The Luv Doc: Shark vs. Peacock

(Ed. Note: During SXSW, the Luv Doc Question Box was placed at the Chronicle SXSW trade show booth. There seems to have been a considerable amount of confusion about the box. Judging by the questions received, most people believe the Luv Doc to be either a clairvoyant, a fortune teller, or both. While it’s tempting to throw the Chronicle interns under the bus on this one, it seems a bit much to ask that they actually read the paper they were representing. Therefore, in order not to disappoint anyone, this week the Luv Doc takes a stab at clairvoyance.)

Dear Luv Doc,
No one wants to date me. Why?
– Anne

Anne, that is a statistical impossibility – sort of along the same lines as declaring there is no extraterrestrial life in the universe. Not even Carl Sagan would say that, and regardless of his haircut, he was a pretty smart dude. I myself am not even a marginally attractive woman, and I feel fairly confident that if I ended up doing a stretch in Huntsville, I could find several guys who would “date me,” which, come to think of it, would make that “doing a stretch” thing disturbingly literal.

Here’s the lowdown: You and I both know you’re imminently dateable, you just have to get your marketing department and your quality control to start working together. First things first: You are not the bait, you are the shark. Don’t just sit there in the water like a bloody piece of chum and wait to get taken. It will always be the wrong shark. More importantly, it will always be a shark. Sharks are assholes. Yes, I know what you’re going to say, but wouldn’t you rather deal with the asshole you know best?

Sharks never wait for dinner to come to them. Sharks go to dinner. In fact, sharks are always on the move 24/7. They go to book club. They take dance lessons. They work for Habitat for Humanity. They read books. They listen to music. They see movies. They play coed kegball and fucking suck at it, but they are all the more adorable for trying. And so they end up gorging themselves on a big fat tuna until they’re sick of fucking tuna and realize that tuna is all right, but it’s not the end-all-be-all of human existence – certainly nothing to sit around whining about.

You want to know something else that’s imminently dateable? A peacock. They’re beautiful, but they don’t do much other than sit around looking pretty and making that god-awful whining sound – like somebody stepping on a baby. Don’t be a peacock, Anne. Be a shark.