- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Hey, Like, Call Me, Maybe
I just met you. You seem like a nice person. You have all the attributes I usually look for in a mate. You smell like evergreen, like I'm walking through a forest or just spilled a bottle of gin on myself. It's a fine smell, though. I could get used to it, is what I'm implying. And you have such nice teeth. Do you brush them often? Use whitener? You're telling me they're natural? Wow. I'll have you know that I often pick my mate based solely on the condition of his teeth. You're racking up the points here, bud. The fact that you're wearing clothes closes the deal. I like you. You are special.
This is crazy. I mean, I like never do this. I just met you, you know? For all I know you could be a serial killer. Or I could be one. But how much you trust random people says a lot about what kind of person you are. I'd rather be gullible and fun-loving than a paranoid shut-in. The mathematical odds suggest that you and I are not, in fact, serial killers. However, the odds are much higher that you could take advantage of me during a date. So you see what I mean when I say that this is crazy?
But here's my number. All ten digits. Treasure this number, for I never do this, because it's crazy. Call me only between three and four a.m. on weekdays when Jupiter is visible in the sky. I keep strange hours, okay? Unfortunately I can't tell you about my work. I'll have you know that it is ordained by God himself. That's right, the big man. Or woman. Or genderless entity, which is probably the case. Someone has to hunt the vampires. I'm sorry, what did I say?
Call me, okay? I don't want to sound desperate, but the last couple guys I gave my number out to never did. Maybe they found my instructions bizarre; maybe I misjudged the connection between myself and them. Maybe back alleys behind deserted buildings aren't the best place to give your number, but whatever. I'm beyond society's rules, I'll have you know. I do what I want.
Maybe call me. I may have come off just a little too desperate. I have plenty of suitors. Handsome men. Men with all ten fingers. Men who aren't vampires. Like, if you think you're looking good, then, yeah, try your luck. Call me. Maybe.