Athens, GA: Missed Connections, 9/5/2013 4:22 PM EDT
Posted by: Unknown/Anonymous
I seen you at the Sprockets film night thing and the other movie thing. You are the smaller than me girl with dark curly hair and glasses and a smile that shines like crystal diamonds. We saw eachother at the film thing networking event.
My eyes were like sex radar for you that night. I know you felt it too, in your downtown place. We kept making eye contact, but you were always lookin at someone else.
My arousal for you was sexual. we were supposed to be networking for films. but I just wanted to film you. with my body.
your hair is so curly like a sultry nest of snakes. i will call you sex madusa, cause you turned me to stone in my penis. i want to be one of those curls of your hair so that I might fall against your face. With your glasses you look like a librarian. from like a sex library.
i will ride a white horse on a magic carpet to take you to the finest restaurants. i will feed you sushi made from the finest eel, nature's sex meat, by putting it in your mouth with my hands, sexually. I will arouse your brain by laying you down on a velvet waterbed and watch sophisticated television dramas like those of American producer, John Turtletaub, and then asking you what you think about it.
I will then do complicated sex things all on you all night.
You are my sexual destiny. you have the shine of love up on you and i want to bath in it. We should meet up. I get a discount at Cracker Barrel.
Saturday, September 07, 2013
Tuesday, September 03, 2013
Those Infernally Hard to Get Green Cards - m4w
Athens, GA, Third Rock From The Sun: Missed Connections, 8/26/2013, 7:54 PM EDT
Posted by: THB (Unknown/Anonymous)
Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.
The two of us together remind me so much of that old book title--as great as we are together, there is just always so much. . . strife and opposite inclinations between us, so much petty bickering, and over some of the seemingly most innocuous things most of the time, i.e., Picasso and Duchamp or Benton and Wood? Gertrude Stein (I knew she was one of you) or Ernest Hemingway? Do we laser the guests so that you can eat them, or let them go because they are our friends? Do they even give green cards to non-planetary aliens to justify your insistence upon marriage...? And the rest of all that heady stuff, too--admittedly, the list seems endless.
And, yet, all that said, I love you, and from the first time I laid eyes on you (unless it was all some hypnotic spell you cast upon me, which I cannot completely rule out). And I remember that night like it was yesterday, too, the bright lights hovering over the wheat fields, the eerie blue glow and strange sounds of your flying saucer, as it hovered above me, descended, and finally touched down. Perhaps, I should have run, but I wanted to see the thing through, to see if the doll driving that sleek silver machine was as hot as its thrusters were, if you know what I mean.
And you were! Oh, how much you were, when you popped open the escape door and out slung those two beautiful, preternaturally pasty white legs of yours, legs that were just so perfect, and toned, and that went on for days (to say nothing of how they glowed in the dark). Legs that rose into that scrawny little white, pasty, Pilates body of yours and into that gargantuan, conical head that makes you such a braniac, that gargantuan head with two of the most beautiful avocado sized black eyes that I have ever seen. And, awww, only four feet tall--had your head been flat, you'd have been perfect.You were amazing, right down to those nine inch long, bulbous fingers of yours--and don't even get me started on how they glowed when I know I'd turned you on.
But was it all just physical attraction, even after you did that thing where you read my mind??? I mean, I thought we had connected, and for the first time in my life.
You were my girl (at least, I think you were--the rest of your crew, male and female alike, all looked the same, so it's hard to say), and I miss you. Now that you're gone, I don't know how I will live without you, and I knew it the minute I woke up this morning with something akin to a killer hangover going on--though I don't drink--and saw my shaved head and that lobotomy scar in the mirror, and felt the pangs in my butt that had apparently chunked up a small deciduous tree during the night (Did you take me to your spaceship while I was asleep, again??? If so, what the devil kind of date-rape drug did you put into my drink, anyway?!? Yes. Definitely. More please!) that I want you back (or, at least, my LIVER, you idiot, as the human body can't live without it--I mean, if you need mementos, why can't you at least be THAT normal, and take a sweater, or a bottle of my favorite cologne. . . or the CAT, even, for the love of God, geesh!!!).
I know that I was not perfect, either, nor from Mars. And I know that I don't glow in the dark, like you do (outside of the experiments you ran on me, anyway), but I can do better, and if you are still within this galaxy, perhaps, still hovering with your head still stuck up Uranus--you have that much in common with most earth girls, anyway--thinking, perhaps, maybe we were BOTH wrong, at the very least, then come home, baby, please come home: Though you weren't born here, home is where the heart is, and I think you left yours on the carpet in your hurry to leave this morning, which means you're still mine (though, admittedly, it looks more like a giant turd, barring the throbbing it keeps doing--and, hey, wait, that's not mine, is it??? Oh, God, what have you done to me, my little alien incubus???). It doesn't matter, just so long as we're together, here, there, with my head in formaldehyde like those other talking heads in your lab... just come home.
Love,
THB
P.S. The men from the army base in the funny contamination suits that are here have validated my claim: They don't issue green cards to species from other solar systems, though they would like to discuss it with you in person. They assure me that, if you just come back, they will help us make a life together... SOMEWHERE, my alien mamacita, you!
Posted by: THB (Unknown/Anonymous)
Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.
The two of us together remind me so much of that old book title--as great as we are together, there is just always so much. . . strife and opposite inclinations between us, so much petty bickering, and over some of the seemingly most innocuous things most of the time, i.e., Picasso and Duchamp or Benton and Wood? Gertrude Stein (I knew she was one of you) or Ernest Hemingway? Do we laser the guests so that you can eat them, or let them go because they are our friends? Do they even give green cards to non-planetary aliens to justify your insistence upon marriage...? And the rest of all that heady stuff, too--admittedly, the list seems endless.
And, yet, all that said, I love you, and from the first time I laid eyes on you (unless it was all some hypnotic spell you cast upon me, which I cannot completely rule out). And I remember that night like it was yesterday, too, the bright lights hovering over the wheat fields, the eerie blue glow and strange sounds of your flying saucer, as it hovered above me, descended, and finally touched down. Perhaps, I should have run, but I wanted to see the thing through, to see if the doll driving that sleek silver machine was as hot as its thrusters were, if you know what I mean.
And you were! Oh, how much you were, when you popped open the escape door and out slung those two beautiful, preternaturally pasty white legs of yours, legs that were just so perfect, and toned, and that went on for days (to say nothing of how they glowed in the dark). Legs that rose into that scrawny little white, pasty, Pilates body of yours and into that gargantuan, conical head that makes you such a braniac, that gargantuan head with two of the most beautiful avocado sized black eyes that I have ever seen. And, awww, only four feet tall--had your head been flat, you'd have been perfect.You were amazing, right down to those nine inch long, bulbous fingers of yours--and don't even get me started on how they glowed when I know I'd turned you on.
But was it all just physical attraction, even after you did that thing where you read my mind??? I mean, I thought we had connected, and for the first time in my life.
You were my girl (at least, I think you were--the rest of your crew, male and female alike, all looked the same, so it's hard to say), and I miss you. Now that you're gone, I don't know how I will live without you, and I knew it the minute I woke up this morning with something akin to a killer hangover going on--though I don't drink--and saw my shaved head and that lobotomy scar in the mirror, and felt the pangs in my butt that had apparently chunked up a small deciduous tree during the night (Did you take me to your spaceship while I was asleep, again??? If so, what the devil kind of date-rape drug did you put into my drink, anyway?!? Yes. Definitely. More please!) that I want you back (or, at least, my LIVER, you idiot, as the human body can't live without it--I mean, if you need mementos, why can't you at least be THAT normal, and take a sweater, or a bottle of my favorite cologne. . . or the CAT, even, for the love of God, geesh!!!).
I know that I was not perfect, either, nor from Mars. And I know that I don't glow in the dark, like you do (outside of the experiments you ran on me, anyway), but I can do better, and if you are still within this galaxy, perhaps, still hovering with your head still stuck up Uranus--you have that much in common with most earth girls, anyway--thinking, perhaps, maybe we were BOTH wrong, at the very least, then come home, baby, please come home: Though you weren't born here, home is where the heart is, and I think you left yours on the carpet in your hurry to leave this morning, which means you're still mine (though, admittedly, it looks more like a giant turd, barring the throbbing it keeps doing--and, hey, wait, that's not mine, is it??? Oh, God, what have you done to me, my little alien incubus???). It doesn't matter, just so long as we're together, here, there, with my head in formaldehyde like those other talking heads in your lab... just come home.
Love,
THB
P.S. The men from the army base in the funny contamination suits that are here have validated my claim: They don't issue green cards to species from other solar systems, though they would like to discuss it with you in person. They assure me that, if you just come back, they will help us make a life together... SOMEWHERE, my alien mamacita, you!
Wednesday, August 07, 2013
Brooklyn, NY; Missed Connection- m4w
8/6/2013, 6:50 PM EDT (click date to go to original posting)
Posted by: Unknown/Anonymous
I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train.
I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.
You got on at DeKalb and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you're looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.
Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you -- maybe pretend I didn't know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, "Hot day." It all seemed so stupid.
At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it -- a biography of Lyndon Johnson -- but I noticed you never once turned a page.
My stop was Union Square, but at Union Square I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to the 7 at 42nd Street, but then I didn't get off at 42nd Street either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to the end of the line at Ditmars, we both just sat there in the car, waiting.
I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.
Still I said nothing.
We took the train all the way back down -- down through Astoria, across the East River, weaving through midtown, from Times Square to Herald Square to Union Square, under SoHo and Chinatown, up across the bridge back into Brooklyn, past Barclays and Prospect Park, past Flatbush and Midwood and Sheepshead Bay, all the way to Coney Island. And when we got to Coney Island, I knew I had to say something.
Still I said nothing.
And so we went back up.
Up and down the Q line, over and over. We caught the rush hour crowds and then saw them thin out again. We watched the sun set over Manhattan as we crossed the East River. I gave myself deadlines: I'll talk to her before Newkirk; I'll talk to her before Canal. Still I remained silent.
For months we sat on the train saying nothing to each other. We survived on bags of skittles sold to us by kids raising money for their basketball teams. We must have heard a million mariachi bands, had our faces nearly kicked in by a hundred thousand break dancers. I gave money to the beggars until I ran out of singles. When the train went above ground I'd get text messages and voicemails ("Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?") until my phone ran out of battery.
I'll talk to her before daybreak; I'll talk to her before Tuesday. The longer I waited, the harder it got. What could I possibly say to you now, now that we've passed this same station for the hundredth time? Maybe if I could go back to the first time the Q switched over to the local R line for the weekend, I could have said, "Well, this is inconvenient," but I couldn't very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed -- why hadn't I said "Bless You"? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.
There were nights when we were the only two souls in the car, perhaps even on the whole train, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She's reading her book, I thought, she doesn't want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we'd immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we'd both think: Young Love.
For sixty years, we sat in that car, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you cry once after you'd glanced at a neighbor's newspaper. I wondered if you were crying about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.
One day, in the middle of the afternoon, you stood up as the train pulled into Queensboro Plaza. It was difficult for you, this simple task of standing up, you hadn't done it in sixty years. Holding onto the rails, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.
It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the subway car, sit down next to me, rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing would be said. Nothing would need to be said.
When the train returned to Queensboro Plaza, I craned my neck as we entered the station. Perhaps you were there, on the platform, still waiting. Perhaps I would see you, smiling and bright, your long gray hair waving in the wind from the oncoming train.
But no, you were gone. And I realized most likely I would never see you again. And I thought about how amazing it is that you can know somebody for sixty years and yet still not really know that person at all.
I stayed on the train until it got to Union Square, at which point I got off and transferred to the L.
Posted by: Unknown/Anonymous
I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train.
I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.
You got on at DeKalb and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you're looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.
Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you -- maybe pretend I didn't know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, "Hot day." It all seemed so stupid.
At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it -- a biography of Lyndon Johnson -- but I noticed you never once turned a page.
My stop was Union Square, but at Union Square I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to the 7 at 42nd Street, but then I didn't get off at 42nd Street either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to the end of the line at Ditmars, we both just sat there in the car, waiting.
I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.
Still I said nothing.
We took the train all the way back down -- down through Astoria, across the East River, weaving through midtown, from Times Square to Herald Square to Union Square, under SoHo and Chinatown, up across the bridge back into Brooklyn, past Barclays and Prospect Park, past Flatbush and Midwood and Sheepshead Bay, all the way to Coney Island. And when we got to Coney Island, I knew I had to say something.
Still I said nothing.
And so we went back up.
Up and down the Q line, over and over. We caught the rush hour crowds and then saw them thin out again. We watched the sun set over Manhattan as we crossed the East River. I gave myself deadlines: I'll talk to her before Newkirk; I'll talk to her before Canal. Still I remained silent.
For months we sat on the train saying nothing to each other. We survived on bags of skittles sold to us by kids raising money for their basketball teams. We must have heard a million mariachi bands, had our faces nearly kicked in by a hundred thousand break dancers. I gave money to the beggars until I ran out of singles. When the train went above ground I'd get text messages and voicemails ("Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?") until my phone ran out of battery.
I'll talk to her before daybreak; I'll talk to her before Tuesday. The longer I waited, the harder it got. What could I possibly say to you now, now that we've passed this same station for the hundredth time? Maybe if I could go back to the first time the Q switched over to the local R line for the weekend, I could have said, "Well, this is inconvenient," but I couldn't very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed -- why hadn't I said "Bless You"? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.
There were nights when we were the only two souls in the car, perhaps even on the whole train, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She's reading her book, I thought, she doesn't want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we'd immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we'd both think: Young Love.
For sixty years, we sat in that car, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you cry once after you'd glanced at a neighbor's newspaper. I wondered if you were crying about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.
One day, in the middle of the afternoon, you stood up as the train pulled into Queensboro Plaza. It was difficult for you, this simple task of standing up, you hadn't done it in sixty years. Holding onto the rails, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.
It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the subway car, sit down next to me, rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing would be said. Nothing would need to be said.
When the train returned to Queensboro Plaza, I craned my neck as we entered the station. Perhaps you were there, on the platform, still waiting. Perhaps I would see you, smiling and bright, your long gray hair waving in the wind from the oncoming train.
But no, you were gone. And I realized most likely I would never see you again. And I thought about how amazing it is that you can know somebody for sixty years and yet still not really know that person at all.
I stayed on the train until it got to Union Square, at which point I got off and transferred to the L.
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