2008-08-17 - 1:54 p.m.
I am terrible.
Which means I'm looking for someone equally terrible. If you understand most of this, chances are I'm not looking for you. So-called "smart" girls are ugly. And since I'm a guy, I'm definitely not looking for any ugly girls.
Most likely you don't exist. Because if you did, you'd be dead by now; If I was a girl, I would have killed myself long ago.
You don't wear makeup. You wear chapstick or a smile. And you don't have a hairy upper lip.
You're not pasty white. In fact you have a great tan. And your body looks like a bronzed cock shrine. In fact, you hunger for cock the way low income families eyeball lottery tickets.
You smell like a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a watermelon Jolly Rancher. And when you sweat, you smell like musky applesauce. And you don't sweat in rivers. Little beads of water form on your tanned arms.
You have thick-- not wispy, not white-- black, brown or golden blond hair.
You are athletic but don't play sports other than dancing or fucking. I will sportify you eventually, but you'll come in raw and untrained.
You have to be familiar with death. Someone has to have died in your life, preferably multiple deaths. And preferably someone close. The closer the better. And the pain had to have been serious enough to make you consider getting tattoos. But hopefully you don't have any yet because I'll be meeting you right before your scheduled trip to the tattoo parlor.
You have to have cheated someone out of their life savings. Or robbed some old lady and beat the shit out of her. Or set some orphans on fire. Something particularly heinous and unforgivable, so people will shun you, and I can embrace you. People don't develop humility, honesty or compassion on their own. It has to be branded, beaten or carved into them against their will.
You won't be fat. You'll have inherited great genes from your father. You'll be a skinny girl full of energy. Other fat chicks (read: 50% of the american public) will try to guilt you into gaining an extra 20lbs. You'll eat donuts shaped into giant middle fingers in their general direction. With frosting.
You won't love the internet because, again, you won't be fat. You'll have no I'm-fat-I-love-the-internet motivation that your peers constantly cultivate.
You won't have to tell me, "I'm not like other girls," because you won't be like other girls.
You'll either be adopted or abandoned. You won't give a flying fuck how many brothers and sisters I have or how close I am to my mother. You won't be tempted to introduce me to anyone meaningful. I'll be the only meaningful person in your life.
You won't be a single mom. Your vagina will be tight like a parking meter slot.
You'll talk. A lot. But slow. And mostly after sex.
During sex, you'll say dirty (read: delicious) things that need constant repeating.
When you ask questions, you'll ask with an amused, wondering, sleepy tone like you've just had a cup of hot chocolate and wrapped yourself in a warm blanket during a rainstorm.
You'll know to turn your head sideways when you kiss so our mouths fit perfectly. You'll use lots of tongue and consider me a dessert.
You'll work at Taco Bell or Old Navy or Guess and hate it. Or something nondescript, so we don't have to talk about work or anything work related. You'll have a camera and be constantly making scrapbooks.
You won't drink or smoke. You'll be high on bud for the first time and will have hours of things to say about nothing in particular. I'll fuck you when you're talking.
You'll like riding bikes, kicking over sand castles (while little kids are building them) and fucking for hours.
At some point, during a robbery or homicide, I will throw you a gun and tell you to keep it for me. You'll put it in your purse next to your contraceptives. You'll drive an expensive car with GPS navigation and a sunroof.
You'll wear hot clothes.
