I don't respond to CL postings. That's not what this blog is about. It's about posting an ad and seeing how many of those who are attracted to my words turn out to be freaks. It's an experiment to see if my past experiences hold true in the internet age. Since I'm not responding to the posts, I haven't come across bots.
But let me tell you - those bots MUST be there.
Because it seems like every single man who responds to my ads assumes I'm a bot. They say it's because I don't post a photo in my ad. Well, I don't do that because I'm afraid someone will recognize me and know that I'm posting a personals ad on Craigslist. That's embarrassing!
Anyway, these bots are apparently all over the place. It certainly seems like they could be annoying, but I'm not sure that gives license to be a jerk. Does it?
After posting my second ad (yes, the fortune cookie one), I received the following:
Why don't you just go play, on a six lane highway.
Or the nearest street!
Whoa! Hostile much? I called him on it. And he said it was his way of weeding out the spam. He went on to write
I am just anting to find real people. If you are still looking for a person to go out with, I am glad to chat and send a picture.
I didn't think there was any real people posting ads. I did spend the 4th alone.
Looking for a nice woman to take out and get to know.
I real man in search of a good woman.
And I think I might just be a real woman in search of the meaning of "anting to find real people."
I'm a rule follower, though, so I know that I have to keep responding. And since I'm not actually trying to be mean, I'm going to let that slide. Instead, I ask Mr. Ant how he defines a "real man" and a "good woman." I do this at 5:57pm.
At 6:11, he responds. He tells me that he's a "real man" because he's 44 years old, big-ish (6ft, 200 lbs), lives alone, has never been married nor knocked a woman up. He owns his own contracting business, and he likes what he does. He neither drinks nor smokes. He says all of this in the caveman-type grunt he used above. Then he writes, "A nice woman is honest."
At 6:29, he sends another message asking if I'm still there.
I wasn't. And the next night I send him a message telling him as much. My message is brief; I ask him the "typical questions." He responds 13 minutes later with 3 sentences:
I am a licensed contractor. I have lived in the area for 30 years.
I like just about anything outdoors.
Nice dinners, trips to the beach, hikes and biking.
I'm busy - this dating on CL thing takes a lot of time. I can't respond to his message immediately, but I'm about to get to it. Really! But 20 minutes was apparently too long for him because that was all the time he gave me before he sending this message:
Well it was nice talking to you again. Wish you luck.
Just when you think you are talking to a person,
You end up talking to your self.
Last night I deleted Craigs list personals from my memory.
Just didn't get any real people looking for a real man.
I am a nice guy who makes good money.
I work hard and I don't drink.
Non smoker and no drugs. Honest and I help others all the time.
In shape and take care of myself.
I am going to give up on a good woman.
All the posters just play games and don't know a good thing when its in front of their face.
Hope you find what you are looking for.
This honest man is over and out.
C ya!!!
Dang! I'll admit that I wasn't feeling this guy. I'll even admit that I had already heard from a guy I was feeling (yep - the one who took me away from the blog for awhile). But 20 minutes? Come on! This guy didn't even give me a chance to respond. And is it just me, or did he shoot me down in a pretty hostile way? I'm pretty sure I know why he's not meeting any "good women."
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Reader response
Oh, but it did! It really did happen. I swear! And I used to think that these kinds of things happen to everyone. I am now realizing that they don't.
For your sake, I'm sorry I left Chester in the Dave & Buster's parking lot, never to be heard from again.
For my sake, I'm glad I ended my fling with what was sure to be disaster. I'm pretty sure I can answer one of your questions, though - Chester and his brother almost certainly never shared boyfriends. In fact, I probably should have known it was never going to go anywhere when Chester and I went to see a movie. In a very crowded theater. And the only two seats together would put us smack-dab between two men. Chester wouldn't sit there. He refused to be that close to another man. He didn't want anyone to think he was gay. Really?!? In a crowded movie theater? Sitting next to a stranger? That makes people think you're gay? And who cares if they think that? And who cares if you are? Well... I guess I cared, since we were trying to date each other. But really!?!
When he made us sit apart from each other so that he didn't have to sit next to a man, I knew it wasn't going anywhere. But I stuck with it for one more date. And aren't you glad I did?
Monday, March 29, 2010
It was a test, and I failed.
Almost 10 years ago (I can't believe I'm old enough to have crazy boy stories that I can start with, "Almost 10 years ago"), I was flying from New York back to California, where I was living. I was flying on Southwest, which I remember only because the man we'll be calling Chester (rhymes with tester) made a conscious and deliberate choice to sit next to me.
He told me so.
And as far as I know, you can only choose your seat on the one airline that's a whole lot like taking a bus in the sky.
So, Chester follows me on to the airbus. (Yes, I know that's an actual type of airplane, and yes, I know Southwest doesn't fly them. But this is my story. And I'm going to tell it the way I want.) He sits down across from me and opens his magazine to a specific page; he shifts so that he's holding the magazine like one might hold a picture book when reading to kids. He points to a photo on the page and asks if I recognize anyone. The picture is tiny, so I can't tell that one of the guys (presumably the backup singers) standing behind the band is Chester himself. I don't read Vibe regularly, and I'm not at all knowledgeable about the local hip-hop scene in Oakland, so Chester's not the only thing I don't recognize in the photo. Oops.
Okay, so the guy is proud of himself for getting his little corner of fame. Real proud. That's cool. I can kind of understand that. He tells me he sat next to me because he thinks I'm cute. I say thanks and turn back to the Algebra II tests I'm grading. It's the start of spring break, but I'm trying to get the tests graded so I have time to enjoy the break without the feeling of something looming over me.
Chester keeps talking. He tells me he'd like to get to know me better. I talk back. And it turns out that he doesn't seem so bad. I tell myself that some women are probably really excited about the music thing. I tell myself that some women are probably really interested in meeting someone they perceive as famous. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm not one of those women. I'm cute - and that's what seems to matter most to Chester.
We end up talking for a couple of hours. He tells me that when we get back to the Bay Area, he'd really like to see me again. He suggests that we meet up in a public place because his "mom always told [him] it's best to have first dates in public places so that the women are more comfortable." I'm young. And I think this must mean he's a pretty good guy. I mean, really! He wouldn't talk about having to show me that he's a good guy if he's not a good guy, right? Mmmhmm. Right.
The next day, we meet halfway between our homes (mine in San Jose, his in Oakland), and we have ice cream. He tells me again that I'm cute. I swoon a little. Hey - it had been a while since someone told me I was cute, so I was prone to swooning when it happened. We can't all be used to being complimented incessantly. We agree that we're enjoying each others' company, so we make plans to hang out again. And hanging out with Chester turns out to be kind of fun. In fact, it's fun enough that I am nonplussed when he tells me he used to be married and that he has a two year old daughter. When spring break ends, I ask my students if they've ever heard of the band he sings for. They have, and they're very impressed that I've met someone in the group. So even though fame doesn't impress me, I remain nonplussed when Chester tells me that he recently moved back home. From jail. For setting his ex-wife's house on fire.
Yes, okay? I said it. I decided I didn't care that this man was a convicted arsonist. I know what you're thinking. I think it, too. But I was young. And I was dumb. And I guess I was a little lonely. And, truth be told, I had a phone number that my dad gave me when I first moved to the Bay Area. It was a number I was supposed to use if I ever felt threatened or in trouble. All I had to do was call the number and say that I was my father's daughter. And if I called it, all my troubles would disappear. So you see, I wasn't scared.
Besides, the fact that Chester was an arsonist isn't the story I'm telling. I'm only telling you that because it adds color (and because it's true).
No, the real story is this:
One day not too long after we'd met, Chester asks me if I want to go to Dave & Buster's with him, his brother, and his brother's wife. He gives me the address, and I drive out to meet him at his brother's house. We're going to meet and say hello there before we go into the crowded, noisy Chuck E. Cheese-for-grownups. Almost immediately after introducing me to his brother and sister-in-law, Chester and the wife head into the kitchen to grab drinks for everyone. They leave me with his brother. I think "brother" is used loosely here, at least insofar as biology is concerned. Chester is Puerto Rican; his brother is black. That matters because his brother asks me if I've ever dated a black man. I'm not sure why it matters, as he's married and I'm here with his brother, but I'm not particularly private. I tell him that I have.
He asks me for my number.
I tell him no. He is, after all, married. I am, after all, here with his brother. And they are both in the other room.
He asks if he can give me his number.
I tell him no. He is, after all, married. I am, after all, here with his brother. And they are both in the other room.
His brother keeps asking. Chester and the wife return from the kitchen. We all prepare to leave. Chester and I are going in my car; his brother and sister-in-law are going in their own. In the car, I ask Chester what the deal is with his brother. Chester asks if I got his number. I'm surprised he'd know to ask and think that maybe his brother hits on all the women Chester brings around. I tell him no. Chester asks if I got his brother's number. I tell him I'm not interested in his brother; I'm interested in Chester.
Chester tells me I failed the test.
He and his brother share everything.
Everything.
They share everything.
I drop Chester off at Dave & Busters, and I drive away.
For the first time in my life, I don't want to pass a test.
I don't share well.
He told me so.
And as far as I know, you can only choose your seat on the one airline that's a whole lot like taking a bus in the sky.
So, Chester follows me on to the airbus. (Yes, I know that's an actual type of airplane, and yes, I know Southwest doesn't fly them. But this is my story. And I'm going to tell it the way I want.) He sits down across from me and opens his magazine to a specific page; he shifts so that he's holding the magazine like one might hold a picture book when reading to kids. He points to a photo on the page and asks if I recognize anyone. The picture is tiny, so I can't tell that one of the guys (presumably the backup singers) standing behind the band is Chester himself. I don't read Vibe regularly, and I'm not at all knowledgeable about the local hip-hop scene in Oakland, so Chester's not the only thing I don't recognize in the photo. Oops.
Okay, so the guy is proud of himself for getting his little corner of fame. Real proud. That's cool. I can kind of understand that. He tells me he sat next to me because he thinks I'm cute. I say thanks and turn back to the Algebra II tests I'm grading. It's the start of spring break, but I'm trying to get the tests graded so I have time to enjoy the break without the feeling of something looming over me.
Chester keeps talking. He tells me he'd like to get to know me better. I talk back. And it turns out that he doesn't seem so bad. I tell myself that some women are probably really excited about the music thing. I tell myself that some women are probably really interested in meeting someone they perceive as famous. He doesn't seem to mind that I'm not one of those women. I'm cute - and that's what seems to matter most to Chester.
We end up talking for a couple of hours. He tells me that when we get back to the Bay Area, he'd really like to see me again. He suggests that we meet up in a public place because his "mom always told [him] it's best to have first dates in public places so that the women are more comfortable." I'm young. And I think this must mean he's a pretty good guy. I mean, really! He wouldn't talk about having to show me that he's a good guy if he's not a good guy, right? Mmmhmm. Right.
The next day, we meet halfway between our homes (mine in San Jose, his in Oakland), and we have ice cream. He tells me again that I'm cute. I swoon a little. Hey - it had been a while since someone told me I was cute, so I was prone to swooning when it happened. We can't all be used to being complimented incessantly. We agree that we're enjoying each others' company, so we make plans to hang out again. And hanging out with Chester turns out to be kind of fun. In fact, it's fun enough that I am nonplussed when he tells me he used to be married and that he has a two year old daughter. When spring break ends, I ask my students if they've ever heard of the band he sings for. They have, and they're very impressed that I've met someone in the group. So even though fame doesn't impress me, I remain nonplussed when Chester tells me that he recently moved back home. From jail. For setting his ex-wife's house on fire.
Yes, okay? I said it. I decided I didn't care that this man was a convicted arsonist. I know what you're thinking. I think it, too. But I was young. And I was dumb. And I guess I was a little lonely. And, truth be told, I had a phone number that my dad gave me when I first moved to the Bay Area. It was a number I was supposed to use if I ever felt threatened or in trouble. All I had to do was call the number and say that I was my father's daughter. And if I called it, all my troubles would disappear. So you see, I wasn't scared.
Besides, the fact that Chester was an arsonist isn't the story I'm telling. I'm only telling you that because it adds color (and because it's true).
No, the real story is this:
One day not too long after we'd met, Chester asks me if I want to go to Dave & Buster's with him, his brother, and his brother's wife. He gives me the address, and I drive out to meet him at his brother's house. We're going to meet and say hello there before we go into the crowded, noisy Chuck E. Cheese-for-grownups. Almost immediately after introducing me to his brother and sister-in-law, Chester and the wife head into the kitchen to grab drinks for everyone. They leave me with his brother. I think "brother" is used loosely here, at least insofar as biology is concerned. Chester is Puerto Rican; his brother is black. That matters because his brother asks me if I've ever dated a black man. I'm not sure why it matters, as he's married and I'm here with his brother, but I'm not particularly private. I tell him that I have.
He asks me for my number.
I tell him no. He is, after all, married. I am, after all, here with his brother. And they are both in the other room.
He asks if he can give me his number.
I tell him no. He is, after all, married. I am, after all, here with his brother. And they are both in the other room.
His brother keeps asking. Chester and the wife return from the kitchen. We all prepare to leave. Chester and I are going in my car; his brother and sister-in-law are going in their own. In the car, I ask Chester what the deal is with his brother. Chester asks if I got his number. I'm surprised he'd know to ask and think that maybe his brother hits on all the women Chester brings around. I tell him no. Chester asks if I got his brother's number. I tell him I'm not interested in his brother; I'm interested in Chester.
Chester tells me I failed the test.
He and his brother share everything.
Everything.
They share everything.
I drop Chester off at Dave & Busters, and I drive away.
For the first time in my life, I don't want to pass a test.
I don't share well.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
I'm exhausted!
Okay, I know I shouldn't complain because I brought this all on myself. This was all my idea, and no one is forcing me to get back to it (not to say there haven't been some pretty LOUD requests).
But, sheesh!
Why didn't someone remind me this blog is a lot of work? I know you all aren't seeing it yet.
I swear - I've got at least a dozen oldies-but-goodies composing themselves in my head. And I really do want to share them with you. And I've got all those stories from the second ad still ready to go.
But the point of the blog is to find new stories, and that means posting an ad. And, as you know, I did that on Friday night.
So far, I've had 10 responses. Count them - 10!
And I've been following the rules and responding to each of them. And then they write back. And so I do the same. It takes hours. Hours upon hours. Someone forgot to remind me of that. Someone forgot to say, "Hey, Flypaper, you're crazy! Don't do it! You don't have time for this!"
In fact, it is taking so much time just to respond to the messages that I don't have time to actually meet anyone. (Or maybe I'm just hesitant to do so because the first person to both respond to the ad and to request a meet-up is old enough to be my father? I admit it. I'm shallow enough to want to change the rules again ... just so I don't have to go on a date with someone nearly 20 years my senior. I haven't decided yet if I will change the rules, but man!)
And, by the way, this new ad that is causing all the angst? Well, it turns out that it captures me pretty well. I was a little worried that it might not, but ... I got a call yesterday from my ex-boyfriend (yep, the one who responded to ad #2). That call went something like this:
Hey Flypaper, I saw your ad on Craigslist yesterday.
What?!? What ad? I didn't post any ad.
Hmm... Well, if it wasn't you, you've got a doppelganger out there who IS JUST LIKE YOU.
Yep, must be my doppelganger. She's the evil one - posting ads all over the internet. Hey! What are you doing looking at CL ads, anyway?
I'm allowed to look. We broke up, remember? And, I used to look all the time. I took a break for the 7 months we were together, but I can look now. But, honestly? I was looking to see if you posted or not. I knew you would. I could tell it was you in the first couple of seconds.
Yeah, whatever. It's for the blog. (Remember that I told him about this project almost immediately - we had a couple of email exchanges and then we started chatting online. I told him in that very first conversation because I knew I liked him, and I wanted to be upfront from the start.)
Mmhmm. Keep telling yourself that. It's not for the blog - it was a REAL ad. You wrote an ad that's REALLY about you. It was honest. That's NOT for the blog.
Sigh. He still doesn't really get the concept of this blog. And he still thinks that the ad that snagged him (ad #2, the one that I find pretty embarrassing) did not work. He still says that the fact it got him is a fluke. AND that he wasn't what I was looking for. Whatever. He'll never understand this project. And that's okay. But does he really have to go looking for my ads on CL?
Color me red from blushing too hard.
But, sheesh!
Why didn't someone remind me this blog is a lot of work? I know you all aren't seeing it yet.
I swear - I've got at least a dozen oldies-but-goodies composing themselves in my head. And I really do want to share them with you. And I've got all those stories from the second ad still ready to go.
But the point of the blog is to find new stories, and that means posting an ad. And, as you know, I did that on Friday night.
So far, I've had 10 responses. Count them - 10!
And I've been following the rules and responding to each of them. And then they write back. And so I do the same. It takes hours. Hours upon hours. Someone forgot to remind me of that. Someone forgot to say, "Hey, Flypaper, you're crazy! Don't do it! You don't have time for this!"
In fact, it is taking so much time just to respond to the messages that I don't have time to actually meet anyone. (Or maybe I'm just hesitant to do so because the first person to both respond to the ad and to request a meet-up is old enough to be my father? I admit it. I'm shallow enough to want to change the rules again ... just so I don't have to go on a date with someone nearly 20 years my senior. I haven't decided yet if I will change the rules, but man!)
And, by the way, this new ad that is causing all the angst? Well, it turns out that it captures me pretty well. I was a little worried that it might not, but ... I got a call yesterday from my ex-boyfriend (yep, the one who responded to ad #2). That call went something like this:
Hey Flypaper, I saw your ad on Craigslist yesterday.
What?!? What ad? I didn't post any ad.
Hmm... Well, if it wasn't you, you've got a doppelganger out there who IS JUST LIKE YOU.
Yep, must be my doppelganger. She's the evil one - posting ads all over the internet. Hey! What are you doing looking at CL ads, anyway?
I'm allowed to look. We broke up, remember? And, I used to look all the time. I took a break for the 7 months we were together, but I can look now. But, honestly? I was looking to see if you posted or not. I knew you would. I could tell it was you in the first couple of seconds.
Yeah, whatever. It's for the blog. (Remember that I told him about this project almost immediately - we had a couple of email exchanges and then we started chatting online. I told him in that very first conversation because I knew I liked him, and I wanted to be upfront from the start.)
Mmhmm. Keep telling yourself that. It's not for the blog - it was a REAL ad. You wrote an ad that's REALLY about you. It was honest. That's NOT for the blog.
Sigh. He still doesn't really get the concept of this blog. And he still thinks that the ad that snagged him (ad #2, the one that I find pretty embarrassing) did not work. He still says that the fact it got him is a fluke. AND that he wasn't what I was looking for. Whatever. He'll never understand this project. And that's okay. But does he really have to go looking for my ads on CL?
Color me red from blushing too hard.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The fates were with me, apparently
This is surely the moment you've all been waiting for! (No, not the fact that you're getting two -count 'em, TWO- posts in one day, though I'd wager that's pretty awesome, too.) This is the unveiling of my second-ever Craiglist ad*.
Since it's been a while, I'd like to take a little bit of time to remind you of the context:
In my first ad, I followed all the rules I'd laid out for myself. I wrote an ad that I thought captured my essence fairly well. But despite the fact that I had some responses, I learned some things. Namely, it was too long. Way too long. Most CL ads are short. Really short. As in, so short that they don't actually say anything.
Personally, I think that's ludicrous.
But,
I figured that if I was going to really do this experiment correctly, I should be like all the other people posting ads on CL and not actually saying anything about myself.
So I did.
Remember, the rules state that I MUST be truthful. (I was.) They also say that I must write the ad as if I would if I wanted to actually attract someone. (I bent that rule, but trusted that you'd all understand.) If I sound like I'm stalling, I am. I find this ad pretty embarrassing. It's really not me. And I still have a hard time believing that a) I posted it, and b) it got me a 7 month relationship. Sigh.
But, without further ado:
I'm not much for fortune-telling, but...
...A friend gave me four chocolate covered fortune cookies last week. I've been eating them slowly, savoring both the chocolate and the fortunes. I ate the last one today, and its message was the same as the first:
"The current year will bring you much happiness."
The second said, "Luck is coming your way."
Are you that luck? Will you be bringing me much happiness?
----
You could be if you're like me in that you ...
+ enjoy learning new things, hearing a story, or solving a problem,
+ try not to take yourself too seriously (but sometimes you have to try REALLY, REALLY hard to succeed at that), and
+ recognize that beauty and intelligence come in many different forms.
(For those who wonder, the other fortune was "You will soon vacation in a place of cool climate" ... and given the heat of the last several days, maybe that's not such a bad thing.)
*Nope, not in Panama, either.
Since it's been a while, I'd like to take a little bit of time to remind you of the context:
In my first ad, I followed all the rules I'd laid out for myself. I wrote an ad that I thought captured my essence fairly well. But despite the fact that I had some responses, I learned some things. Namely, it was too long. Way too long. Most CL ads are short. Really short. As in, so short that they don't actually say anything.
Personally, I think that's ludicrous.
But,
I figured that if I was going to really do this experiment correctly, I should be like all the other people posting ads on CL and not actually saying anything about myself.
So I did.
Remember, the rules state that I MUST be truthful. (I was.) They also say that I must write the ad as if I would if I wanted to actually attract someone. (I bent that rule, but trusted that you'd all understand.) If I sound like I'm stalling, I am. I find this ad pretty embarrassing. It's really not me. And I still have a hard time believing that a) I posted it, and b) it got me a 7 month relationship. Sigh.
But, without further ado:
I'm not much for fortune-telling, but...
...A friend gave me four chocolate covered fortune cookies last week. I've been eating them slowly, savoring both the chocolate and the fortunes. I ate the last one today, and its message was the same as the first:
"The current year will bring you much happiness."
The second said, "Luck is coming your way."
Are you that luck? Will you be bringing me much happiness?
----
You could be if you're like me in that you ...
+ enjoy learning new things, hearing a story, or solving a problem,
+ try not to take yourself too seriously (but sometimes you have to try REALLY, REALLY hard to succeed at that), and
+ recognize that beauty and intelligence come in many different forms.
(For those who wonder, the other fortune was "You will soon vacation in a place of cool climate" ... and given the heat of the last several days, maybe that's not such a bad thing.)
*Nope, not in Panama, either.
Back in the Saddle Again!
Happy Saturday! Today's the day it's safe to tell all your friends we're back in business here at Flypaper for Freaks.
This past week my colleagues and I have been spending a lot of time together. And I do mean A LOT. As in nearly all day every day. And while the work we were doing required that we be diligent, it also allowed for plenty of time to talk. By Thursday, our newest colleague said,
Flypaper, tell us a funny story.
Well, you know me - I have a bunch of them. So can you believe I drew a blank? And had to ask for some guidance?
Why, Newest Colleague, whatever would you like that story to be about?
(I just pictured myself saying that with a southern accent while batting my eyelids, even though that's NOT AT ALL how it happened.)
I've got to say, Newest Colleague wasn't particularly helpful in offering a general topic, but my boss (yes, my boss) suggested that I tell her the story of the "naked guy." That would be Big Penis Boy, for those of you who've forgotten. And, well, it turns out that BPB was just the beginning. Boss-lady then suggested that I regale them all with the story of Dante. And then I was on a roll. In fact, my dear friendly readers,
I remembered stories that had been buried deep within my subconscious.
Stories I didn't even remember when I was starting this blog last summer.
Stories that serve only two purposes in life:
1) confirmation that I really, truly am Flypaper for Freaks, and
2) gut-busting hilarity to share with the world.
Apparently, that's all I needed to get myself back on track. I posted my third w4m Craigslist ad* last night. I still believe that I have to see one ad through to completion before I post on here, just in case one of the men has cyber-stalking skills equal to mine (which, by the way, aren't that great, but I would totally take part of any ad I was responding to and run it through google before hitting "send." I would hate for one of them to do that ... it would blow my cover!), but I can tell you that I've already received several responses. I can tell you're excited!
* No, you won't find my ad by clicking on this link. I don't live in Minneapolis. That whole not-blowing-my-cover thing, you know. But check out the ads! They're funny, I promise.
This past week my colleagues and I have been spending a lot of time together. And I do mean A LOT. As in nearly all day every day. And while the work we were doing required that we be diligent, it also allowed for plenty of time to talk. By Thursday, our newest colleague said,
Flypaper, tell us a funny story.
Well, you know me - I have a bunch of them. So can you believe I drew a blank? And had to ask for some guidance?
Why, Newest Colleague, whatever would you like that story to be about?
(I just pictured myself saying that with a southern accent while batting my eyelids, even though that's NOT AT ALL how it happened.)
I've got to say, Newest Colleague wasn't particularly helpful in offering a general topic, but my boss (yes, my boss) suggested that I tell her the story of the "naked guy." That would be Big Penis Boy, for those of you who've forgotten. And, well, it turns out that BPB was just the beginning. Boss-lady then suggested that I regale them all with the story of Dante. And then I was on a roll. In fact, my dear friendly readers,
I remembered stories that had been buried deep within my subconscious.
Stories I didn't even remember when I was starting this blog last summer.
Stories that serve only two purposes in life:
1) confirmation that I really, truly am Flypaper for Freaks, and
2) gut-busting hilarity to share with the world.
Apparently, that's all I needed to get myself back on track. I posted my third w4m Craigslist ad* last night. I still believe that I have to see one ad through to completion before I post on here, just in case one of the men has cyber-stalking skills equal to mine (which, by the way, aren't that great, but I would totally take part of any ad I was responding to and run it through google before hitting "send." I would hate for one of them to do that ... it would blow my cover!), but I can tell you that I've already received several responses. I can tell you're excited!
* No, you won't find my ad by clicking on this link. I don't live in Minneapolis. That whole not-blowing-my-cover thing, you know. But check out the ads! They're funny, I promise.
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