World's next Stalin seeks passive wallflower

It's been a long while since I've done a personal ad. A fun writing exercise and an obtuse and ineffective way to find a mate.

Are you tired of your bog standard, run-of-the-mill guy, filling your heart with hopes and dreams and mostly lies while you spend another cold Saturday night in the presence of an unringing phone? Are you tired of Netflix 'n' Jillin' with your blindfold on so you can imagine a half-decent lover is in the room while you play with your Bird Box? Are you seriously considering inviting an Indian call scammer, with the offer of marriage and citizenship, just because they're the only men still willing to call you? Have you had it dealing with these dick-picture direct-messaging hordes? Are you tired of being cheated on by liars and left for girls half your age? Now's the time to do something different. Now's the time to go for what you falsely claimed to have always wanted: a man who is open and honest.

I am an anomaly, the open and honest man. You have worn your grandmother's quilted blanket thin, it's time to let her and her memory go. It's time to leave your comfort zone and your thrift shop romance novel notions behind. You can't have your knight in shining armor, but maybe you can have a man who has seen The Shining 14 times. Try something new, you may stand to learn something about yourself. I'm not offering a relationship, I am offering an education. Like the work of Nassim Nicholas Taleb, you will learn through via negativa. Negative space. You will learn all about what not to want in men. I am the Black Swan in the fourth quadrant. Let's face it, if you're reading this profile you're not where you want to be. This is your life, and it's ending one Fight Club reference at a time. Did you laugh at that? You're too old not to reply to this. Your ego is the only knight you know along with the 45 lb sword you carry called dignity. It's time to leave them both behind.

I'll be honest and open. You are great. You're still reading. You are an interesting woman. You’re patient, articulate, and industrious. Only continue if you are a goddess. Deep down, you know you are sacred. You are worthy of worship. You are a temple. But what is a temple if not something to be repeatedly stepped on? So you are a beautiful stepping stone there for support as I reach for more attractive and emotionally fulfilling women. What? Those are your words not mine. Is it really gaslighting if you agree with it? Being worshiped is about service. You get to be Jesus, by footwashing and providing me with bread and wine. Sure, maybe you can't like him create endless fish, but you can take me to Red Lobster for Endless Shrimp.

Now a relationship is like gainful employment and if you're like me you've tried to avoid these for too long now. But you are a liberal. You're a great woman, you're generous, you're charitable. You believe in the cause. You believe in the Ocasio-Cortez. You believe in the Fight For $15 standard for minimum wage. Which is why if you make less than $15 an hour, please begone. You must practice what you preach. Stop spending your days swiping left on your phone on 5 ft 4-in beta males thinking some Chad is going to waste his Superlike on you. And even when it is your turn for your one night stand, you won't have enough experience to lay out a proper contract. You'll end up f—ked by the freelancer because you have no union, and subsequently no civil union. Put in your hours with me and nine other beta males, ascend the social hierarchy. Use this experience to gain a better position, or marry the first one to create an app. Life: solved.

Well let's be honest. You're not that attractive. Women in the real world are swarmed with men. They are accosted and propositioned at work, at school, at home by their stepfather, and catcalled on the street. If a damsel was lost in the desert and started crying, terrifying erections would begin sprouting from the sand. Maybe you're the unicorn with low self-esteem, but most likely you are either: physically have the body type of a standing croissant, your best friend is a voice in your head telling you you are not in fact mentally ill, or you owned dogs too long and cannot convey emotion with a proper human being. Or you have a child which is the same as all three combined. Physically and emotionally able-bodied and able-minded women don't generally require dating profiles. But you know what one sexy trick transcends all of these attributes? Owning your flaws and who you are.

Let's go through the processes here. What's the least attractive part of a woman? Her child, obviously. Do you have kids? I have a motto about single moms. Kids are like gunshots: one, you'll probably pull through, two: outlook is not so good, three or more: you're not going to make it. The second heuristic I have is, each kid removes exactly one point from your total potential on a 10-point scale. So if you have three kids you need to be a perfect 10 in personality and looks to be a 7. Now, every man feels this way, they just don't have the time to come up with these illuminating rational explanations, let alone the heart to relay them to you. So in order to be loved as a mom you need to be either close to perfect, rich, or willing to abandon your offspring (which is just long-form for “perfect” [a sense of humor also helps]).

Now you always hear in the western world the same question, why are women so unhappy? In America they are the most liberated, free, and educated. There is an answer. The second biggest flaw outside of children and the biggest creator of female unhappiness is called dignity. Be self-aware, and eradicate dignity. Learn to wear your slut on your sleeve, but you can't because you're not wearing any. Oh no, but you'll be used. You can be the dignified fine China sitting forever in a showcase cabinet, or you can be the dog bowl the human animal really wishes to be. Or maybe you're a paper plate, or restaurant-grade ceramic. Success comes from many failures. Try them all before deciding who you are. 

The truth is, on men in relation to women, we only want one thing. And that is to join you at the apple orchard. Sure, we'll put up a front of disinterest to save face. But watch us as we cup that low-hanging fruit for the first time, fresh off the vine, and contemplate its relation from ecology to Adam and Eve, to the apple that fell before Issac Newton causing him to contemplate if the moon, too, was falling. We only want one thing more than your acquaintance, and that to meet your admirable, well-mannered dogs, friends, and future in-laws. We want nothing more than to jump over the hurdles of sexual conquest to get to the good part where you where you recite out loud your high school poetry, which for me inspires an out-of-body experience almost as if I imagine myself elsewhere.

That's my pitch. Find yourself fastest through what you are not. How did Michael Angelo sculpt his masterpiece? He chipped away at everything that wasn't David. Go for broke, often literally, with say a gangly nervous guy with the skin tone of pizza, let him get some. He's disease-free and you'll change his life and your own capacity for empathy. Or me, I'm a mix of Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, and a hedgehog being tickled. All I want is someone to walk hand-in-hand with me as we explore the natural world and the vacant former estates of Jeffrey Esptein for evidence of human trafficking to report to the FBI but we can't because they're in on it. We could try yoga, or pilates, or study the genocide of the Tutsis, or the work of Miyazaki. Life is a tapestry and the best ones require two to handle.

Looking For Love on Craigslist #16

Girlfriend needs to play GI Joes with me - m4w

Hey, woman

I'm looking for a girlfriend to play GI Joes with. I'm 30 going on 13. I'm not asexual but you gotta earn trust in a partnership, and I know it sounds immature, but that's what I want to do. So we can pairbond by playing Joes together, and if you're good at it  you'll be pairbonding with "deez nuts."

So, you probably want emotional comfort and sex and again, I'm too emotionally isolated so perhaps we can mix the two. I can use the canvas of your naked body to have battle tournaments. I'll be the announcer. it'll be like "COBRA EEL vs. Johnny Cage on your body!" And the wrestlers will beat each other into submission by smashing them into your nipple and screaming, "Land ho!", a joke that will surely never get old for you.

Man, I'll act out elaborate war scenarios on you. It will be Saving Private Ryan on your vagina. My sergeant will be stuck inside you and tell his allies, "Hey, let's take cover in this dike!" and you'll be like, hey I'm not a dyke! And I'll say not until this relationship is finished you're not. And you gotta have hair there because I'm all about realism. This is Paths of Glory, not Pearl Harbor.

I can play on your butt like that movie The Thin Red Line, where characters wax poetic about whats over the hill they're stuck on, and then Sean Penn's like, "Oh, you don't wanna know what's over yonder." And Matt Damon's like, I'm scared but I'm going in. I share the same attitude. Victory is fearless.

So that's my main prerequisite. Perhaps you can do me after, like your Joes will be working my neighborhood with some plot like, "Hey we're working at the oil rig today." Perhaps you could get some bad bitches like The Baroness to lift my junk like it's that Flags of Our Fathers photo. I'm open to try new things.

Oh, and they don't have to be GI Joes, just have the most humanistic flexibility to do all the required stunts. Iron Man, Capt America, whatever works.

Yeah that's all I need you to be. I also like girls named delilah.

The Ten Commandments and How They Relate to You, My Next Christian Love Interest

(A Craigslist personal ad)

I'm a staunch Christian and a firm believer in the word of God. But sadly, I'm without lay, and I adore pious Christian babes, and as such I've decided to create a personal based on my adherence to the Ten Commandments. Numbers appear out of order for dramatic purposes.


IV. Thou shalt not kill

First thing you should know, I'm a great guy. I've never murdered nobody. Not anybody, not a single person. Classy bachelor, here. I never even thought about it to be honest. Well, unless you count that time I thought about joining the Navy. But I decided not to, because, well, I'm too rebellious for that kind of institution. I rebelled against society's stupid bullshit, like discipline and employment, and to a lesser extent the military-industrial complex and war as a means to uphold our global monopoly on currency.

I. I am the Lord thy God

Hell yes I am. You women love confidence.

II. Thou shalt not make for thyself any graven image

As a confirmed Catholic I agree w/this shit. I hate having my picture taken. I hate Instagram.

III. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain

Oh god. Do I really have to respect you this much? You're so vain you probably think this commandment is about you. You're so vain you wasted number four on vanity instead of making one against rape or slavery. That's pretty vain, so if I take the lord's name in vain doesn't that make me more god-like? Not to get all holier-than-thou jesus, but jesus.

See this was supposed to be a personal ad but God, as usual, just wants to be the center of the universe. But I'm a self-centered prick so I'm a very good potential suitor for Christian singles. Also what right do you have to talk about vanity? You literally ask people to call you god which means a supreme being with infinite knowledge. Who do you think you are, Kanye fuckin' West.

IV. Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy

This is probably the most important commandment. One day a week should be kept sacred. After a hard work week, we deserve it. It's the day of worship. It means you should remember to do nice things for the people you love. That means you could suck me off in the tub. And you can feed me grapes and pizza, and pizza with grapes on it. And I will do nice things for you, too, like I will give you presents that you pick out and wrap and pay for.

V. Honor thy Father and Mother

Photo courtesy ChristianMating.com

Like Best Buy honoring competitor's coupons I will honor your father and mother, so long as I never have to meet them. And hey, I like mine. Plus I will listen to your daddy issues, and probably treat you like you're a mother-figure, so you'll get your religion fix at least in a Freudian sense.

VII. Thou shalt not commit adultery

100% agreed. I am a firm believer in commitment. I would never devastate a loved one by engaging in the heinous act of cheating. But then you got to think, infidelity is about dishonor and disloyality. So if we agree to be an open, monogamish relationship, we can change it from adultery to unadulterated fun!

But breaking the bonds of trust is something I never want to do. I mean, I would do someone else's wife. Them cheating is terrible but I don't see what that has to do with me. It's like if someone asked you, "Which bank do you think has the most money?" and I say, "Probably the one downtown." I would not be charged with conspiracy to rob a bank merely because I enabled you to do something wrong.

VIII. Thou shalt not steal

Theft is deplorable. I despise it, I don't do it. I mean, I do illegally download on the regular. Because in a relationship sometimes couples need to placate their hollow lives with even emptier entertainment media. That's not theft, though, because you're not depriving anyone of anything. It's simply cloning, and there's no commandment against cloning.

XI. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor

Definitely a Christian in this department. Lie to my neighbors? I don't even talk to them. Mr. Rogers aside I could give a fuck about any neighbor. How typical of religion to pit me against the one genuinely great person to ever grace this comparative cesspool of a planet.

But I also think lies are some of the most beautiful things on this earth. Every surprise party was a lie. Every exaggerated joke was a lie. The mythical figures from Magneto all the way down to Jesus were all lies, but all the fun and education we gleaned from those ideas were not a lie. (J.K., God is alive and heaven is real.)

So I'm glad this is neighbor-specific, because as your future husband I will lie. I will tell you you look great in that skirt, and you're the only person out there for me, because while that stuff isn't true, woman, you're still great enough to make me lie even to myself.

X. Thou shalt not covet

As the ideal Christian bachelor I adhere to not coveting my neighbor's wife, namely because it's sexist to view a person as a possession. But as far as actual objects, why would I covet his shit? If he has something I want, I'm not going to yearn for his possessions, I'm going to yearn to go to Walmart and buy my own.

***

So that about does her.

If you're a female believer, you're probably dripping wet with holy water by now, and by all means drop me a line if youre DTF(Down to findgod) with NSA(no satan around), because our everlasting eternal happiness needn't wait for an afterlife.

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.

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.

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.

Looking for love on Craigslist #11

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.

Looking for love on Craigslist #10

Looking for female basically physical manifestation of Satan. m4w

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.

Looking for love on Craigslist #9

This one's a more serious attempt.

An honest appeal to an impossibly clever female. m4w

It's tough being honest, but ultimately worthwhile, so I'm going to be straight-forward here and do a Craigslist personal ad without lies or exaggeration. I am a reincarnated Cary Grant. My soul is more tortured and perverse than Marlon Brando's in Last Tango in Paris. Despite these exemplary qualities I remain unemployed, as the current system of government has an inherit bias against the Gifted.

My general indifference only halts in the name of artistic endeavors, whether by writing, direction, or drinking addiction. My face is funny, child-looking, and pudgy as a cabbage patch kid. My eyes have been called enormous and beautiful. So you know, these words do little for me, but they might for you. I have large, feminine eyelashes to match my similar inner sensitivity. I'm 5% overweight but that can be lost once we start fucking. Despite my online demeanor, I'm relatively pleasant in person. Although a bit of creep and a loser, so are Thom Yorke and Beck, so why don't you kill me?

I am a gem and kept real to such a maximum, most won't tell if I'm kidding. My lack of lies comes at a penalty: an honestly unrelenting to the point of contention. As an undiscovered, apathetic alpha male, you must do as I say sexually or otherwise. This could mean experiments involving your armpits, whipped topping, or a stranger off the streets. Any hesitation and you'll have to go, excluding Virgos or Scorpios since by default we're compatible. Bookworms preferred, but not pansy Potter fans, the smart ones who read to scapegoat sexual repression. I am not hip in any sense, instead inclined to enjoy square things like belittling others and being alone. In bed I prefer to cuddle, but may require once a month you tie me to the ceiling, and whip me with industrial strength chains while requesting that I reconcile with my Mother.

I am an antagonist, a contrarian, and a troll of the soul. I play the devil's advocate only as it's the most effective way to get to the bottom of something. If you're uptight, you'll unwind with a recklessly organized room. If you're terse or serious, I'll psychologically molest you until too timid to be frigid. If you're yuppie I'll Robin Hood your riches and take your father's mutton. If you're a feminist, I'll spank you into submission, force you to do dishes in no clothes, and order you by the tug of ear to perform fellatio. If you're laidback, that's alright.

You must reply to this email with an AOL screen name, or Skype, or Steam. A photo of your visage or vulva would help, but nothing catches my eye like a clever line. You should be willing to travel out of the city to visit. Some cuteness required. Less shaven preferred. Low financing. Charm and subtlety mandatory. Burn victims welcome. Short hair wins my heart. Anal curiosity a plus. Offer subject to change.

What's in it for you? You'll grow. Without the bullshit preconceived notions regarding romantic conquest, you'll be able to intelligently approach others with reassured confidence. My wealth of knowledge in humility and social etiquette will serve as a mirror for what propriety should be. My eye for the obscure will gain you insight into what you are, desire and prefer. Without the restraints of mindgames, the loopholes in relationships, and general deception, you'll learn your fellow man's most valuable lesson: friendship is worthwhile even for a fleeting moment. Why? In the infinite wisdom of Tommy Wiseau, "That's life."

Looking for love on Craigslist #8

In need of intellectually profound woman to conquer and destroy with. m4w

Everyone's looking for that one special person. What happens when they find it? They call it a success, then call it a day. They're like knives spooning until they dull each other down to nubs. Instead of exploring the potential two great minds can realize combined, they take solace in baking lasagna, collecting spices, and clipping coupons. They feel a victory over life haven't not fully lost to rampant despair knowing now they'll die less alone. What fresh excrement.

Everything your average modern couple does resolves around cooking, eating and the release of bodily refuse. What separates a home from a room? A fridge, a dishwasher, a stove and a sink. Decor is done for house guests, as is furniture and silverware. After age 40—the age where dreams go to die—life is only lived for its own sake. There's no one exceptional after 40 that wasn't exceptional before it. After this age people give up any habit they can break, lose any enthusiasm for seeking excitement, and decidedly stick to routine and revisiting familiar pleasures exclusively. Screw these empty bottles of ex-lax! It would be mean to call them sheep, as it degrades an animal graceful and sentient by comparison.

Not with my future significant other. Our only motivation to eat will be to live to fuck another day. We'll have the passion of the French without the cowardice. We'll find a squat near a pond for baths and drinking water. We'll surround ourselves with books and power our iPods with Gatorade. We'll light our nights with oil lamps and do everything the DIY punk sort of way, including abortions. Eventually our erratic, untrained lifestyles will lead to grand epiphanies enabling us to most effectively panhandle. We'll meet midgets, mimes, poets, mystics and gypsies along the way who will teach us how to be a poor man's rich man. Hitching rides on trains, urban exploration through tunnels and abandoned establishments for supplies, or if we want to live on the edge we'll consider stealing wifi. Luckily, thanks to Kurt Cobain and white guilt, we can dress in dirty clothes and be unkempt, and still fit in indistinguishable from your average alternative, wealthy young American.

As we become closer to each other and enlightenment, we'll fully grasp the potential of the human pair. We'll open up each others individual black boxes, study our sexual hard-wiring for differences in content, and as two one-winged angels working in unison we will embrace in an effort to fly. We'll fall under the spell of love—the most volatile form of madness. We will dive through the depths of social problems, research the fundamental flaws in law and religion, cut through the heart of war and violence, and soar through the essence of every negligent, unethical, irresponsible behavior, so we can learn from Earth's dreadful plight and enslave the human race.

If one mind can change the course of mankind two together could obliterate it. We'll climb to the top with rhetoric and jargon more convincing than a pastor. We'll mislead people's hopes and dreams by going about practices too insane to believe. Wars for peace, freedom for security, convenience over privacy, in fact that's the campaign slogan. The public's emotions will be trolled until their neurosis and paranoia is too pathological to know who's manning the strings. By the end, they won't even trust their common sense. We'll manipulate the proles to shape the world as we see fit, spreading misinformation and the absolute truth about our Strangelovian supremacy, just to prove the amusing idiom of the elephant in the room.

These half-aware cattle only care about themselves, never considering the equilibrium with nature needed, so we'll give it to them as punishment for their ill-conceived obliviousness. The Bible will be rewritten more ruthless. The Holocaust as a hoax will be disproven, then all evidence will be destroyed for personal amusement. Our first child will be a miscarriage, so I can impress the masses when I state it was the result of rough loving and recount the bloody breaking of your hymen to Larry King. Our scientists will engineer medieval methods of abusing animals so their meat is most tender, textured, and receptive to flavor. We'll contrive forms of biological warfare to cripple rival nations into poverty, submission and despair and blame it on Monsanto. Unheard of high-tech weaponry will be borrowed under the pretense of covert operations to assure freedom. In reality, we'll just use sterilization guns with scopes working with radio waves to sterilize hipsters from great distances. A thought-control serum will be laced in the water supply that's more dangerous and harrowing than Nickelodeon's green slime. Nikola Tesla's earthquake machine will be targeted at every Starbucks. A specialized iPhone app will be designed to snap a picture and cause that person to spontaneously combust, as spoke of in Spinal Tap. Steve Jobs will be the first test subject.

Our place of privilege will allow us unprecedented access to Earth's great mysteries. The pyramids will be pried open and looted. Pi will be written out in its entirety. We'll dine on the delicacies of Area 51's menu of mystery meat. JFK's sextape with Marilyn Monroe will be exposed. Mother Teresa's record of one-night-stands will be published. We'll discover the distance between Heaven and Earth. God will be found and held hostage. Insane Clown Posse will finally know how magnets work.

Anyone who challenges our cause will be left headless and blamed on any others who protest. Our reign won't end until all other governments are overthrown, all other nation's people broken, every harlot defiled, every charlatan tarred and feathered, every last glass of champagne gulped, every feminist book burned, every religious zealot hung, every wheel of cheese and pound of french vanilla ice cream quarantined in my room, every beggar finally fed (with arsenic), and all cities left more desolate than North Korea.

Toward the end of civilization, in the totality of our power—having pleased our collective ids to the extent of our imaginations—we'll control the remaining masses with a blackhole-shooting, holstered hand weapon. Doomsday devices will remain implanted in our person, activated after an extremity of pain or merely thinking of a particular keyphrase. The lemmings will slave away toward an indefinite end as we channel Marie Antoinette and shout at their starved stomachs to eat cake. There will only be one cake that's located in the town square, surrounded by mines, tripwire, and laser alarms so plentiful and complex as to challenge the greatest gymnastics. The lasers are not only alarm activating but limb-severing. Even if competent, contestants must still dodge the bullets of our mech body guards.

Our last days will be of romance that echoes through the ages. We'll catapult babies and cats and shoot them down with bows and arrows. We'll walk across mass graves we created while holding hands. Like Shakespeare I'll say you are the Sun, yet entwined with the beauty of the rings of Saturn. You are worth more than the trivialities of this planet. You are numbness of love at my fingertips. The blood of all pain on my hands. The sum of all sadness gathering near my iris. The Catwoman to my Batman. On our last day, having released the plague to end all plagues, where nature starts to transform to a more harmonic state, when every human has passed and the last levee breaks, we'll watch this apocalypse along with the onset dawn from a rooftop. On cheap lawn chairs we'll be side-by-side, watching buildings crumble like Inception but not shitty CGI.

So yeah if this sounds up your alley hit me up. Generally easygoing, submissive, simple creature describes me to a T. Potential romantic prospects must have: read Mein Kampf, a disdain for humor, hairy underarms, hate of Mother, love of pizza, a derriere tighter than Trinity's, and proper pilot training in Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor aircraft.

Looking for work on Craigslist #1

Scumbag in search of honest work.

Hey there, prospective employers in the resume section. I bet you're tired of dishonest individuals who keep it fake, emailing you 20x a day with resumes no more enticing than day-old McFranken meat. You read the resume, invite them over, and they show up dressed in a half-hearted impression of a Gap ad from last season. Then they speak, and their mouth-breathing social retardation foreshadows their future as the next Seung-Hui Cho. Why deal with that? Look no further, I'm your scumbag.

What would you like to know, employer? Sure, you can look at my real resume, with all its propriety and formality, but it strips you of identity. You're looking at 1s and 0s and trying to pin a personality type, but you're not Johnny 5, and neither am I. What does listing basketball and swimming as hobbies really say about a person? Not a goddamn thing. No one ever puts down, "I like to use the word twat a lot," or "throwing ceramic statues at my sister's head," so you'd never guess I'm a fan of both.

What sets me apart? You get the truth. I'm scum up-front. No lies, here. My real resume is entirely honest. Although like Werner Herzog I adhere to subjective truth. Sure, I may not exactly have spent a semester overseas, but no one charges Batman for denting a dumpster while beating down rapist thugs. Means to an end, my friend. Perhaps I didn't design Linux, but the amount of research I put into pretending shows great ambition and creative prowess. Like Tony Montana, I always tell the truth, even when I lie.

I don't have any skills a robot won't be replacing in 20 years. Yet there have to be things only a scumbag can do. For example, if you find recycling too complicated and stressful, I can throw it away in the regular bin shamelessly and guilt-free. Want that Easy Mac ready with minimal burning? Do you have trouble reading Poptart instructions? Call me scumbag jack of all trades. Hire me for birthday parties or pranks. Have me educate children by being a breathing example of why goals are important. Have me be the guy who strokes his beard and ogles women to the point of discomfort from across the counter. I don't know that it's a career, but I imagine I could do it adequately. Don't worry about messy tax work, I'll take payment in cash, beer, brandy, or a pale female friend dressed in reindeer antlers. Speaking of which: dislike your sister? Set us up on a date where she'll learn first hand of my motto, "Second base is never rape." Tired of friends who overstay their welcome? I'll be their reason to leave. In that way I'm a people person. I like getting up close and cozy with them, while eating whatever food I got stored in the raggedy pocket of my blazer that day. People person, you know, belittling their beliefs, affirming that the universe is indifferent, starting long dialogues about farm life and septic tank maintenance. Or say you've made enemies over the years, I am the perfect partner to plot revenge with. The great joy of creating a devious ploy and maiming a foe is severely underrated.

As much of an asshole as I am, I'm limited on my ideas for work. Divulging my full repertoire is limited for legal reasons. This is where you come in. Find me work, whether noble or otherwise. I will be grateful and do my best to refrain from calling you a twat in person. If you're kind-hearted and looking for someone like-minded, don't: it's still the proper Christian thing to hire me above consequential candidates before I begin a life of beggary and take a turn for the worst. Forgive me. Church.

Looking for love on Craigslist #7

Guy with strict sexual kinks needs lovers (participants). m4w

Hey there. I'm looking to play out some fantasies but it's tough to find like-minded individuals in my modest village.

Scenario #1

I'd like to be smothered by 5-7 pregnant women, 4 months in or more each. The meeting will take place in a large home owned by one of you, where I will be passively and shyly sitting down on a sofa next to some live plants. You ladies will be gathered around me like a Tupperware Party, talking amongst yourselves and stating how intriguing I'm being by not saying a word. You can also pepper me with compliments (e.g. "sweetie," "honey," "beefy grain-fed cattle,"). Eventually, you'll need to take off your businesswear and reveal the spaghetti strap tanktops you have on below. Each of you will have to wear different colors, as I don't care to, nor would I remember your names. Tanktops colors must be light. I'm thinking baby blue, yellow, pink, light purple, etc. These will be complimented by boyshorts.

The real fun will begin when you lasses gather around me on the floor, say I'm cuter than the boy from Ponyo and sit on my face. You will be dressed in your attire the entire time. I will be wearing only my Batman boxers. Once I've gained your trust you may get a glance at my member, but only after each of you promise your fathers treated you well, compliment my smells and promise my memory will never leave the confines of your heart.

At some point I want one of you to get on top of me, look me in the eyes and smile, and cry your tears directly into my eyes. This way we will know each other's sadness. The sublime, bittersweet essence of life transferring souls. If the eyes are the pancakes of the soul, tears are the maple syrup. The rest of you will take turns smushing your butt in my face while slapping my bare bubble-gut with two hands, repeating one of the following phrases: "You're a Barbie Boy," "Betcha want another hotdog, don'tcha?" and, "Someone's gonna tinkle on you. Guess who, guess who?"

In exchange, during this mating ritual I will yell sweet nothings into a megaphone aimed at your impregnated stomachs and write anarchy symbols over them like in that one video by Atari Teenage Riot. Each bulbous belly will be tummy-kissed pink beforehand. If I reach arousal or orgasm, the night will end in a unified embrace and we shall apologize to God for what has transpired. The female responsible for spilling my seed must stay to console me through the night.


Scenario #2

If you're not pregnant you may still be of service. You must be over-sized in one of the following: height, weight, nose, teeth, stomach, or lips. You are to carry your most cherished childhood plush at all times. You should be a passive, timid girl, preferably pale, as that skin's susceptible to Sharpie. I plan to draw penises on your legs, so you'll be knee-high in penises. I will draw vaginas on your hips because I believe those spots make more sense biologically. Aside your snatch will be a portrait of Inspector Gadget, as it's the only thing that can improve upon a vagina. On your hopefully rotund stomach will be a detailed drawing of the chestburster from Alien leaping through your flesh.

You will be duct taped to yourself, then my sofa shortly after signing the release. You get to choose the safety word, and I will choose not to remember it. After you're bound and in my custody, we will rejoice in a movie I'd like to see, whether it's Drunken Angel, Kiki's Delivery Service, or Mean Girls. As you lie there, bondaged up to your neck, I will apply make up until you look like the one who got away. Don't squirm or squiggle unless you want surround sound headphones on your dome repeating the opening themes to MASH and Unsolved Mysteries.

After you look like my beloved, long lost Cassie, we'll sit for a quiet moment, eyes closed, inhaling each other's aura. I'll whisper to you secrets about the beauty of the planet, how stars are God's syphilis, why Scorpios make the best lovers, fucking magnets and how they work, unlocking your third eye with a potato peeler, and how my crown chakra dictates I must spunk in your hair. You will be forced to listen to my poetry. If you don't smile by the end, I'll re-read it. Example:

Bulma, you're not real
So say the phonies
That's your appeal
You won't say no to me
If not on this Earth
In Heaven I'll meetcha
To prove my worth
I'll fight that punk Vegeta
No more nights crying
Now I welcome danger
Putting in the grind
At the Hyberbolic Time Chamber
I was nobody, an Android 17
Now I'm lean from 10x gravity
Gimme that green hair
And that pink pizza
Working on a second Trunks
Splitting you like he did Frieza

This is when the magic happens. I lay you in bed like Leonardo DiCaprio did Juliet in Shakespeare In Love. You can't move. I have total control and still I lose control. I stare at you with a menacing look, then breakdown and cry and tell you my problems. You have no choice but to hear about my first love who nicknamed me, "What are you looking at?" how Janet Jackson's "I Get So Lonely" video made me a man, and why comparisons to Piglet are my only means of arousal. After an hour-long diatribe against Animal Crossing naysayers, you offer me your flesh and flower and compare me to a wild stallion, begging, "Take me. Rape me. Use my soul to your ends. Incinerate me. I'm aching." Then I tell you everything I know about Tetris. In lust, your body combusts from the vagina outward. Crying, I clutch your cherished childhood plush and sleep next to your ashes.

If either of these hold appeal or you know of a friend who fits the bill, have them hit me up by email.

Looking for love on Craigslist #6

Sane man looking for a hairy girl to call his own. m4w

Eh, ol' girl. Eh, shorty. What's up? Picture this: me&you, side-by-side in bed in my parent's basement, the flickering glow of a television in the background, showcasing that black & white foreign hotness, that Bergman that Tarkovsky that Herzog that gushy stuff. Like Last Tango in Paris, that mutual self-loathing and despair we can share. Two beings, just surviving on butter, rats, and orgasms.

Birdies talk like they don't want no drama, but you do. What's a story without conflict? What good's a story with a foreshadowed happy ending? Safe bets are for the dullest of dead folk. I'm a romantic. Though I can't afford fancy chocolates, I'll eat Swedish Fish off of your ankles and breasts, I can see it so clearly babe. I'll steal flowers from the church garden for you, God wants this shit.

I'm looking for a down-ass chick. You don't gotta be pretty, but you can't be looking like a cross between Gollum and Hunter Hearst Helmsley neither. I'ma be straight up, you don't even need a nice behind or an exquisite rack, but if you lack both of them you'd better down for anal and being called Harry Potter. I mean, I gotta get turned on somehow, right?

As a feminist, hair turns me on. You can have hairy legs, underarms, a beard, but if you're on that There Will be Blood / Rollie Fingers tip, you're not drinking up my milkshake. Short hair is great, not showering is in, androgyny is fair game, I'd probably rail Gerard Way if he let me call her Tonya. Keep hair on that derriere and I'll lick that asshole like a Flintstones push pop.

Personality is what counts. Irony beats sarcasm. Having a pulse and no AIDS usually attracts me to a female. A real girl can have fun with only a set of jackstones, anything less and you may as well be a Real Doll. I'll take anything short of a Suicide Girl, contrived uniqueness and ironic ukulele ownership.

Myself? I'm a boy with a little swagger, and others cop what little of it I got. I'm working on my transformation from Clive Owen to Don Draper. I'm nerdy but not timid. Not to get too personal, but I like staring deep into a woman's eyes as I come hot as embers inside of her. I look like an animal, but a sexy one, and I've seen girls get down with dogs on the internet which leaves me optimistic. I'm also a very serious person.

Why does romance gotta be difficult? All I'm asking really is for a peaceful existence and melancholic moments of nostalgia. To watch The Fox and The Hound with you, or whatever you liked as a kid. To hear about how you went from grade school to the goth teen you are today. To be next to you in public and smooch, getting all romantic with the tongues and making the patrons inside of that Subway restaurant uncomfortable.

And don't get me wrong prettiness and style can make up for flaws like a lack of intellect, antisocial behavior, arrogance, etc. But you'd better be a pretty young blonde looking like Dylan Sprouse of The Suite Life: On Deck and loan that face for a milk bath on the nightly. I wanna own that visage. Hit me up.

Looking for love on Craigslist #5

Unrepentant misogynist in need of hot cunt. - m4w

Hello, ladies. I'm a big fan of yours. I love to hate you. I'm your average lad, a twenty-something lowlife, jobless loser. I look and act like a less moral version of Hitman. I know you're feeling this right here. Nice guys finish last, and every lass wants a real man, one that treats them like dirt. Scumbags are where it's at: use me to get back at your Dad for denying you that Jetta.

You're loving this shit. I know you don't want no square, man. I know you don't want some bitchboy who works at Best Buy, you know, going places with his life. I'll make you pay for our movie tickets and fancy dinners. This will give you purpose. We can make love for a couple of minutes, then when I finish, you'll be left unsatisfied and wanting more and I'll say, "Shut up and make me some Kool-Aid. By the way I squinted so I could pretend you were your Mother during sexual intercourse."

Sure, that's mean-spirited, but then you have a good conversation starter with your girlfriends. I'll call you by your best friend's name—guy or girl—during love just to irritate you. I'll give you things to talk about. "My boyfriend hits me. I don't know what to do. I still love him..." etc. Not that I'd hit you in malice, I just get bored easily and love Evander Holyfield. You'd learn to love it, babe. Hurts so good.

Historically, girls love being treated poorly. Watch any decent romance flick ever released, and you'll notice one distinction: every man horribly screws up before getting it right. You know, that part in the movie where the guy says, "Claire, I made a bet with Steve that I would get to fuck you first. Then, somewhere along the line, I realized how sweet you were and fell in love." Then Claire gets mad, then the guy saves her dog, then they mate on the lawn of a character played by Carrot Top and the protagonist cums on her chest. This is a human tale that resonates.

Why's it so hard to meet a nice girl that can get down with no strings? Girl, I just want to stroke your red hair and take a gander at your brown asshole. That's more of an immediate need, but it doesn't mean I don't care about where you grew up in, or how much you love your retarded dog. It doesn't mean I'm not interested in lying in bed and watching your favorite animated Disney classic, I'd just rather do it with your latest orgasm in my beard. Jesus Christ, is that so much to ask? It doesn't mean I'm indifferent to your totally engrossing conversation about how you're going to change the world with your sociology degree, I just want to make love to your excessively hairy armpit.

And you should have hairy legs, too. All about nature in this bitch. Shit. Don't call me weird for wanting to fuck your underarms, I'm a romantic. I want to be down with every part of you. Box of chocolates in this bitch. Fuck. I want your breastmilk providing my protein. I want to get on top of you and fuck you while staring into your eyes with a heartlessness, with a heartlessness. I want to look into your little pupils and iris while I let that fiery-hot ooze seep deep into your uterus like it's that PC game Pipe Dream. So hot, so deep inside you, babe. So hot it's like sulfuric acid and burns through your vagina lining and comes out your asshole, babe. I'm a romantic, babe.

I want to mouth every inch of your hairy fucking legs, all red like a leprechaun and shit. From your feet all the way to your pink pot of gold. My mouth will be like heavy duty equipment for grains on the hairy fields of your legs. I want to do this in a public park or a bus station. I want to see hot sunlight reflecting on your beautiful cunny hairs until it burns them into different colors. I want to taste the dripping sweat from your candy jar and drink it like that monster in Ninja Scroll drinks blood from broken limbs. I want my holy grail filled to the brim with your sweat and seven consecutive orgasms (not weird I just crush a lot).

I want to put it in your asshole, only because I have one and it'll be sexy to know how uncomfortable I'm making you feel. Then we can browse your favorite thrift store or what have you. I want to lick your eyebrows, your earlobes, and inside your ear holes. I want to lick your tail if you have one. I want to wank with your hair draped around my cock so I'm pullin' your purple-colored hairs out from under my foreskin several days from now. I want to play-rape you until you scream the safety word but you know I won't stop. Then we can cook tofu. Why's it so hard to meet someone normal?



FLAGGED immediately.

Looking for love on Craigslist #4

Need a classy lass that wants to sleep next to a loving bigot. - 25

Hello, hot and friendly succulent dames inhabiting the cyber world.

Is this post about me? No, I'd say it's about you. You've been scouring Craigslist perhaps for dumps and giggles or out of a genuine interest in finding your dream significant other. Well scour no longer, cunt. I'm a bit of a blunt motherfucker, so you'll have to excuse my French. Don't mind it, I'm cultured and familiar with New Wave French cinema. My nosebleeds and seizures are at a minimum as of late, so that makes up for my social shortcomings.

Man, ever been with a man that has seizures? It ain't nothing like being with a rich man or a man with a libido, but it's the next best thing. Always I overhear bitches talking about wanting a spontaneous man and it doesn't get more erratic than this. In order to keep etiquette or whatnot I try to minimize its effect over my body by standing as still as possible. It looks like I'm struggling not to break into a chicken dance. My foaming mouth makes for a humorous conversation piece with colleagues afterward.

My heavy smoking means foam ain't the only odd thing exiting my mouth on the regular. That's right, I cough up blood, but your snatch does too and us men aren't any less willing to fuck you so this shouldn't be a problem. It's whatever.

Look, I'll treat you nice, alright? I won't call your Mother a whore on Thanksgiving, I'm not that dude. I will only do so when provoked, like when she tells me to put on a jacket to fend off seasonal illness (I abide by no one's rules). I generally have absolutely no problem with people provided they're not greeks, gays, or persist that the Holocaust happened.

It's the 2009s, you can't expect a brother to act all congenial at the expense of not keeping it real. Yet people bad mouth me as intolerant. If they're so smart and idealistic and tolerant, why won't they let me be? I mean, what the fuck is the problem with being a bigot? Hating on bigots is like saying rainbows should exclude the color blue. Embrace every facet of life I say.

But yes, back to you. Ahh, you. You're still reading. That means you must be my Queen. My Fairuza Balk in American History X willing to let me carve a swastika in her back while I'm hitting that ultra-wet hate-snatch doggystyle. I want us to know true romance. I want you to experience fun events such as bowling and walking. Even we can eat out sometimes. Anything on BK's dollar menu will be yours to treasure (under 5 items, please). Nothing will be spared for you.

Cold nights with us will become warm. You'll cozy up to me as your man and rightful owner. I will grab your hips and caress your tender ribs and your ivory Aryan gut-stomach. I will take you by shoving my wand into your beartrap before creating a storm inside you so virile and vile and vulgar our alpha male son will be born instantly. He will exit your womb himself holding a machete and severing his own umbilical cord. Surrendering to his Oedipus impulses, he will stab me in the heart as I whimper, "I love you, Son," in a dying breath. Because of this we'll have to mate at hospitals.

Yet as the perfect alpha male son, he will proceed to rape you with such lust that he too will instantly create a son twice as superior to him. That son will kill him and fuck you again creating another son instantly. The cycle continues almost infinitely until your vagina can no longer birth such large men and a doctor complains about all the muscular dead Fathers in the room with machetes in their hearts creating a safety hazard.

The last son born splits you right in two before the final son stabs his Dad and the doctor in the heart. He then buries you, and your tombstone he has engraved with the following: "To my greatest of Mothers... wish I would've got to fuck her." He leaves you fresh roses and tears daily. He then spends the remainder of his life studying Freud and slaying the alien/dragon hybrid lifeforms that recently invaded Earth, much to the satisfaction of the American people.

If sleeping with me sounds appealing, please send an email. Make sure to put "want to be with you" as the subject so I know you're not a robot.

Forever yours,
Sam

Looking for love on Craigslist #3

are you a failure that takes nothing seriously? m4w

hello females and latent homosexuals looking at the m4w section. are you a sucker for a nice smile? do you dwell over another lost day without a motivated, ambitious guy? do you yearn for someone fun to be around? does the thought of chiseled abs and a defined physique get you bothered? if so, i'm not your man.

instead, i never smile. no, my face remains smug like a man forced to eat bile. i'm a moderately lazy fuck up. i'm slightly more fun than hanging out with a chia pet, although they'll probably live longer. i've got a bodacious gut-unit that would be a joy to depraved women everywhere. i mean, let's be serious. you think you want a gym rat, but they're drab and uninteresting, and my gut allows for a good roleplay. i can the be the plumber you can't afford to pay, alright?

my mind's imaginative, romantic, bland and often immature. i'm not a pessimist that thinks life is pointless, but i don't think things get much more holy than mario kart.

ever heard that expression it's not the size of the wave it's the motion of the ocean? well, i'm horrible at both, but that won't stop my fingers from crawling over your body aimlessly like over a smashed piano or the hand from adam's family.

listen, babe. i'm also an intellectual. i watch foreign movies made decades ago and can impressively feign an understanding of them at this point.

i'm not picky. to pique my interest you must be:

a young 20-something romanian girl with a bubble butt that goes by (or is willing to be called) olga. your nose must be awkward, and you must be willing to brush your hair in the nude. you must come from a religious background, preferably repressed.

okay, i'll talk to anyone interested. included is a real picture of me:

Looking for love on Craigslist #2

**To Women: Like Nothing You've Experienced Before**

Look, I'm posting this ad in the adults personal because perhaps the audience will be more fitting and more welcome attention will be brought to it. My last ad was a bit of a failure and only attracted one girl who had pictures of herself having an underwater birth posted online.

Now, what I'm searching for is more than simply a casual encounter, even if the relationship consists of only sexual gratification. I speak of the difference between two humans "having a good time", locking their antlers, jamming antennas (whatever the kids are calling it these days), versus being spiritually born anew by the union of two separate entities united in a free, completely uninhibited form of expression.

That is, what I look for in a potential lover is a female aged seventeen to sixty-two who is willing to take a pie to the face. More than merely a simple drunken night of cheap sex. We can meet and hit it off. I can borrow one of my dad's industrial-sized garbage bags to cover the floor before the pie throwing.

Despite what most would find is an alarming absurdity in this act, the root of its sensual delight lies its freedom. The liberating feeling you get as you are hit with a tasty pie and take that first gasp of air through its messy remains. The feeling of empowerment over yourself and a better understanding of your being. The rebellion against society's preconceived notions, stereotypes, etiquette, oppressive social rules and judgment.

There's a few ground rules beforehand. First, I don't necessarily like pies so I won't be willing to eat much of them. You should dress in something nice if you're willing to participate, the more formal the better. Throwing a pie at a lover wearing their old painting shirt doesn't exude the same bold statement of purity, rebirth and moral cleansing as pieing someone in their Sunday dress. Lastly, I don't know how to make or bake pies, but I have a new job and will soon be able to buy pies. If you can make and bake pies this is a definite positive. Alternatively they have pre-made pie crusts that can be filled to the brim with whipped cream which sounds no more difficult than Easy Mac.

As for me 5'9" of average build and somewhat more handsome than the Elephant Man.

So, you've read this far and you're likely intrigued. If pies aren't your things there are alternatives. You can be doused in Hersey's chocolate syrup or I could give you a relaxing massage while you bathe in the purplest of grape Koolaid. I can show you the stars of Lucky Charms or place Poptarts in areas you would've never thought of.

Are you the one?