I like a gal more frail than glass, with more baggage than the cargo bay in a commercial aircraft. I'm not speaking of your sweet, wounded puppy pseudo-princess. I need a woman with the innocence of an infant freshly purged of original sin, juxtaposed against another side of her nature hellbent on control and destruction, and a looseness mirroring her thinly knit moral fiber. A lass so demented her mask of sanity is slipping and causes young children to avert their eyes in fright and quote: "Look at that crazy lady." Wild eyes along with unkempt hair go a long way. I want to look at old psychiatric ward photos and see no notable distinction.
We all look for love as the last lifeboat when nearing the edge of collapse. The important attribute in a partner is passion, whether unconditional love or unrelenting revulsion. Welcome would be some sweet significant other with a seething, trembling fear of the world equaled only by an ecstatic reverence for it that switches at the drop of a hat. Mood swings are perfect, but you are to be rattled by relevant philosophical uncertainty and anxiety attacks. You cannot fret over petty social mishaps like forgetting a coupon, unless the melodrama is turned up to such a degree you need be dragged out of Shoe Carnival screaming and clawing at carpet after accused of pocketing too many disposable socks. Despite this she is not some blindly opinionated, pompous twat dumb enough to pick Shellac over Big Black. She's the type to practice what she preaches, not the kind to feign kindness in fair weather and flee at the first negative tipping of favor. Through good and bad we've got to go hand in hand like two exclusive crack addicts sharing a pipe and reciprocating both love and despair.
The ideal girl at her deepest roots is a blood-thirsty tyrant guided purely by libido. On the surface she's an angel but a whore in bed. Our dates consist of trying to get her off meth. She is turned on by wrong for the sake of wrong. She is rude to my mother when not hinting euphemisms and sexual overtones in hopes of a romantic rendezvous. She showers either rarely or compulsively. She cleans to an obsessive degree or never. She sobs as I go down on her and questions why her father never calls. She phones me every night at 3AM in existential crisis. She lives without the invisible safety-net provided by religion. Her faith consists of Troll 2 references. She keeps a vial of my blood in her purse. She insists I keep a lock of her hair in my wallet. Her pastimes are stealing, sulking, berating, self-destruction and nothing else. Of course, that's when not helping humanitarian causes and donating to the Red Cross. She is a wicked vixen, a voyeuristic cuckoldress, a graveyard exhibitionist, a sly seductress, a shy masochist and a cunning sadist. She also makes a killer grand slam breakfast.
Above all I seek to be treated well. Let me describe a perfect night: I wake up in bed surrounded by knives and petrified by this display of psychological torment. Upon entering my car in the morning I'm greeted to a cracked windshield and a pink slip ripped to shreds. Coming back inside to question all the fuss a lamp is thrown in my direction. Blood stains my lips, face, and Krispy Kreme rewards points t-shirt. At this time my lover tells me she just wanted me to feel something. I say that's sweet of her and she gives me a wide smile with her bright cherry lips and says, "You're welcome, faggot." She proceeds to sit me down in bed as we rest against the headboard. As I'm cradled in her bosom she pulls out her locked pink diary, opens it, and recites the tritest poetry you've ever heard. Her thoughts are like Sylvia Plath by way of a 3rd grader. She begins reading her dream journal entries: "Visited the daycare of my childhood again. The toys were talking. My mind was pulsing. Suddenly everyone exploded into guts and crimson milk. Morbid designs resembling blood-red Crayola scribblings gushed all over the blackboard. It was my hate that did them in. I smiled grimly and held a headless infant while sitting Indian-style and rocking back and forth. It wasn't long before I realized it was my inner child in my hands. The sensation I get when menstruating came over me. Next I noticed an umbilical cord hanging from me to the baby. The glint in her eyes was that of my innocence lost. I am dead inside." All is forgotten come evening, after a dinner comprising ham soup and a round of Battleship in our jammies. Mediating the match is a translucent red strapon standing vertically, overseeing the board game with a grimness rivaling Shao Kahn upon that throne in Mortal Kombat, albeit with less studs and spikes. Loser gets their Battleship sunk twice come night.
It would serve my prospective partner as well to be a bit tolerant. A lass to hear my rants. A dame to discuss with my day. "Honey, I'm home," she'll say stressed and prepared to vent. Competitively I'll box out her feelings and tell her how mine was worse. "Ugh," I'll begin, "Life is hard. There's little food about. My boss has me running back and forth doing menial tasks. All day I spend in the glaring sun. I scrounge for useless items in footlockers most of the day. My partner won't talk to me for my bad attitude. Just today I traveled for miles and accidentally got my best friend shot in the head while trying to discover who murdered the wife of some missionary charac—," at this point the complaint stops realizing I've confused reality with Fallout: New Vegas. Likely this is the result of my self-diagnosed schizotypical personality disorder.
A domineering babe fits the bill, one to whip me into shape. As a genie in a bottle I seek an angel to rub me the right way to sift out all the impurity. As a dreamer and visionary I float through life sans discipline and someone's got to tie that talent down. Someone's got to wrap their arms around me like a scorpion and sting the surrounding world when I'm feeling vulnerable. Someone's got to be there for that final push to apply for work at Pizza Planet. Someone's got to be there for me to wake mid-sleep and say, "Just changed my ringtone to the Night Rider theme, and to think somehow genuine friendship escapes me." Someone's got to force me on a bike ride or a walk or a people watch to keep in top physical and social shape. Someone's got to inspire me to eat pussy instead of Pringles. Someone's got to make that investment for good dividends that'll pay back tenfold and reach the millions.
In summary, need a crud-loving 'so fucked up' goth doll dressed to the nines with eyes blackened by the ashes of her father's urn, a coat made from the pelt of an American bison, and a necklace carrying cougar teeth and a darkened human ear. An anxious brat that even sweats at the idea of speaking to her mentally retarded relative. A deluded dreamcatcher purchaser who believes she once cried a tear of blood. A mad gal willing to kill, steal, rape or get raped should the Playstation Network go down again. If this sounds appealing send an e-mail with the subject "your loyal future whoreservent" and don't bother if you're not shapely and cuter than Ponyo.