Irreverent man seeking pretentious, obnoxious art wench.
Hey babes. Largely unambitious male here. I'm the type of manchild women send themselves via mailorder from Russia because of. Like your average Russian male I'm a defeatist easily disillusion by the mere fall of the Soviet Union. Like that country the United States is soon to become a second world and instead of fighting the system I've decided to embrace the rape much like most of us do with regards to capitalism, social relationships, right vs. wrong and the planet. If I'm losing you already you're a bottom tier peasant that deserves to be lost. Don't email me with your "Hehehe, you're clever, ever hear of August Burns Red?" bullshit. As I was saying, indifference is a more addictive substance than heroin, fast food, and neon orange fishnet stockings. Top level romantic here. Will love you indubitably if you can for one hour a day refrain from “acting faggot.” (A trait yet seen in the entirety of the female species.)
Enough about me let's talk about you. Well first I should tell you about myself. If I'm to articulate myself fully I first must describe my form of thinking to the best of my ability so you can best discern all else I'm saying. Once you understand where I'm coming from the rest of the puzzle pieces will fall into place. Foremost, I'm handsome and clever enough to fall in love with. Second, I'll lick your pussy real good. Not that pulling your thighs to the edge of the bed for leverage amateur shit neither. Granted by now you're thinking no one this honest isn't deranged but this is Craigslist. This isn't conversation I bring up during tea time with your pops. I'm conveying myself honestly upfront to save you the time because I'm a gentleman. You hear that? As it's been said, a gentleman is a man who is only rude on purpose. If you can't get behind or don't comprehend this simple theory hang yourself with a garden hose you rudderless, hopeless female dog.
Ideally I'm in the meat market for an obnoxious art chick. A vapid one who thinks Amelie is the be-all end-all of foreign cinema would be the holy grail. The type of girl with lens-less glasses that goes to coffee shops simply to read as a depraved fashion statement, and holds her most recent Bukowski book purchase upside-down. The type who confuses him with Chuck Palahniuk and even if she did meet a real-life person just like Charles she's respond with, "Ew, get away from me," due to her vacuous, short-sighted, shallow personality of fashionable individuality. The willingness to admit your vacuousness is what sets you apart. You admit you're all about appearances, and I'll admit mildly cute of women of substance are almost as annoying as pretty ones so I'm settling for you.
Now, I have zero to offer in terms of financial stability, nor will I impress your friends, but that doesn't mean there's nothing in it for you. Odds are I don't want to be around the garbage wrapped in skin, vinyl-collecting, poorly-parented, dabbling, pompous, low rent 90s pop song singing, blowhard, card-carrying liberal, fair-weather friends of yours. Still, there I will be in support of things that matter. There I will be, your secret shame, your puppet for social mind games. You can tell everyone you have a boyfriend but really I'm just your gimmick you can cast aside at will. Show me off to your friends to show how open minded & ironic you are in dating a timid bearded freak with large round eyes, still chirping slogans of Midwestern hospitality such as, "Hello," and "Goodbye." Use me as a plant as a sort of performance artist extra and have me pose as a bum so when you walk by with your peers, you can hand me a hundred and appear altruistic before I return you the bill later in private. Thoughtfully, I'll inform you Betty Paige was unique because she followed her own whim, not walking the identical footsteps of one woman that came before her, and I won't even belittle your cliche tattoo of a Pixie Phoenix rising from the ashes of bad tribal ink.
Shallowness is key. If you've got the bare minimum cute thing going I can instill (read: respectfully brainwash) a few decent ideals into you that you were denied by a lifetime of privilege and one too many janitors telling you you're sexy. You're to be the vacant poseur of my dreams with your feigned intelligence, depth and talent. Sponge from my genuine creativity and call it your own. There you'll be before a blank canvas, fretting with artist's block, and I'll say, "Hey babes. Paint a portrait of the Virgin Mary breast-feeding an erection-sporting baby Jesus" and your heart will palpitate at my Beautiful Mind as you draw up the idea and finally make it into an art exhibit. Opposites attract. You're the spunk of fluttering optimistic butterfly wings, and I'm the crushing weight keeping you grounded called the shoe of cynicism (read: the shoe of reality).
You won't much need to please me sexually either, just let me get at that wet rag of ether facefirst at least once a fortnight. I want your skin on my face like in Silence of the Lambs. Cunnilingus is a great joy, really, Carl Sagan wrote a book about it. I think called cosmos. You go at it and you're surrounded by calm, and stars and bluejays float about your face... and your lover contorts like the universe giving birth to the 2001 child... and it's like a shot of adrenaline, if adrenaline were part liquid happiness, part blue pill from the Matrix... the stuff dreams are made of... where fat cupid angels float holding a banner that says, "You did good, my son," Signed God... and your ego is finally aligned with your soul at peace... and even the sociopaths peer at you with passive glances... and the guy at Radioshack gives you a discount somehow knowing you just ate pussy... because the karma of your good intentions is just in the air. Love me. Seacreast out.