Ok, so I will openly confess to having a raging addiction to craigslist. Every 4 weeks, like clockwork, I can be found checking the “best of” section for new posts with embarrassing frequency. If you haven’t ever given the “best of” section much of a perusing, I highly recommend that you do so. I have yet to find a more entertaining way to waste excessive amounts of time when I’d rather not do the things I actually need to. Productivity isn’t one of my strong suits, what can I say?

I also like to cruise the personals section and hunt for little gems, like the guy who never leaves his house save for daily trips to the community mailbox on his motorized cart. Needless to say, this section is a veritable goldmine of mock-worthy material and one that I could only quell the urge to respond to for so long.

So, now, I hereby submit my own personal ad for the court’s amusement.

I’m a girl, whaddya want from me? As soon as you acknowledge me with one speck of attention and/or vague interest, my every waking thought will be psychotically centered on you. I can’t help it, my ovaries make me do it. My concept of self worth will also hang precariously on your ability to intuitively bolster it up by assuring me that my new, incomprehensibly expensive flipflops don’t make my armpits look fat and my endless, sob filled diatribes about childhood mindfuckeries (e.g. if my parents really loved me, they would’ve bought me the new Louis Vuitton lunchbox so I could’ve sat at the popular table in third grade) absolutely do not make you want to see how far into your eye socket you could jam your finger before going blind.

Yes, I’ve already decided that your last name makes a suitable pairing with my first and that my future initials don’t create any embarrassing three letter words. It should also go without saying that I’ve already googled your name, researched your family tree for at least four successive generations, and decided that our three children (boy, girl, boy, twenty one months apart each) shall have names that pay homage to your step-great grandfather’s favorite childhood stuffed animal, the pet name your third cousin used to call his wife in the love letters he wrote her during his stint in prison, and your dad’s best friend’s brother’s first child with Down Syndrome. Respectively. If, for some reason, such careful, reasonable efforts of mine to construct our future together are met with anything but your lovestruck, open embrace, then… well, then I don’t even know, that makes so little sense to me that my tiny woman brain can’t even really grasp it.

I ask that you be well educated, since I worked so goddamned hard for my bachelor’s degree in teaching-interior-design-communications-psychology, and I’m fairly comfortable in my certainty that, should you not also have a piece of paper in a garishly ugly frame displaying your underwhelming mediocrity, you are well beneath me and could not possibly have anything of remote value to add to my vacuous existence. Since I am a breathtakingly shallow person and am completely incapable of introspection, I cannot stress enough that I will not respond to anyone that a) is blue collar, b) doesn’t make it a point to tell me which luxury car (make/model/year/color) they currently drive, c) doesn’t attach a picture of themselves clad in khaki shorts and a pastel polo (Ralph Lauren only), posing with at least two overgrown frat buddies, and making some sort of ridiculous hand gesture (preferably co-opted from rap music videos).

I have nothing but the highest respect for myself, and even though anyone with halfway functioning eyesight/synaptic connections might beg to differ, I can easily convince myself of this because I am astoundingly self-delusional. And I will accept nothing less than complete admiration and respect from you, even though I bring absolutely nothing to the table aside from the fact that I will acquiesce to any/all sexual depravities you concoct as subtle revenge for putting up with my soul sucking banality. Also, I am hot, so if you’re a chubster and/or do not feel it is a personal accomplishment to devote inordinate amounts of time to your vanity, I suggest you know your place (specifically: not in my league).

Hopefully I don’t come off like a bitch LOL :) . I just know what I want and that I deserve to be treated like the pretty princess people always tell me I am, with a warm and vaguely condescending smile, when I say something mind-bogglingly asinine and begin pouting and twirling my hair. I like to think that I’m a unique catch, that I’m truly different from any of the other cackling hordes of chicks you would find downtown with a whole evening planned around getting guys to buy them drinks by having their boobs strategically bursting forth from their ’shirt’. I’d tell you some of my favorite places, but I can’t ever remember their names because they’re all mirror-fucking-images of each other.

All you lesser beings, who, frankly, make me laugh/slightly revolt me… I’m sure you’ll find someone to love you even though you’re poor and don’t have a tanning membership. I think they have a term for chicks like that… oh yeah, BBWs.

I don’t know which responses I enjoyed more; the ones that couldn’t wrap their intellect around the sarcasm and expressed their seething rage toward “bitches like me” in impressively long emails composed entirely of monosyllabic words, or the ones that couldn’t wrap their intellect around the sarcasm and replied with hope of setting up a date.

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