I make boys cry.

Not because my beauty is one that could launch a thousand ships.
Not because my grace, poise, and wisdom brings about a Buddhist form of enlightenment.
Not because of my kindness, generosity, or strength.

I simply scare the shit out of them.

Ok fine, I’m starting to get it now. Joking about death, dismemberment and beheadings isn’t exactly good first date material. I’ve tried toning down my fondness for skull necklaces and earrings for special occasions, like the second date. I try not to let it slip that the kind of music that puts me in the mood is Orgy and Korn. I struggle to stifle the urge to tell my date I anticipate Halloween more than my birthday and Christmas, put together. And instead of painting my finger nails black for the occasion, I try to just stick to my toes — which no one sees on the first date anyway right?

But as I prepare for my fifth, first date this month by giving myself a pedicure with a shade of nail polish called “Dark Side of the Moon” (The Lippmann Collection, $15 at Nordstrom) I’m starting to see a trend. Men are interested enough in me in the beginning. It’s not too hard to land the first date. It’s just the second and third one that’s the real pisser. Maybe I should start to actually watch what I say. Maybe I should censor my comments to be more politically correct, more feminine, more…normal.

But sometimes I think, why even bother? I can’t keep up this cheery fa?e for long. Sticking to happy things like the weather, or cute little puppies, or that new Pinkberry that opened up in the East Village…please, I’d rather do my laundry. Eventually, if all goes well, this hypothetical man and I will someday get into a conversation about life as we see it, and the real me is going to come out. And then that ubiquitous philosophical conversation comes up about optimism, pessimism and that damn glass. And I will inevitably let it slip that not only do I think the glass is half empty, but it is in fact kind of small, and chipped, and dirty, and wait, don’t drink out of it, you might get dysentery, or at the least a really bad case of diarrhea and…

Oh. Right. Diarrhea probably isn’t a good thing to talk about on a first date either.

Point is, I’m not good at this whole dating thing because I come off too strong, too forward, too, well, scary. I have some twisted notion that not talking about death or bleeding at the very least, makes me looks boring. Or submissive. Or vulnerable. So I barge ahead, making what I think is a joke, but ultimately the only thing I end up making is the person sitting across from me very uncomfortable. I should try not to view toning my morbidity down as stifling my creative energy, but instead playing it safe with someone who doesn’t know me well enough to know this is my way of trying to be funny, and entertaining, and likeable.

Or, I should just keep looking until I find someone as equally disturbed as I am.