly, Come Over Here For A Second: We Are Having A Dance Party Tomorrow Night

As someone who honestly doesn't give a fuck about Valentine's Day this year, I'm pretty much jumping up and down every second because I am so excited for this party. People ask me, "Anna, why throw a Valentine's Day party? Why now? Why you?"

Once I push the mic out of my face, I tell them that YES, we certainly need more parties because I've already hooked up with everyone at the other parties around town. I need a NEW party. One with radical people who are quick to give me high-fives and buy me Kenzingers with no expectation of conversation afterwards, and the ability to spell my name correctly in their cell phones after I slur my number into their ear. Nay, I DEMAND it!

Hence, our party was born. I'll be deejaying along with my two homies and we'll be playing the music that we've always wanted to hear when we go out dancing; Creed, Staind, Nickelback and Limp Bizkit.

Just kidding.

Seriously, I'm going to play music that will flip your lid. As a bonus, I'm going to play the two songs that I would dance to if I ever entered an amateur stripping contest like Liv Tyler did in that Aerosmith video (btw, how creepy was that? That's her DAD's band!) What two songs? Well, you'll just have to show up to find out!

Ugh, I'm terrible with secrets. Fuck it. They're "Hot for Teacher" and "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Well, the amateur stripping cat is out of the amateur stripping bag, I guess. I will play these songs, as well as dozens of other ones that you will love.

We will also have special presents for everyone that comes to thank them for being the best readers/ dancers/ radical humans on the planet. As always, our party is free and everyone is invited. Facebook info is here.

One more thing: after you shake the glitter from your clothes and wiped the sweat off your face, WhirtWhirl.com is the official place we've designated to post any missed connections from the party. Act like you know!

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Pics and Vids: The Art of Meeting Men

I'm taking notes because I need all the help I can get. So, it's cool if I stare at a guy and spill a drink on him as long as I have a wacky shirt on, am holding a teddy bear, and wear crazy earrings? DONE! I mean, what do I have to lose at this point? A re-run of Dallas and a pint of ice cream?



via Mark

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: The Cracked, Hardened Bar of Soap In His Shower

Let's put it like this: if I was on the subway and this soap sat down next to me, I'd get up and move to another subway car. What the hell are you doing to it? It's hardened and cracked, like Charles Bukowski's nose. This soap is basically a country song in soap-form; it probably has a drinking problem and hasn't talked to its kids in years. Oh man. It has more streaks in it than the quad on campus during homecoming week.

First of all, lathering is out of the question. It's like running into your ex with his new flame; it will be uncomfortable for all parties involved. And, it's totally unbreakable, like an everlasting gobstopper. It's probably mutated into a higher life form by now. It even might be half-robot. Who knows?

I hate this bar of soap. I refuse to use it. Just put it out of its misery (i.e. throw it out.) Splurge for a bottle of body wash. That's what all the kids use these days. Cracked, hardened bar of soap, you're the child actor of the soap family that's grown up to have a meth habit, tried to rob a bank and had a tell-all exclusive story appear in People. You are old news! You must be shunned! And, that just makes me sad.

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Quick Rant: Yo, Stop Hating Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day is rapidly approaching. While I think most of us can agree that we cringe slightly upon seeing our madly-in-love friends go crazy for this holiday, it pales in comparison to what I consider to be a far worse problem: Valentine's Day haters.

I don't mean to put this all on the female population, but let's be honest here: I don't hear too many guys talking about "gouging their eyes out" on this holiday or trying to stay home from work because they can't handle seeing all the flowers and balloons and god-knows-what-else getting delivered. I don't know if it's years of built-up single rage or if it was ruined forever by that first high-school boyfriend, but we all gotta CHILL OUT on that shit!

Every year, I hear the same tired thing from every girl I talk to who hates Valentine's Day: "I think it's bullshit that we pick one day a year to celebrate love. I want a guy who will bring me flowers and take me out to a fancy dinner on a random Wednesday, not some cheesy corporate holiday."

I get what you're saying here, but here's the thing: if you're dating a great dude, he will buy you flowers and take you out to a nice dinner on that random Wednesday AND on Valentine's Day. If your boyfriend is dialing it in 364 days a year and only treating you like a lady on Valentine's Day, the problem ISN'T Valentine's Day... it's your idiot BOYFRIEND.

As single people, I think we just need to embrace Valentine's Day for what it is. It's a sappy holiday. If you're single, that's cool! Call up some friends and watch a John Cusack movie. If you're in Philly, swing by our V-Day Dance Party and shake a tail feather. It doesn't have to be a pity party - just have fun! There's nothing more unattractive than someone seething with hatred at a holiday that celebrates all that mushy love stuff that ultimately everyone deep down is looking for.

So have a little heart this Valentine's Day. Keep the hate to a minimum and just enjoy it for what it is. In a short 24 hours, it will be Presidents Day, and who could possibly hate that?!

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Pics and Vids: Cookie Cute

This melted my cold, jaded, bitter heart a little bit. We're all just looking for our perfect chocolate chip cookie, right?

via

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Bonerkiller: You Don't Get My References

You don't understand what I'm saying. It's not that I'm speaking Spanish and you're speaking Dutch. We're not trying to communicate in semaphores or with air traffic control flags. It's just that you don't get my references, man.

And man, my references are not oblique. What do I like to talk about? Bad TV shows on Bravo, celebrities, dead celebrities, mid-'90s indie rock; nothing maj. I'm not the Alapaha Blueblood Bulldog (that's a rare dog breed, bozo) of reference droppers, but your lack of cultural knowledge shocked and awed me. Like when I said your wannabe model sister was like Lana Turner trying to get discovered at Schwab's, you shrugged and asked me who Lana Turner was. And no, she's not on Twitter.

So maybe you'll get this reference: "I'm outta hee-ee-eere."

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Shmitten Kitten Mix: I Want _____ Mix By Rub Paw Press

My homie Jose from Rub Paw Press made y'all a mix as an early Valentine's Day present. He is calling this an aleatory Valentine's mix. Apparently, aleatory means to leave something up to chance (I looked it up!) For instance, he typed the word "want" into his iTunes and this mix bubbled up. Here is what he had to say about it:

Valentine's Day is an occasion designed almost exclusively for the exchange of commercial goods. Whether V Day is or is not an authentic holiday, it is in many ways the perfect occasion to unleash the sweet mix tape / CD / iTunes playlist on that special someone, allowing for the trade of material goods to occur outside of the province of market capitalism. Or maybe it's reflective of an age where the exercise of "good taste" in arranging bits if illegally downloaded data can be presented as superior to gifting something that costs money or real effort.

A Valentine's Day mix can get away with sending a direct message: It's Valentine's Day! Speak from the heart! Tell Him/Her/Ze how you feel! In this spirit, I present the I Want _____ mix to you as an exercise in judging a book by its title and arranging titles into a message sort of. And, desire is one of the central dynamics in love, right?

Click on the rekkid below to download his present to you:

Track listing:

1. I Want You - Bob Dylan
2. I Knew I'd Want You - The Byrds
3. I Want the One I Can't Have - The Smiths
4. I Want a House - Twin Sister
5. I Want You Back Again (Alternate) - The Zombies
6. I Don't Ever Want To Come Down - 13th Floor Elevators
7. I Don't Want Control Of You - Teenage Fanclub
8. I Don't Want To Die Alone - Jens Lekman
9. Why'd You Want Me - The Jesus And Mary Chain
10. Don't You Want Me - The Human League

There you go! As part of the deal, I made a mix for him using the word "love" to post on his site. Download it here!

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Bonerkiller: Nervous Nailbiters

Oh Lordy, what have you done. Your fingers look like salted slugs that got smacked in the face with sandpaper. Get your hands out of your mouth! Every time I look over, you're chewing away on your middle finger like you're snapping into a Slim-Jim. 

The only acceptable times to bite your nails are:

• during a suspenseful scene in an action movie
• if you are at the Oscars wearing a tux, waiting to find out if you won the Academy Award for best director
• if you have a hangnail and aren't near an emery board

That's it! Those are the only times! Dude, stop fiddling with your fingers. Put them away. Sit on them, if you must. Get a grip (on something else besides your teeth.) Watching you nervously nibble on your cuticles while trying to have a conversation with me is a total bonerkiller. It's just gross. 

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Reader Submitted Tip Our Hat: Mr. Politics

Our lovely reader April sent this to us. Honestly, we've never dated a political dude, but we'll take her word for it that he's not terrible. Take it away, April:

I had no idea politics was such a haven for hotties until I started my latest job, where I work with them all the time. Mr. Politics (see also: campaign managers, grassroots organizers, legislative aides, press secretaries or any form of professional political junkies) is slightly haggard from being overworked, but a total stud nonetheless. He's got the standard Mr. Politics haircut which is slightly shaggy and swept to the side, and his casual uniform consists of a button-down oxford shirt with an open collar and rolled up sleeves (give or take a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket) and broken-in, sexy jeans. His business uniform is a power suit, with a tie being optional. Foxy, right? 

 

Mr. Politics is kind of a douche, but his passion for politics and complete devotion to making the world (or at least your legislative district) a better place makes him incredibly appealing. He's a smooth talker, a great flirt and funny. 

But beware: he is a transient, thus making him noncommittal to anything or anyone but his candidate. That also makes him good for a fling while in town for his campaign. He is confident, knows what he wants and goes for it. So when that's you, it rocks. But because he's overworked, he has at least one bad habit, whether it's smoking, a filthy car, chronic coffee breath, commitment issues, constantly checking his Blackberry for Google Alerts on the campaign, or all of the above. But like I said, he's sexy as hell and worth the drama. Just don't get attached because come November, he's history. Sidenote: Mr. Politics makes for a great rebound.

Ok, we can see his merits. It's kinda cute that he cares about something other than hitting the liquor store before it closes. But, we're still on the fence. He'd have to have Minor Threat on his iPod and own at least one season of Arrested Development on DVD for us to entertain the idea.

Any dudes you wanna tip your hat to? Drop us a line at hi@shmittenkitten.com and tell us why he's dreamy, steamy, and (what's a word that rhymes with steamy?) uh, not a meanie? You get the drift. 

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Surprisingly Not A Bonerkiller: Your Weird Sleeping Habits

It’s that important dating milestone. We’ve gone on a few dates and we’re totally hitting it off and things are progressively inching ever closer to that “Do you want to sleep over?” moment. Well, it's finally happening and I’m following you up the stairs to your bedroom.

Everything is going perfectly, but it’s not until we’re about to fall asleep that things get weird. When you rolled over to mess with something on your nightstand, I assumed you were putting on some nice quiet falling-asleep music or setting your alarm for the morning. Suddenly, the sounds of LOUD CRICKETS fill the room.

At first, I’m confused as hell. “Is that a white noise machine?” I ask, partially hoping that this is all just some mistake that’s been made. Maybe you're a huge nature fan and this is your ringtone? So, I’m laying there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the great outdoors: crickets chirping, snapping twigs, perhaps a wolf howl off in the distance. I’m really not sure I can fall asleep to this.

But then, you snuggled up next to me. My initial fears subsided and I started to doze off. But instead of a normal doze-off, suddenly I’m reliving my boy scout years of sleeping under the stars during summer camp adventures, except THIS TIME there’s a hot girl on my arm. That certainly never happened at summer camp! AWESOME!

Sleeping in your bed catapults to a whole new level because it’s like we’ve been transported to the middle of Yellowstone National Park without the inconvenience of mosquitoes, rain, or grizzly bear attacks. Hell, we didn't even need to pack travel-sized bottles of shampoo! Admittedly, what I thought was a total bonerkiller on your part turned out to be pretty awesome.

So, ladies, bring on your weird sleeping habits. Bring on your white noise machines. It turns out I’m cool with it. Who knew?

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Bonerkiller Snooze Button Enthusiasts

It feels like I'm trapped in some slow, terrible version of Super Mario Brothers, except instead of hitting a brick with your head for a coin, you're tapping the snooze button every five minutes. Fucking stop. Please.

This happens every single morning. I have to hear that buzzer go off like I just got a question wrong in "Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader." I AM smarter than a fifth grader and I can wake up on time with very little fanfare. I don't need a mean button yelling at me over and over again to do it.

The worst is that I see you groan, roll over and go right back to sleep. TEN TIMES. This snooze button is enabling you. It's the Tom Sizemore to your Heidi Fleiss. (Sorry, I've been watching a lot of "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew" lately.) I don't need to feel like I've just been caught shoplifting every five minutes before I've even had a sip of coffee! Just turn the damn thing off and wake up like a man.

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Philly, Your Kiss Is On Our List

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Tip Our Hats: Cereal Hounds

We gotta be honest: We LOVE it when a guy goes to town on a bowl of cereal. He looks SO CUTE shuffling around the kitchen, eyes half-open, robe flapping around. When he takes the cereal box down from the shelf, he gives it a little shake. After he hears us giggle, then he shakes it again, this time moving his sleepy hips in time. "You like that, don't you? Of course you like it." We giggle more.

Then, he takes down his favorite bowl from the cabinet and dumps the stuff in. After he blasts it with milk, he plunges his spoon into the mess. Now he's sitting across from us at the kitchen table. His first bite is the best because the cereal is still crunchy so it makes the most dramatic noise, like stepping on a pair of eyeglasses. He shovels another spoonful in his mouth and after one chomp, he tries to smile as wide as he can to crack us up more. Bits of Honey Nut Cheerios are scattered through his teeth, the shrapnel from a sugary grenade.

Each bite becomes successively quieter as the milk calms the cereal down. The Cheerios are tiny fish to trap and we can tell he finds satisfaction in scooping every last one up. "Done and done," he loudly proclaims to the entire kitchen. His spoon rattles around the bowl as he plops it in the sink.

We love you, cereal hounds. Whether you're jamming on a bowl of Frosted Flakes or Wheaties, watching you go to town on a bowl of the stuff is a great way to start our day. We give you the SK spoon salute!

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Bonerkiller: Guys Who Don't Care About Learning The Correct Song Lyrics

"She's got a smile and it means to me/
Reminds me of uh huh uh huh/
Where every uh huh uh huh/
Bright blue SKY (sky, sky)"

Haha. What did you say? *turns down the car stereo* Can you repeat that? How do you NOT know the words to this song? Nevermind the song, you don't even know the words to the first stanza? Are you a foreign exchange student? Were you raised by wolves?

I mean I could understand being foggy about the words to "Paradise City." Axl gets kinda garbled in that low register. No one knows the words; that's ok. But drawing a blank to the beginning of "Sweet Child O' Mine?" That's fucktarded!

What's that? You're not a big lyric guy? Well, I'm an intense "lyric girl," to use your terminology. I look up lyrics online to make sure that I know what the hell I'm singing along to. I'm still baffled at the lyrics to Animal Collective's song "My Girls": "I don't mean to seem like I/ Care about material things/ Like a social status." Social status IS NOT A MATERIAL THING! Are they on drugs? Wait, don't answer that. They are totally on drugs. There's no other excuse for such a lazy lyric. Seriously, I want to give that lyric the finger. 

No, I won't settle down. I have strong opinions about song lyrics, their logic and the subsequent memorization of them. That's just how I roll.

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Bonerkiller: His Feminine Hands

Everything is going so well tonight. I'm loving this French restaurant you chose. I'm loving your animated stories. I'm gazing into your eyes imagining what our children will look like when I notice your hand wrapped around the stem of your wineglass.

Wow. You've got some ladylike fingers going on, buddy. They're so slender. And small. And pampered. Fuck! Now I can't look away. You basically have a Barbie hand. This is the hand you give handshakes with? It'd be like shaking hands with a little girl at a tea party! How did I NOT notice this before? I don't need a full-on Tom Selleck bear claw, but I'd like a pair of hands that look like they've hauled something off a truck before. The only thing you've probably hauled are cream puffs out of a pink pastry box.

Maybe this could be good for your career. Seriously, you could be a Palmolive soap hand model. You could turn over the letters in Wheel of Fortune. You could demonstrate how to wear a bracelet on QVC. You have a lot of options, I'd imagine.

Unfortunately for you, I cannot possibly imagine your hands on any part of my body. I just did a body shudder thinking about you touching my body. Those are the unsexiest hands I've ever seen! I mean, you have the hands of an Olsen twin. I can't...I can't...I can't do this.

I gotta go.

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Quick Rant: I'm Getting The Feeling That You Think I'm Your Backup

I don't need to be Col. Mustard to figure out this mystery:

1. You called me up out of the blue despite the fact that we haven't talked in months, even years.

2. You divulge that you just broke up with your girlfriend almost immediately when I ask how you've been. Boohoo, I know.

3. You ask to meet me for a drink. Soon.

I'm like the breakdown in the song, "Shout!" Now, waaaaaaaaait a minute. You think that I'm your back-up, don't you? I'll bet you think I'm just hanging out in your back pocket waiting to be called to service, like a reserve marine or a gift card to California Pizza Kitchen.

I'M NOT YOUR BACKUP! I guess I'm flattered that you'd keep me in your rolodex/ black book/ spank bank, but I'm honestly not interested.

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Little Known Fact: You Look Like An Asshole In Every Picture I've Seen

*flip, flip, flip* Don't you have any pictures where you look like a normal human being? You make a weird face in every. single. picture. you're in. Here are the repeat offenders:

The Mugshot: God forbid you smile! You look like you got busted for shoplifting at Urban Outfitters and had your picture taken in the backroom. Is this really you? Because it looks like I put the Oz DVD on pause. I've seen Amber alerts with more pizazz.

The Twee Ceiling Eyeroll: I have no idea why you think this pose is cute, but this is your stand-by look. It's really weird to see a guy make this face, with his eyes sweetly looking up at the sky like he's composing his own conversation heart message in his head. Are you in Camera Obscura? Do you get excited about cupakes? Do you have an Etsy site where you sell anatomically-correct hearts screenprinted onto oven mitts and dishtowels? You are not Amelie! You cannot pull off this pose.

The Crucial Brutal Metal Face: Your face is contorted, like you are yanking God's balls right off his body. It's amusing for one or two takes, but a whole roll of this? You're trippin'. 

The Little Kid Supersmile: Both of your eyes are closed and you are making the widest grin in every picture. What the fuck? Did you just get a G.I. Joe for your fifth birthday? Did you just get promoted from cub scout to whatever rank is above cub scout?

The Impromptu Gang Sign: It's like having a "thanks for the add!" MySpace glitter .gif come to life. That's not a good thing. 

Honestly, I hate all of your picture poses. Can't you just smile at the camera and leave it at that? Is it too much to ask that you channel George Clooney or Johnny Depp and project some manly confidence? Oh well. I guess having a camera pointed at your face turns you into a freakazoid.

Did we miss any photo offenders? Leave 'em in the comments.

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