Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Looking for love on Craigslist #8

In need of intellectually profound woman to conquer and destroy with. m4w

Everyone's looking for that one special person. What happens when they find it? They call it a success, then call it a day. They're like knives spooning until they dull each other down to nubs. Instead of exploring the potential two great minds can realize combined, they take solace in baking lasagna, collecting spices, and clipping coupons. They feel a victory over life haven't not fully lost to rampant despair knowing now they'll die less alone. What fresh excrement.

Everything your average modern couple does resolves around cooking, eating and the release of bodily refuse. What separates a home from a room? A fridge, a dishwasher, a stove and a sink. Decor is done for house guests, as is furniture and silverware. After age 40—the age where dreams go to die—life is only lived for its own sake. There's no one exceptional after 40 that wasn't exceptional before it. After this age people give up any habit they can break, lose any enthusiasm for seeking excitement, and decidedly stick to routine and revisiting familiar pleasures exclusively. Screw these empty bottles of ex-lax! It would be mean to call them sheep, as it degrades an animal graceful and sentient by comparison.

Not with my future significant other. Our only motivation to eat will be to live to fuck another day. We'll have the passion of the French without the cowardice. We'll find a squat near a pond for baths and drinking water. We'll surround ourselves with books and power our iPods with Gatorade. We'll light our nights with oil lamps and do everything the DIY punk sort of way, including abortions. Eventually our erratic, untrained lifestyles will lead to grand epiphanies enabling us to most effectively panhandle. We'll meet midgets, mimes, poets, mystics and gypsies along the way who will teach us how to be a poor man's rich man. Hitching rides on trains, urban exploration through tunnels and abandoned establishments for supplies, or if we want to live on the edge we'll consider stealing wifi. Luckily, thanks to Kurt Cobain and white guilt, we can dress in dirty clothes and be unkempt, and still fit in indistinguishable from your average alternative, wealthy young American.

As we become closer to each other and enlightenment, we'll fully grasp the potential of the human pair. We'll open up each others individual black boxes, study our sexual hard-wiring for differences in content, and as two one-winged angels working in unison we will embrace in an effort to fly. We'll fall under the spell of love—the most volatile form of madness. We will dive through the depths of social problems, research the fundamental flaws in law and religion, cut through the heart of war and violence, and soar through the essence of every negligent, unethical, irresponsible behavior, so we can learn from Earth's dreadful plight and enslave the human race.

If one mind can change the course of mankind two together could obliterate it. We'll climb to the top with rhetoric and jargon more convincing than a pastor. We'll mislead people's hopes and dreams by going about practices too insane to believe. Wars for peace, freedom for security, convenience over privacy, in fact that's the campaign slogan. The public's emotions will be trolled until their neurosis and paranoia is too pathological to know who's manning the strings. By the end, they won't even trust their common sense. We'll manipulate the proles to shape the world as we see fit, spreading misinformation and the absolute truth about our Strangelovian supremacy, just to prove the amusing idiom of the elephant in the room.

These half-aware cattle only care about themselves, never considering the equilibrium with nature needed, so we'll give it to them as punishment for their ill-conceived obliviousness. The Bible will be rewritten more ruthless. The Holocaust as a hoax will be disproven, then all evidence will be destroyed for personal amusement. Our first child will be a miscarriage, so I can impress the masses when I state it was the result of rough loving and recount the bloody breaking of your hymen to Larry King. Our scientists will engineer medieval methods of abusing animals so their meat is most tender, textured, and receptive to flavor. We'll contrive forms of biological warfare to cripple rival nations into poverty, submission and despair and blame it on Monsanto. Unheard of high-tech weaponry will be borrowed under the pretense of covert operations to assure freedom. In reality, we'll just use sterilization guns with scopes working with radio waves to sterilize hipsters from great distances. A thought-control serum will be laced in the water supply that's more dangerous and harrowing than Nickelodeon's green slime. Nikola Tesla's earthquake machine will be targeted at every Starbucks. A specialized iPhone app will be designed to snap a picture and cause that person to spontaneously combust, as spoke of in Spinal Tap. Steve Jobs will be the first test subject.

Our place of privilege will allow us unprecedented access to Earth's great mysteries. The pyramids will be pried open and looted. Pi will be written out in its entirety. We'll dine on the delicacies of Area 51's menu of mystery meat. JFK's sextape with Marilyn Monroe will be exposed. Mother Teresa's record of one-night-stands will be published. We'll discover the distance between Heaven and Earth. God will be found and held hostage. Insane Clown Posse will finally know how magnets work.

Anyone who challenges our cause will be left headless and blamed on any others who protest. Our reign won't end until all other governments are overthrown, all other nation's people broken, every harlot defiled, every charlatan tarred and feathered, every last glass of champagne gulped, every feminist book burned, every religious zealot hung, every wheel of cheese and pound of french vanilla ice cream quarantined in my room, every beggar finally fed (with arsenic), and all cities left more desolate than North Korea.

Toward the end of civilization, in the totality of our power—having pleased our collective ids to the extent of our imaginations—we'll control the remaining masses with a blackhole-shooting, holstered hand weapon. Doomsday devices will remain implanted in our person, activated after an extremity of pain or merely thinking of a particular keyphrase. The lemmings will slave away toward an indefinite end as we channel Marie Antoinette and shout at their starved stomachs to eat cake. There will only be one cake that's located in the town square, surrounded by mines, tripwire, and laser alarms so plentiful and complex as to challenge the greatest gymnastics. The lasers are not only alarm activating but limb-severing. Even if competent, contestants must still dodge the bullets of our mech body guards.

Our last days will be of romance that echoes through the ages. We'll catapult babies and cats and shoot them down with bows and arrows. We'll walk across mass graves we created while holding hands. Like Shakespeare I'll say you are the Sun, yet entwined with the beauty of the rings of Saturn. You are worth more than the trivialities of this planet. You are numbness of love at my fingertips. The blood of all pain on my hands. The sum of all sadness gathering near my iris. The Catwoman to my Batman. On our last day, having released the plague to end all plagues, where nature starts to transform to a more harmonic state, when every human has passed and the last levee breaks, we'll watch this apocalypse along with the onset dawn from a rooftop. On cheap lawn chairs we'll be side-by-side, watching buildings crumble like Inception but not shitty CGI.

So yeah if this sounds up your alley hit me up. Generally easygoing, submissive, simple creature describes me to a T. Potential romantic prospects must have: read Mein Kampf, a disdain for humor, hairy underarms, hate of Mother, love of pizza, a derriere tighter than Trinity's, and proper pilot training in Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor aircraft.

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