I’m not one to jump on any bandwagon, especially one with a big banner that reads True Love Is Just a Click Away. But this website was different. This website not only promised me a soulmate—it promised me a celebrity soulmate.
A dead celebrity soulmate.
Who could pass that up?
So I clicked over to Biography and started checkmarking my interests. They had some pretty wild options, but I was able to find a few that suited me fine: family, fine arts, self-reflection, writing, traveling. Next page I checkmarked everything I want in a soulmate—pretty much the same stuff I’d checked about myself. (After all, who wants a soulmate who’s into subjugation? Okay, probably the M half of a future S&M partnership. But that still leaves me out.)
And you should see who they matched me up with.
I got “Raven”: “Quiet, scholarly type. Likes to write, visit graveyards, and experience melancholia.” (Well, two out of three ain’t bad.)
I got “Sunflowers”: “Moody, depressive artist, unappreciated in my own time.” (Aren’t we all!)
And I got “DeliciousSheik”: “Sexy, swashbuckling actor and world’s greatest lover.” (Yeah, that’s not bad either.)
Naturally I decided to check Raven out first. (He likes graveyards! Oh, baby.) Okay, so he did describe his first wife as the “love of his life.” But he hadn’t met me yet, so I decided not to fixate. And anyway, how could I let a little thing like that stand in the way of a statement like this:
“My ideal date would include...
“After dinner slow and stately, as have been my dinners lately, we would sit and over coffee share our thoughts a little more. 'Til I'd note with fearful gasping, how your voice was gently rasping, rasping in a dusty tone, like Virginia long before. I'd have to see you... nevermore!”
Poetry! And we haven’t even gone out yet! If he shows up with flowers, I’m practically won. (And the odds are good. There’s probably some right on his grave.)
More insight into my man:
“In my home you will find...
“An unusually new-looking brick wall, which you must never go near. A soft, moist spot on the floorboards, which you must keep covered by the rug at all times. A black cat, which you must feed regularly lest he torment you with the madness-inducing mews of hell. I call him Fluffertop.”
As if he wasn’t already looking great, he noted which authors’ books are on his bedside table: Lemony Snicket and Edward Gorey. Nuff said.
I clicked “make the move,” which led me to two options for our first date:
--a visit to the cemetery to make tombstone rubbings
--making a friendship poster out of magazine pictures.
To my cemetery suggestion, Edgar Allan Poe responded:
"Why, why, oh why must you haunt my waking nightmares with your presence? I shall go mad. Madness! It consumes me! I must give in and agree to see you, or else I shall never find peace."
Still, just to be safe, I started all over again and clicked a few more options this time. I decided my soulmate should also be interested in issuing decrees and fighting.
Among my results was Raven once more.
I tried again, this time adding public disturbances and speechmaking to my required characteristics.
Mr. Poe yet again.
What does this all say about me? Well, that I like a man who’s creative and mildly obsessive (I’m going to assume that his short story “Berenice,” in which the protagonist removes from the corpse of his beloved all her perfect white teeth, is purely a work of fiction. Because mildly obsessive that is assuredly not). Oh, and he should have just a smidge of madness to keep things interesting.
And what does it say about Mr. Poe? That he is a lucky, lucky corpse. Lucky, and talented. That’s my Eddie.
And hey, if it doesn’t work out, I can always check in with Sunflowers or DeliciousSheik.
* Careful readers of this blog may wonder what exactly this entry has to do with writing, which is supposedly the subject of my ramblings. To which I respond: I am a writer. So was Edgar Allan Poe. Geez, people, connect the dots.