Sunday, May 27, 2012

Looking for love on Craigslist #14

Second coming of Christ seeks first lady. m4w

To my luck, this is the one that'll work. This is an attempt at a personal and thirteen came before it. Various tempered successes have come along the way, if you consider success hand relief by a burning fireplace. Long ago into the journey I realized I'm not actually in search of love, as I'm self-entertained. And we all have the one that got away, but that'll be set aside for now. No, this one is purely out of habit. I could not pass up such a pompous headline, despite the fact virtually every Craigslist reply has come from a wishy-washy plague. It's always the same type to respond, and the process has become common: some father-neglected shitheel of an artcunt thinks it'll be cute to reply to one of my depraved ramblings and then is perplexed to find the words were typed by a real person  (note: use of "cunt" is gratiutous but unisex). Yes, a person is someone who lives, and breathes, and despite having an inclination toward outrageous claims and an openly primal urge to satisfy first-serve the reptilian brain, some of us still understand the underlying concepts of humor and irony. Or apparently not.

No, I am not looking for a relationship. Certainly not on here, where every third person is the pre-diabetic, over-complimented girl her office co-workers inundate with false esteem so she'll be the perfect fall-woman to bring out during a night in town, thus propping themselves up in the process so they look like kobe steaks compared to molding vegetables on a plate. Oh, it happens, believe me, it happens. One night at a club I danced with an armless woman, which speaks volumes for my standards. Unfortunately her chubby wingwoman expressed interest in me first, and the depravity of scoring bronze on a woman with no arms is a battle in which a forfeit is considered victory. Still, both these females I'd champion above most any Craigslist experience. I digress.

No, I am not looking for a relationship. The subject proves a man, too, can be a cocktease. You're not getting this, ladies, and you're missing out. In your seeking equality and empowerment, you've, too, reached the much-heralded, coveted, previously man-dominated arena of being total shitbag assholes. That's right, women. Delicate fucking flower speaking here. Not to be misogynistic, but you ladies have become blood-thirsty, power-lusting, cum-hungry savages. I'm a nice guy. I'm a freaking poet. Well-spoken, good etiquette, etc. I make myself seem bad in personals because I believe in the philosophy of putting your worst face forward. You know why, that's would Jesus would do, bitch. Christians will complain about taking the lord's name in vein, or comparing yourself to Christ like I did in the headline. Pride comes before the fall when you do that sort of thing. Yet if I claimed to be satan, suddenly it becomes time to take words at face value. Hey, wouldn't claiming to be satan be a sign of utmost egolessness and humility? You can't win.

No, I am not looking for a relationship. No, no, no. Even normal, reasonably sane citizens are still capable of falling into the trap of folklore and being dragged by the coattails of superstition. People can be smart and still slaves to social constructs, that don't give way for the ultimate duality dictating that someone can be something both ugly and beautiful at once. So these types fret over their Jersey Shore-esque daily dramas, and dump their significant others because they don't both use T-Mobile and how can you stay in a relationship with someone if they're wasting your anytime minutes! Which charade of consumerism parading as a step up in your spiritual progress will entice you next? A smartphone with a five inch screen and a pen? A bunch of other gimmicks you think are bettering your existence as you become more bitter, as unwittingly, they distract you from a truth knew all along. So hidden away what you want stays, by an orgy of Facebook posts, driven by your peers influence, distracted by material possessions, until you're such a damaged entity you've convinced yourself all your privileges and novelties are necessities. And off you go, driving off into the sunset of oblivion in a 2012 Ford F-150 sporting shiny blue truckballs.

No, I am not looking for a relationship. But then why did I write this. Well, as Oscar Wilde said, art is useless unless it's appreciated. The same goes for everything in our lives. Yet of what use is life without the things we appreciate. You don't really eat to live, you eat so you can continue existing on a planet where you can read a news headline like, "Egg-Throwing Hostilities End in Murder." I'm not well-read because of a Wilde reference, or smart because you've read this far. I'm merely the result of an odd concoction of environmental factors and a brain in a pile of protoplasm that believes this was only written because it was easier to write it than not to. Because it also believes in Alan Moore's ideology that the things we do without lust or result are the purest actions we shall ever take. Even if that action is telling you about my fantasy to be rich enough to own a marry-go-round center in the courtyard of my mansion constantly stocked with a rotating selection of nude whores bent over the railings that I spin like a round of Wheel of Fortune to help decide which I bed that night and even have a small "bankruptcy" spot represented by a fleshlight, because we all know life's sweeter when you don't always win.

No, I am not looking for a relationship. I hope this doesn't work, because relationships are a plague on mankind. They entice you with the idea of vicarious bliss, but never mention the vicarious embarrassment. Seldom mentioned is your partner's eventual separation or death. An open invitation to another person's soul is the equivalent of cancerous growth under a microscope. Look at what Nikola Tesla accomplished from a simple voluntary lack of pussy. You wouldn't be reading this without him. Even if you live out your days with your soulmate, survived by several children, you'll still spend your whole life with the worry of an impending tragedy. Little Timmy choked himself during a game of chubby bunny. Sarah got eaten by a stray cougar on graduation day. No, this is not angst, my friends. This is advice from your new best friend, Frank Reality.

There's always the one that got away, and there's no point in falling in love twice. By the second time it's a movie and you already know the end. And at that point it gets harder to fake the meaning, to pretend her artwork's interesting, and to act intrigued by stories of her country farmland upbringing. Fuck the ones that got away. Soon enough you'll be able to look up your dream girl, find her sequenced DNA on Facebook, buy it with Google credits, upload it to a sexy robot that makes memories so it's the same as biology, and take her for a romantic getaway to the Old Faithful Inn at Yellowstone, and propose to her, and program it to rimjob alarm clock mode and the whole nine yards.

This personal is dedicated to Michael Washington, who was stabbed to death after engaging in egg-throwing hostilities with a neighbor.

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