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Why The Rules of Economics Dictate a Suboptimal Result for the Human Male Dating in Denver
Guest Post by Guy Roommate, alternately known, apparently, as Relatively Dashing Roommate

What’s my roommate identity on this blog? I forget, so I’m anointing myself Relatively Dashing Roommate.

So about a month ago I, Relatively Dashing Roommate, accompanied Gigi to the Bitter Ball. I’ve never been a big singles event sort, but Gigi’s marketing prowess eventually won the day.

I enjoyed myself. Somehow. Despite a growing body of evidence that the Denver dating scene is the saddest place in the world. And I’m talking really sad. Like, litter-of-newborn-puppies-being-thrown-from-the-roof-of-the-Pepsi-Center sad.

The dynamic in this city is possibly the worst I’ve ever seen from the male point of view. There’s just too much competition for too little reward.

So first off you’ve got said competition. A lot of the guys that live out here are outdoorsy, physically fit, and into all that “clean living” nonsense. The best way I can describe men in Denver is that they’re like Mormons if Mormons had balls and didn’t suck. Having lived in New York, I want to grab them by their stupid wide shoulders and scream “Pack your bags and move eastward son!” These guys would be knee deep in (unmentionable lady parts deleted) if they lived in New York or Boston.

Out here in Menver, they’re stuck settling for the type of girl that moves to a mecca of shit that girls don’t like. This is, of course, an extreme generalization. But to be extremely general, Mountain Man sounds like something a girl wants to bed. Mountain Woman sounds like bad lesbian porn.

Now there are some cute girls that manage to find themselves in our neck of the woods. For example, there’s always the homegrown talent. A certain number of attractive women are almost guaranteed to be born somewhere and lack the motivation to leave. Though I tend to believe the type that stays attached to their roots probably marries their high school or college sweetheart, thus removing themselves from the dating pool before they turn 22.

I did run into a few good looking girls at the Bitter Ball. Talking to them was like talking to a particularly dim-witted wall that wanted free booze. I may seem picky, even a bit sexist at times, but when I’m trying to be all poetical I say this: love is a conversation. If you can’t have a conversation with a person, you won’t ever find love with them. And while love isn’t always the objective, I don’t feel like I have the time for a relationship where it isn’t at least a far off possibility.

So the moral of this story is FML and don’t move to Denver if you’re a guy. The good ones are taken young, there are 10 cool lumberjacks for every hottie that slips through the cracks, and these rare gems that are available have been fawned over so much that they couldn’t be bothered to learn how to form mouth words of intelligibility. Good night and good luck Menverites.