Looking for love on Craigslist #12

Accepting applications for a sugar mother. m4w

Oh, dear god, I'm so alone, so alone. Why else would one create a Craigslist personal? So alone, so alone. So alone's an inside joke, but here I am spewing it like some proverb touting some universal truth in complete disregard for you. Join me in loverhood and enjoy an extension of the same sentiment. You know, like Fry from Futurama, failing to grasp your subtle womanly intricacies instead focusing on self-amusement and preferring juvenile mischief to sexual intercourse. It's because I'm an alpha male of the highest order. I'm Edward fucking Cullen. Aloof and distant both at once, forever vague, an enigma in the shape of a question mark filtered through a David Lynch film with a screwed and chopped soundtrack.

In 2001 I was named TIME's Man of the Year, though I never got the cover photo. They said my scary depth, knowledge, aura, and overpowering omniscience gave them doubts similar to those of alien disclosure. They feared the masses were not ready for such greatness, and quoted the saying, "To see the eyes of God would kill you." They were probably right. Deep down I'm a sensitive, caring guy. Unfortunately being an arrogant asshole is the only thing that has ever provoked a response from the member of the opposite sex. Heavy lies the crown, they say. That's how I feel as an alpha male in the modern world. You know, a stoic recluse that burns bridges on whim, has no friends, and leeches no less shamelessly than a parasite. The debt is more than repaid in glib remarks and mean-spirited, shallow observations. In other words, I'm All-American.

The general dishonesty of the public is an overbearing burden for me, and online profiles are horseshit because people have the rare opportunity to be themselves and the flee in the opposite direction. They try to sound mentally stable, angle their photos to cut out that excess 40lbs, and make their petty accomplishments seem impressive. That's them, not I. I'll keep it real. I'll be nose deep in your privates like a junkie to a rag of ether, okay. A face full of nice pussy is nature's great elixir. And you'll come, oh, you'll come. You know how you know? I don't even enjoy the act anymore I'm so technical with the stuff. Students at M.I.T. work to convert the sunlight into energy, I work your bubblegum into a mind-blowing orgasm. It'll be crazy, you hear? You'll be laying back in ectasy getting visions of your first birthday, Catholic confirmation, your early childhood with kaleidoscopic images of tall trees, playgrounds, Street Sharks and stars. Not bragging. I had to learn one talent in life and it wasn't piano.

By now you're probably intrigued, but worrying how you'll tell your mother we met and why you're supporting a man financially. I've got it covered: I hate your mother, I don't like your father, I don't want to meet your brother, and all your friends are assholes. If you're still reading by now that means you're attractive, as grace is good at spotting itself. If you're not, please stop. Go back to Warcraft. 90% of your male friends have masturbated to you. This includes your therapist, your college professor, and all your dad's friends. Yep, they probably call each other for pointers. That's why your male friends are worthless. The reasons your girlfriends will hate me is because they're envious that you're happy, and they won't like the fact you're changing. Of course you're going to change in the Light of Greatness, I'm rich like photosynthesis. So, say you win the lottery and I give you the time of day. Is it Just that they hate you because you can afford to move out from the emotional slums? They're weak sentimentalists.

You may be offput by my subtlety should we venture into reality. Exhibiting extraordinary stoicism, a charming indifference, a snide reluctance to fun, a general disposition of not needing to impress anyone. Fuck those fake clowning, monkey suit, pea coat sporting tryhards. Fuck those UFC championing, horse aids snorting, gymrat cowards. Either group would tremble at the consideration of any worthwhile existential question. Especially fuck those sinister happy-go-lucky hipsters with calculated irreverence and second rate sarcasm. Prepare for holes in my shoes and to be asked for new ones. Prepare for some year old Old Navy jeans and a Fruit of the Loom 5-pack of tees meant to represent my feelings in varying shades of blue.

Oh, but let's talk about love. Love sweet love. The undefinable. Love, and how it so closely correlates to chaos. Odds are over time you'll fall madly in love with me if you haven't already. My magic you'll want to rub off on you like you were polishing a genie's bottle, but sadly you'll resign to simply rubbing one out. Yes, in obsession and ecstasy, of a depth you have yet seen, deeper than the deepest sea, farther than the closest star, you'll wonder how you ever went without. I'm talking big league. A drip of my regard will equal to you a love that will have you speaking in tongues. Should we make love your head will spin like some biblical reference of demons warning against pleasures of the flesh. Should we kiss you'll speak psychobabble: "The earth is a sentient being! A star is inside every mind! The Pope is a Vatican assassin! Leonardo DiCaprio is a good actor!" Yeah, you'll be batshit, babe, like your first taste of heroin.

Speaking of heroin, I'll say you're my own personal brand of it before ripping apart my button up shirt and exposing my sparkling chest. Yeah, we're back to Ed Cullen, but the truth is I'm the Cary Grant not even Cary Grant had the balls to be. I'm Paul Newman in or outside a movie. Or at least Pauly Shore. Hey, he had a good run.

Should we ever break up you'll detest me. These are typical nirvana withdrawal symptoms. You'll carve my name into your flesh, claim you've shed actual tears of blood, lie about mental breakdowns so by the time you have a real one you're the girl who cried wolf, you'll fake your death for a momentary return of my attention, or write a masterwork of modern literature as only sublime love and loss could inspire. You'll wear a vial of my blood 'round your neck after we're done, and save all my hair-clippings, and vacuum seal my old t-shirts in plastic bags and you'll open one up and greet it with your sense of smell every Christmas morning.

If this drip of my regard pleases you any you can apply to being my sugar mother by sending a message. Also, fun is okay, if you consider fun the following: sulking, brooding, staring at the ceiling in quiet disdain, belittling others to improve your self-esteem, using arrogance as a self-defense mechanism, watching the trains go by, watching the ground collect snow, bittersweet unrequited love, long walks through the grocery store, refilling your tears with vodka, and 99 Red Balloons by Nena. If you're not rich I'm also into hairiness, large derrieres and kindness.

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