Congratulations Internet Age James Dean!

There can never be another James Dean. Even the first James Dean wasn’t always James Dean. Watch Rebel Without a Cause and keep yourself from bursting out laughing when he kicks the portrait of his grandma. We dare you. Hell, we double dog dare you. We’re that serious.

But people always like people who remind them of James Dean, and you fit the bill. In fact many would say that you’re the James Dean of the Internet Age. How did you achieve such laudable status, you might ask? Through drugs? Lying? Murder? No, you did it by creating an Okaycupid profile called notjamesdean and looking a lot like James Dean.

Unsurprisingly, this has lead to a string of hookups with women you have only the faintest idea of what to do with. Everything from emotionally unstable women who are absolutely nuts in bed to really hot women who just sort of lay there have come back to your unkempt studio apartment with its walls covered in Zeppelin posters. You’ve also slept with a bunch of heavyset girls with nice curves and lots of tattoos, by merit of joining OkayCupid in Portland, and since they’re not “tens” in coastal lingo those girls are fine doing most of the work. Which has been good for you since, as we mentioned earlier, you barely know which hole to put it in.

But lately the hookup grind has gotten you down. You’ve been longing for someone who doesn’t consider you a sex symbol from an older era, and today you’re going to find her because today you’re going to out on a date with one of Portland’s rare African-American bachelorettes.

Megan will show up at the bar five minutes late, her hair in barrettes and a big smile on her face. She’ll wave at you genuinely instead of nodding demurely at you like she’s already found out how your dick feels.

“Hey,” she’ll say, sidling up to you. “I’m Megan.”

You’ll nod and sneer at her a little, twitching your upper lip up so that she knows you mean business.

“Are you alright?” she’ll ask. You’ll nod at her, sweating. You’ll be out of practice after months of sleeping with women based entirely on how you look, and actually having to interact with someone to get them to find you interesting will be puzzling and frightening for you.

“Let’s get a drink,” she’ll say, her eyes darting at the bar unsteadily. You’ll laugh too loud and make a break for the door, your confidence destroyed.

When you emerge into cool night air your sweat will be cold on your skin. You’ll look at the bar behind you, wondering what that Megan girl will do once you’ve left. Will she post a message about you being kind of a douchebag on your OkayCupid profile? Will she just have a drink and go home and laugh about how big a dipshit you are? You’ll consider for a moment returning to the bar and talking to her like a person, but your fixie will be so close, your embarrassment so vibrant in your mind, that you won’t be able to bring yourself to turn around. You’ll step on your bike and set out without a helmet into the night, tempting cars to end your misery.

Congratulations Internet Age James Dean!