Looking for love on Craigslist #13

Fashionable sociopath seeks several-night stand. m4w

So we're clear, the headline means I wear my half-hearted anti-social sentiment on my sleeve. With regards to dress I am in no way fashion savvy. Also, anti-social behavior is not asocial behavior. It's important to note this because many people confuse anti-social with not socializing. This is what my life has become: a series of mind-numbing clarifications. Such is the life of the sheltered, superficial, deceitful, manipulative, morally obtuse, pathologically miserable sycophant. Also, I don't much socialize.

Yes, you've guessed correctly. My fashionable sociopathy and fair-weather rebellion speak of a world gone cold. What happened is the earth experienced an emotional ice age in the 1990s. Vietnam and Desert Storm were just ripples, man. We still had the band Filter, and wanted to take their picture. We could still express our opinions then without meta at a level of masturbatory proportions. Kurt killed himself starting a revolution of angst and sad-brag music, and self-pity became cool instead of the passive acceptance toward sadness preached by blues. Columbine came and effectively murdered our teen spirit. The Matrix both enlightened and desensitized. Come Y2K sanity was effectively dead and along with it good manners.

Now we have a shallow society of endless self-reference. Why not go all out? Fuck the disingenuous sarcastic lightweights of the internet age. Or the endless 3rd rate clones of Bettie Paige. You know why she stood out? Because she didn't follow someone's lead. Now we have faux revolutionaries who probably believe Che Guevara wore Che Guevara tees. "Integrity is a commodity traded as carelessly as Pogs," said the founding fathers of this once great nation. All it takes is indifference from good men to ensure the triumph of evil. We need a hedonist. We need one man to go to the depths of an extreme ideal; one that favors pleasure-seeking, shallow affections, and bribes the masses with their own desire to be led. We need this figure to typify all that isn't right. A face for the masses to point at and say, "That's the bad guy." A man who stands up to this decaying modern age and proclaims: To hell with petty sarcasm. I'm level 2 ironic.

To quote Cohen, I'm your man. Come take a ride with me as we bring on the singularity. Like Ryan Gosling in Drive, your protagonist is a quiet butterfly, gently handling the toothpick from his Panda Express sampler. Next minute he's explosive; pointing an imaginary gun-finger at your face and stomping out the head of an offending hotdog vendor. Come follow my instructions. No antihero of natural born evil ever made it to Hollywood without a hot little number by his side. Don't trust anyone's the motto, but it never holds water with a femme fatale. She's crafty and sly and basically a robot. Complacency is the ticket with a prospective mate. Forget romantic dates and spontaneity, you are to be an elaborate biohazard bin. You collect my specimen and your lid stays shut, you got that? That's what we're going for these days. The collective consciousness is aching for a necro-erotic experience so we've distanced ourselves with pornography, plastic toy women, and real women with plastic enhancements.

The perils of my devil may care attitude are quickly diminished by any glib slogan. "Better the devil you know than the devil you don't," I'll quote, subduing you with a subconscious reaffirmation of love's inevitable shackles. Worry free, we'll be lying there, with your hand grabbing my sinister chest hair as I rave about depraved aspirations: my life goal of marrying a lesbian simply for self-aggrandizement; my delusions of grandeur that include hallucinatory episodes where I'm given a key to the city and work as a quality assurance expert for the local escort service. You'll lie there sleeping, myself wide awake and hardly blinking, silently watching you breathing. Whispering words into your sleep, echoed in dreams, I'll say, "Take me to your Mother's place and buy more rose-printed duvets," as I secretly enjoy those things. Yes, a dead-eyed reptile lies at your side, more dangerous than Dick Cheney at a hunting range.

Do what feels wrong is my motto. It's a waste to leave half your psyche in the dark. We shy from shame and believe positive thinking will perpetuate itself without understanding the full picture. Illuminate the dark recesses, explore the shady corners and see what you find, I say. Like my desire for a dimpled sweetheart named Anna who works at a zoo. She sports pigtails and comes home and complains about a hard day of getting pandas to mate. "These gosh dang pandas just refuse to fuck!" she yells. "We give them greens, massages, Viagra. We stroke their plywood with cow-printed oven mitts to make them feel at home, and still nothing!" In my visions, I respond with, "There, there, honey," and stroke her hair, and clear the panda jizz from her ear. "Pandas are cute," I continue. "If you're going to go bestial they're the one to do it with." Come night Anna plays the animal to grotesque sexual endeavors. She's dragged out back like Old Yeller grunting and yelping and humping at my leg and begging to take one between the eyes. Excuse me, I'm getting beside myself.

In a woman a mixture of sex appeal, intellectual vacancy, and unquestioning submission are key. Thank god for god, as religion shapes some of the best broads this side of common sense. Nothing's more alluring than a woman swayed by shame and stricken with the bug of subservience. She must however maintain a modest amount of smarts as to maintain proper weight. Mother Nature's paradox dictates women over 140lbs or 30 years of age couldn't possibly be attractive, and women under 140lbs or 30 years of age can't possibly be sexually mature. As such, the perfect mate is 140 pounds and seeking a one-nighter for her thirtieth birthday. Proportional bodies are a must. An hourglass figure is ideal. That, or a body resembling a drawing by comic artist Robert Crumb. Even cellulite is alright, as I like the idea of an ass so ambitious the skin can barely contain it.

Listen, I'm an insulting, unsavory guy. Unlike my spunk, which I'm told is salty and savory. Irony is the currency of the universe. Every opinion has a footnote. Every stance you can take, every view you can have, has a million tiny strings attached to it and about half of them contradict. Despite being polite, mean people deserve to be mortally beaten with lemon-marinated chicken legs, so the burning citrus collides with their bitter dispositions for an added sense of poetic justice. Despite recognizing the beauty of love, its loss could drive you to crush through a crowded schoolyard in a monster truck sporting a pedobear emblem and a swastika. Despite seeking a heightened awareness, one can't deny the soul's obsession with sadism, self-destruction, and Sasha Grey. Despite siding with tolerance, anyone lacking tolerance for the intolerant should be nudged into a vat of sulfuric acid, because fuck you, reason and irrationality meet on the same dead end street. It's the Yin. It's the Yang. It's the duality of man, sir.

Should you not be sold as of yet as to my sincerity, here are some real life quotes by satisfied female counterparts:

"You're kind of an asshole but I like that."

"Feel how wet I am."

"You deserve loneliness then death."

If you wish to ride the coattails of my gift and promise to let a player breathe, I'll project my love like a lighthouse homing in a ship from sea, and when you arrive I'll have prepared a feast, and a night of passion, should you win at a round of cribbage. Otherwise, hit the bleachers. No Inuits.

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