Best of Craigslist

Best of Craigslist http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/ Best postings from craigslist.org, selected by readers en-us Copyright 2008, craigslist.org webmaster@craigslist.org webmaster@craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/ Best of Craigslist Collection 2008-04-11T22:33:16-04:00 2 daily No taxation without representation http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/639254501.html "No taxation without representation" What do I get for my federal taxes? Our public schools are failing, Social Security is insolvent, Medicare & Medicaid are run by a corrupt government that uses taxpayer money to overpay the corporations that run it. Our military is in shambles, our economy is on the brink of complete collapse and all our leaders can think of to do in order to solve the problem is to use our tax dollars to bail out the mistakes of corporations while Americans end up homeless and broke. And stuck with the bill. Do people understand how much money we have spent in Iraq? Seriously really, get a grip and really GET how much money has gone down the hole? And even if they do, do they realize that the Iraq bill, from a dollar perspective, HASN'T COME DUE YET??? The shit going on with the economy right now has NOTHING to do with the THREE FUCKING TRILLION DOLLARS that this clusterfuck in Iraq will eventually cost us. $3,000,000,000,000 / 300,000,000 = $10,000/ea. That means that RIGHT NOW, without ANY interest, each and every American in this country is in for $10 fucking K. On top of our current federal and state income tax burden. Now, I pay for electricity. I pay for internet. I pay for television and I pay for my phone. The tax I pay at the pump covers most of the cash either state or federal government spend on shit like road repairs, but whatever. I pay for the gas to heat my home and cook my food. I pay a shitload at the hospital and even pay tax on some of that shit. I pay sales tax. I even pay retail tax, even though the corporations pass ALL their taxes on to me when I buy their shit. So what the fuck do I get? A military that is now broken. An infrastructure that is crumbling. A justice system that favors their own, the rich and the politicians, and if to add insult to injury, herd me like a fucking piece of cattle and actually go out of their way to find a reason to make me pay them for some bullshit slight. So what the hell is a rational guy supposed to do? What did our forefathers do, when faced with this kind of bogus farce of representation, when bullied into paying for something they don't even want or need? When a man with a checkbook has greater sway than a million voices, OR EVEN ONE FUCKING VOICE, then hasn't our grievance become that of the founders of this country?  <ul class="blurbs"> <li> Location: The People <li> it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests</ul>  webmaster@craigslist.org 2008-04-11T22:33:16-04:00 Copyright 2008, craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/639254501.html No taxation without representation text Flying Carpet http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/560384537.html To make a long story short, I inherited this from my dad when my folks retired, cleaned out the house and moved south. He was in the oil business for 45 years and traveled all over the world building oil refineries - India, China, Lima, Brazil, Yugoslavia, even got called out to Nigeria once during their civil war. There was no telling where he'd go or what he'd drag home. One of my problems is that I'm almost a hundred pounds heavier than my dad. This carpet won't lift my weight. Mainly, I just want it out of the house. I don't have any use for it; it's taking up space; I spend a lot of time away from home and I wouldn't want to see any of the neighborhood children fall from a high altitude or run headlong into a tree and be injured. Strictly speaking, no pilot's license is required because it falls under Part 103 of the Federal Aviation Regulations (14CFR103, ultralights) - it weighs less than 254 pounds, top speed is less than 55 miles per hour and all that. Even though pilot training isn't required, you might still want to learn a little bit about how airspace is allocated and carry an air traffic control radio. We lived pretty close to Chicago's Midway airport and it's almost a miracle my dad never got run over by a DC-9 or sucked into a jet engine. Anyway, it's a vibrant shade of blue with a sort of Maltese Cross pattern woven in, quite sturdy (for a rug) and about four feet by six. It was professionally cleaned a couple of years ago and it's been stowed in a corner ever since. No test flights, no demonstrations. It won't lift my weight, I've never seen anybody fly it safely, I'm not a flight instructor, I don't know how to evaluate whether a potential buyer knows what he's doing or not and I don't want to see someone crash in front of my house. If you weigh less than 180 pounds and know what you're doing, great, take it home and enjoy it. If not, maybe you should just put it on the floor in front of your hearth and enjoy it that way. What you see is what you get. Cash & carry only.   <ul class="blurbs"> <li> Location: Ferndale <li> it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests</ul>  webmaster@craigslist.org 2008-02-02T08:12:44-05:00 Copyright 2008, craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/560384537.html Flying Carpet text asshole kids. http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/378284430.html Kids- I dont have kids. My friends dont have kids. My experience with little kids is fairly limited. However, i have fairly extensive experience with junior high and high school kids. And y'know what? They're spoiled, arrogant little assholes. When I see some kid at the restaurant that wont take off his headphones or put away his PSP to eat dinner, I want to slap his parents in the face. When I watch Nanny 911 or Supernanny and I hear some beanbag housewife whining that she cant control her 3 year old, I want to kick my television set to the floor. When I hear some little crotchfruit at Meijers throwing a tantrum because he cant have a video game/candy bar/toy, I want to go up to him and scream at him as loudly as i possibly can, until my throat is raw and bleeding and i'm screaming a fine red mist all over this little shit's face. What the fuck ever happened to discipline? NO MEANS NO. It doesnt even have to involve spankings, I was spanked maybe 3 times when I was a kid. Those 3 times were enough. YOU'RE the parent, YOU'RE the adult, YOU ARE IN CONTROL. I'm sorry, but if you're 30 and cant control a 3 year old you belong in a home with someone spooning applesauce into your stupid piehole. If you dont want to take the time to be a parent, dont have kids. It IS a choice, if abortion is against your beliefs then give the baby up to one of the thousands of couples who cant have kids but desperatly want them. (unless their gay, because we all know gay people cant raise babies. two people who love eachother are only allowed children if the peepees dont match.) Parenting takes time and effort, I'm pretty sure on that one, and by time and effort I do NOT mean plunking them down in front of the television for 5 hours. It does not mean buying a 4 year old an X-BOX 360 so "he wont get bored." HE'S 4. A four year old can play with a box and some lawn chairs for hours on end, and be perfectly happy. However, when the kid is stacking the lawnchairs on the box and then trying to stand on top of it and falls, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO SUE THE LAWN CHAIR COMPANY. You were supposed to be watching him, hell, maybe helping him build his fort, not sitting on your ass in the other room talking on the phone, painting your nails, and watching Dr. Phil. You are not entitled to monetary damages because you're an idiot. I wish I was a judge, I'd be like Judge Judy except with more profanity. People, the world has been dumbed down enough. Stop freaking out and whining about television/music/games/movies and fucking it up for adults. You dont like the vulgar music your kids listen to? I agree, it's a little disturbing to have a 10 year old walking around singing "my humps" or "crazy bitch", so maybe dont buy them the cd's? I like the cd's and I'm 26 years old, but because of your bitching certain stores wont carry the cds I might enjoy. You dont like violent video games? Quit waiting in line for 234231 hours the day after Thanksgiving to buy them x-box nine billion. Does your 8 year old really need a shirt that says TEASE and itty bitty shorts that say JUICY on the butt? You want to paint her a big red sandwich board that says "PEDOPHILES PLEASE LOOK AT ME" while you're at it? Exercise a little discipline and maybe some personal self-control. You dont have to buy them everything they ask for. Or, if some analogies might help you out here, quit digging your own grave, quit making the bed that you will sleep in, quit shooting yourself in the foot. Do not buy a video game and then freak out and attempt to sue video game companies because it "made" your kid attempt to torch your neighbors cat. Do some research. Wait, that might take up some of your Days of our Lives programming time, maybe try it at night, after you shoot your husband down for sex because you've been too tired "watching the kids" all day. He can sneak off to his laptop to look at porn, you can sit in the living room and actually try making yourself a better parent. It's so much easier to do that without those pesky kids around. Fuck you and your whiny, spoiled, irritating, pussy kids. (and before you email me saying YOU'RE NOT A MOTHER SO YOU DONT KNOW, realize that I dont care. Whether or not I'm a mother has nothing to do with how crappy you are as a parent. When I see your child, it's in public, where they should be on their best behavior. If this is how they act in public, good fucking luck with them at home.)   <ul class="blurbs"> <li> it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests</ul>  webmaster@craigslist.org 2007-07-20T14:01:09-04:00 Copyright 2008, craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/378284430.html asshole kids. text F#%k you CHORES http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/367342914.html Fuck you, cleaning the fridge. How the hell do you get so dirty? I don't eat in there, I simply store food. What the fuck is that stain on the bottom shelf? Do gnomes have parties in here when I'm at work or something? Nasty little gnomes. And, for some reason, I feel really, really vulnerable when I'm bent over, scrubbing your gross shelves. Don't know why. So thank you for keeping my beer cold, but fuck you for making a mess of it. Fuck you, paying bills. Every fucking month? Are you kidding me? I barely even watched TV this month, I still gotta shell out all that cash? And, while I'm at it, fuck your pathetic little late fees. They're small enough for me to easily ignore them but they add up over time. So thank you for the electricity, water and internet, but fuck you for your constant demands. Fuck you, deleting old files from my computer. What man can make this decision? It's like choosing which of my kids to leave behind on the sinking ship. Fuck, this is killing me. I hate my old ass computer. Fuck you, changing light bulbs. It's 2006, right? I was pissed when I wasn't issued a jetpack in 2000 (where's my fucking raygun?!?), but I figured by now technology would've at least advanced to the point where I don't have to stand on my wobbly chair and deal with this crap. Two bonus fuck yous: for scaring the crap out of me when I walk into a darkened room, innocently flick the switch and get momentarily blinded by that huge flash and terrifying pop! Also, for somehow convincing your lightbulb brethren to join you, causing a chain reaction that means I'm filled with fear whenever I turn on a light. Pop! Pop! Pop! What, did you all join in a suicide pact while I was asleep? Bastards. Fuck you, washing dishes. Yes, I know, you smell funny, and I know the longer I wait, the more weird slime stuff is just gonna accumulate on you. That's why I've pretty much switched to just using paper plates (fuck you, environment) and eating with my hands. I'm a caveman in an apartment. Finally, fuck you, writing this rant.  <ul class="blurbs"> <li> Location: Not in your room <li> it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests</ul>  webmaster@craigslist.org 2007-07-05T19:10:10-04:00 Copyright 2008, craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/367342914.html F#%k you CHORES text re: I think it's hot - 28m http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/256855475.html What I think is funny is the men out there that have these grand expectations about how women "should" be in bed. Like you people have any room for complaints. Most guys fuck like they're still in high school: in out in out in out in out in out in out...doggystyle...in out in out in out in out...spoon...in out in out in out in out....back to missionary...in out in out in out..."can I put it in your ass? Oh ok, back to doggystyle then? Ok thanks" in out in out, grab a boob, smack an ass cheek, say some generic dirty phrase...in out in out...done. Yawn! I don't know where these guys ever got the impression that this is all they need to give in terms of performance, but it's not acceptable. You guys knock shit around in there, lose your load and think you're Gods. It's not a self challenge to see how hard you can slam into her. It's a two person deal, for fucks sake. And no amount of changing positions makes up for it...it just prolongs the boredom. Ditto for needing to have sex in every possible location like you're marking your spot. The sex WOULD BE INTERESTING enough if you just did it right. All you're doing by bugging women to have sex in the car, on the dresser, in the woods, is putting them in places where they're going to pull a muscle or get dirt on their ass cheeks while you bore them to sleep. Woohoo. And WHY do you have to be SO predictable? There's nothing more boring than making out with a guy, getting turned on, and then being bored to death by the same ol', same ol' routine that I swear to God, you guys found in some book somewhere that every single one of you read in high school and have sworn by ever since. Kiss, and for WAY too short a time, by the way...grab the ass...grab a boob...squeeze it and massage it in a way that isn't a turn on for anyone but you because it's awkward and fumbly and doesn't leave even a trace of someone who is trying to pleasure the woman attached to the boob he's working on...get a boob out...suck on it while squeezing the ass...blah. Get the pants off...fingers, clit, blah...do the whole digital penetration thing all wrong - usually too rough...get to the oral...get to the sex...in out in out, we covered that already. Snore. What is with people????? It's not that I have a problem teaching and communicating, but it'd be nice for people to at least come through the door with a clue or two in their pocket. Shit. Get with it already. Be unpredictable. Get out of your rhythm...it's old and been done by everybody too many times. Surprise somebody! Figure out how to be interesting without getting into every position you've ever seen in all your pornos, every single time you have sex because you know what happens when you do all those positions every time? They get boring. Predictable. Do something else! Here's some help: women have thighs, areas behind the knees, shoulders, backs, toes, tops of the feet, forearms, hips, wrists, ankles, outer sides of the breasts, hair, butt cheeks that are good for more than smacking. There's a backside to that neck and it's a lot more sensitive than the right and left sides. There are good things to be had in all of these places. Figure them out. There is more than one speed...learn it. Change it up! If you're going to run around acting like your penises make you something worthy of the egos you carry around, then for crying out loud, at least earn your reputation properly. Until then, quit crying about how you want slutty women who know what they're doing in bed who can please YOU. Women (especially slutty ones) are bored with you because mostly, you're all the same. I'm sure there are some middle-aged and older men in here who know what I'm talking about. There will also be some who don't because some people just never figure it out.   <ul style="margin-left:0px; padding-left:3px; list-style:none; font-size: smaller"> <li> Location: 25f <li> It's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests </ul>  webmaster@craigslist.org 2007-01-03T02:33:39-05:00 Copyright 2008, craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/256855475.html re: I think it's hot - 28m text Rave: Whiners http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/250620767.html I know it sounds odd, but I've got to thank all the whiners out there in the world. I'd like to thank the people that look around themselves and see nothing but perpetual pain and woe, and feel it necessary to tell the rest of us. For some reason I must look like a psychologist, or the complaint department for the world's issues. I know this because you always find me, and I want to thank you for always knowing exactly what to say to brighten my day and ensure that I will never have any hope other than my own. Where ever I am you are there dear whiners, and this rave is for you. While we're standing in line at the coffee shop and the kids are a little busy you tell me the world is going to hell because young adults these days just don't work as hard, and that they should know the change from your drink within seconds. While I smile and hope the poor kids don't get too flustered knowing that patience has gone out the window with the advent of the computer. All the while astonished at how they can say hello to people, remember the recipe for your double skim café mocha with light fat free whip and a shot of sugar free mint for the holidays, while calculating the change from a twenty for your three dollar and thirty seven cent drink, pouring coffee and heating milk all at the same time. You tell me the world has gotten so rude and you cant account for it; as you cut off the guy before you to make it to work just five minutes late instead of six after forgetting to thank the young lady that held the door open for you as you hustled into and out of the coffee shop thinking that you could get a drink that takes two minutes to make in thirty seconds if only no one was in line before you and they had everything out and ready. They should have known you were coming. You tell me your plight while standing in line at the grocery store, being sure to inform me that things have gotten so expensive that not a soul in the world could keep up with the rising prices while you buy the most expensive brand of everything. While I stand behind you with a cart just as full of groceries knowing I'll pay one hundred dollars less because my shampoo doesnt give you an orgasm and water comes from a tap. You tell me the world is ending because of fuel consumption, our economy will fail because of the cost and the US is sure to choke on it's oil addiction as you pull up next to me in your high performance eight cylinder Benz complaining about your wife's SUV. I smile as I drive off in my sedan that gets twice the gas mileage with fuel thirty cents less a gallon and costs twenty thousand less up front complaining about my wife's SUV. The day is too wet, too hot, too cold, too dry, too sunny and too gray for you. The lakes are down or the water table is too high and threatening to flood the basement; besides the water is too polluted. Your children are forced to deal with issues of sex and violence at too young an age. While I look back at five and remember the first time I saw a horse being born and at seven when I first learned about death in getting a chicken for dinner my Grandmother's way. You tell me that the idols of today are indecent, peddle only sex and should begin acting as role models for children. I say if they're not thinking about it by the time they're worried about pop culture something is wrong, and if you haven't explained to them that it's all pomp and circumstance by the time they're worried about it something is really wrong. You tell me there are no jobs as you head off to work. While I go to my office and try to find a single decent employee I won't kick myself for hiring. Knowing all the while I have interviewed insanely qualified candidates that just dont have the drive we need. All of which would have been hired in a minute if not for being late, having too many complaints about other companies theyve worked for or having excessive questions about vacation time, sick days, personal days and the ability to leave at the drop of a hat if anything needed their attention more than the company that was paying them x amount of money for x amount of dollars. Remember, in the end it's all trade and barter. You tell me that college is too expensive to keep the American dream alive. While your children take out loans to pay for the same thing your Father worked so hard in order to give you. You tell me houses are too expensive, retirement is too far off with the cost of living and social security won't exist as you drive off in a forty thousand dollar car to your Bloomfield Hills bungalow with two thousand square feet worth one point five million. While I drive home in a twenty thousand dollar car to a two thousand square foot house worth an eighth as much because of it's city talking to my investment broker about fifty three or fifty five and what I'll have to do for each option. You tell me people can't get ahead because they're Black, Latino, Arab or any other thing than white. Meanwhile I go to my Sister's house and talk to her husband about the stress associated with running your own marketing firm, yet never talk about the struggles of being a Black man in America. You tell me the roads are hell, but you can't stand construction. You tell me that being from the farm means I am less intelligent, less developed and less refined. While I, being from the farm, wouldn't sit at a table with you and your children if my life depended on it because of your manners, mind and chosen topics. You tell me the schools are failing. While I laugh at the fact that by the age of twelve my son has a higher understanding of Math and Science than my Grandfather had by twenty, knowing my children will laugh at the same fact in thirty years, and theirs in sixty. You tell me that marriage cannot survive in our society because of constant temptation and the stress of running a family. That marriage is an outdated institution and that humans were just not meant for it. While I smile knowing that you're simply compensating for the seven year itch you just scratched or are planning to in the near future. You tell me the government is corrupt, politicians lie and that our society is doomed. While I smile and wonder what has changed in five thousand years. You tell me that the working man cant get ahead these days. While I go to my Brother in laws house to hop out on the lake in his boat and maybe cook a few steaks after weve had a few runs on the wakeboard. Knowing that he makes more than half the people I hire into a position and skilled trades are only headed for higher wages. You tell me your difficulties are greater than any, lesser than none and never felt by any before you. That the world is a mess and can never be fixed. That the world should give up and share in your grief. While I listen to my Grand-parents about the Depression, my Father about Vietnam and my Mother about rocking a colic stricken child to sleep while the hookers came home; all the while knowing I am the fortunate son and the world is mine for the making and the taking as long as I fight for it. I just wanted to say thank you to everyone of you for giving it the old college try in killing the world's collective spirits and dragging down everyone's mood around you. You truly are a wonder to breathe with your head that far up your ass and sunk in such a large puddle of tears.   <ul style="margin-left:0px; padding-left:3px; list-style:none; font-size: smaller"> <li> Location: Detroit <li> It's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests </ul>  webmaster@craigslist.org 2006-12-18T12:51:32-05:00 Copyright 2008, craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/250620767.html Rave: Whiners text Strippers, their boyfriends, and general stupidity http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/178244794.html The stripper from last night: So you're dancing on the stage (or trying to), and a guy brings you a dollar. You bend down to take it, and he touches - or otherwise does something to make you think he's going to touch - your pussy. Welcome to the job. I realize that you're brand new to the business, so I suppose that you can call that Lesson One. You're on a stage, dancing for strange men, practically naked. You dance up close and personal for said strangers, shaking all the good stuff in their faces. It's an imperfect world sweetie. They're going to go as far as you let them. So when someone touches you, or does something that makes you think you're going to be touched, there are a number of ways to handle this that WON'T lead up to the bullshit scene you caused last night. Let's review, shall we? 1. TELL HIM not to touch you. Most of them are going to try to push their limits. They want to know what's allowed. If you don't tell them ahead of time (or when you're on stage, where the no-touching rule is just implied), then they'll go exploring on their own. There are some very dirty girls out there who allow strange men to do all sorts of things to them for their measley lap dance money. Guys want to know if you're this kind of girl. Nine times out of ten, they'll stop crossing the line when you draw one. OPEN YOUR MOUTH and tell them that it's not allowed. 2. You're pissed? Fair enough. In fairness, guys really should know better. Especially when you're on stage (even though I don't believe for a second that this guy actually touched your pussy while you were on stage). I've been in your shoes, really I have. He bothered you and you were pissed, and it was inconvenient to get a bouncer since you were on the stage. Plus, can't stress it enough, you were pissed. Hit him! Push him. Kick him. Smack him in the face. It's your body so...do what you must. You may or may not get in trouble for this. You may or may not get fired for this. You may or may not get hit back by the guy you hit...but there are bouncers for that, so do what you gotta do. 3. Walk away. 4. Tell a bouncer. He's not just there to break up fights. He's there to get rid of trouble-makers. Trouble-makers are people who touch our pussies. He's there FOR YOU. Take advantage. 5. Be nice to him, offer him a dance, and fart in his face...OR... 6. Can't muster one up? Let him buy you a drink, "accidentally" spill it on him, and call it a day. See? There are so many ways that we can handle these little incidents. Here's a short list of what not to do: 1. Don't bring your boyfriend to work with you. There's a reason that there's a whole rule dedicated to this. Boyfriends can be jealous/over-protective (but you know that now, don't you? Should we call this Lesson Two?). Nobody wants to watch their girlfriend dance all over strange men. You don't need him for protection. WE HAVE BOUNCERS. Leave the man at home. 2. When you neglect rule #1 and you bring your jealous boyfriend to work with you, and then you encounter a guy doing something that makes you uncomfortable/defensive, don't run to your boyfriend to tell him about it. GO TO THE BOUNCER. By the way, have you SEEN our bouncer? He's like 6'5, 390, and pretty damn intimidating. He can handle your problems. Leave the boyfriend out of it. But no, not you. Your pussy is made of gold. You are not subject to the shit that the rest of us must put up with by choosing to do what we do. You can't handle the issue on your own. The security provided to you by the club is not good enough for you. You MUST bring the boyfriend, and you MUST cause a scene. So you trot over to your scrawny boyfriend, and you tell him what has happened. Totally impartial and level-headed guy that he is, he picks up his beer bottle, walks over to the guy who allegedly touched you, and smashes it on his head. I see a fight, and hear your dramatic ass screaming (a little bit like satan) about "you don't touch me you fucker"...all while your knight in shining armor gets his fucking face smashed in. Haha! You're a dumbass. I see/hear the fight and go running to the dressing room. I, unlike you and your boyfriend, don't like violence. The last time I saw a fight in a strip club, people got shot. A front row seat wasn't a priority. So I ran. I tripped over my 6" heels about 8 times, so while running, I simply kicked them off and ran faster. Two minutes later, you come into the dressing room looking like you've been stabbed 42 times - minus the stab wounds. I don't think I've ever seen that much blood. Still, it wasn't your blood. You grabbed your bag and left while still wearing your stripper outfit. Classy. Let me just say again that you're a dumbass. If you can't handle certain inevitablilities of the job you're doing, then find another job. No job is pleasant all the time, but this one can be particularly unpleasant at times. You have to either learn how to handle the situations that arise, or just quit. Under no circumstances should you make a fucking scene like you did last night. To the boyfriend: YOU'RE a dumbass. And now, you're a dumbass with a broken face. Stay out of the fucking strip clubs please. Either trust your girlfriend to handle herself in a way that's fair to your relationship, or find another girlfriend. Meanwhile, hopefully you've learned a lesson or two as well. Lesson One: you never know who you're fucking with. That beer bottle didn't do a whole lot for ya, did it? You went at a guy who was sitting at a table with another guy who was definitely bigger and meaner than you, and a chick who...well, I wouldn't fuck with her. What did you REALLY think was going to happen? You were going to be the Beer Bottle Ranger, and save your fair stripper maiden? You thought his friends WEREN'T going to stomp on you? Even the chick got you! I, being aware of the "you never know who you're fucking with rule", didn't stick around to see the whole thing. I did find out that the blood your girlfriend was covered with was yours. I did see that the three people who kicked your ass didn't have a scratch on them...except for the big guy who cut his hand to shit while he was breaking your face open. Even the guy who you hit with the bottle seemed perfectly fine. The whole thing really was pretty stupid, wasn't it? PS - my shoes...the ones I kicked off when running to get out of the way of your stupidity...yeah. I guess that when you were being dragged out of the bar, you were bleeding pretty bad. You bled on my shoes...which are now in the garbage. You can send a new pair to me at the club. You know the address. Thanks. To the guys: Don't touch the girls unless expressly invited to do so. PS - Thanks for the money.  <ul style="margin-left:0px; padding-left:3px; list-style:none; font-size: smaller"> <li> no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests </ul>  webmaster@craigslist.org 2006-07-04T06:21:10-04:00 Copyright 2008, craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/178244794.html Strippers, their boyfriends, and general stupidity text ten things I hate about local TV news http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/132779530.html This is a rant. Spelling and grammar Nazis beware. Ten things I hate about local TV news: 1.)Coming up next. a catchy headline that can easily suck you in to watching 30 minutes of bad reporting. This headline is announced just before every commercial break yet they dont get to the story until the last few minutes. And when they do the story is so stupid you end up cursing at yourself I missed a rerun of Seinfeld for this! I have to admit I still fall for this one occasionally. 2.) The vague Michigan connection - a lame attempt to connect us with every major catastrophe or event worldwide. Example: The roof collapses at a Costco in Rhode Island. What is the Michigan connectionsome frumpy suburban housewife with a heavy Michigan accent and a perm has a sister who was shopping at that very Costco the day before. The reporter listens intently and nods as the lady describes her sisters near brush with death. 3.) "The dumb-ass witness" - Possibly the most entertaining part of local news. They find some yocal who may or may not have seen the incident, but you get his incomprehensible story anyway. he drove up dare see den turned around and came back to where I was standin at. then started firin at the man, bam-bam bam see. The best ones are from places like Melvindale or Taylor. Oh and dont forget the brother who ends every sentence with know what Im sayin, know what Im sayin. 4.) "Live on location" - This is where they unnecessarily send a cameraman and a reporter to broadcast live on location. This is most ridiculous during the 11 oclock news. Usually its a reporter standing in an empty parking lot in front of a sign. Example, earlier in the day Ford announces the layoff of 500 salaried workers. Where do they report this from, the empty parking lot in front of Ford headquarters at 11:10 PM while it is raining. Without that shot of the big blue oval I dont think I would believe it. But man, theyre out there getting the story for us. 5.) "Weather sensationalizing" 15 degrees isnt cold enough for these idiots. They have to calculate the real feel todays high will only be 15 degrees but it will actually feel like minus 52 Their real feel is going to be lower than the other stations guaranteed, no one else has the Weatherforce Calculator II. Same with snow accumulation. A few days before a snow storm the hype starts. At first it is 1 to 3 inches. The day before it changes to 4 to 6 and not to be outdone by other stations we could be looking at 6 to 8 inches of snow. This becomes THE story of the night, interviews with plow truck drivers, the State Police, ect. How will you survive Mother Natures fury? You usually wake up the next morning and guess what, an inch and a half of snow on your car, turn on the wipers and drive away. These idiots dont get it. This is Detroit, it snows here in the winter. This kind of sensationalizing can lead to 6.) "The expert advice" - This can be tied in to a huge story like 1 to 3 inches of snow. They find some expert, a doctor, a coast guard officer or someone else with a title and have them give their advice on things like, how to avoid frostbite or how to keep warm. Remember exposed skin in freezing temperatures can lead to frostbite so wear gloves and a hat. The best ones are for weight loss. To lose weight, reduce calorie intake and exercise regularly. Fast food can be unhealthy so try to eat more fresh fruits and vegetables. Groundbreaking! 7.) File footage. Film footage to go along with their lame stories. This footage is rarely up to date and most of the time was filmed somewhere else for some other purpose. If you watch closely sometimes you can see things like a Pearl Jam concert shirt or acid washed jeans. The best ones are the ones for obesity. They always show fat people shot from the neck down holding things like ice cream cones or Doritos bags. 8.) The stupid poll - This is just plain filler. They come up with some poll or have some useless statistics like: 92% of 8th graders would rather play video games than do their homework or 77.3% of the U.S. workforce hates their job. Who fucking cares! This is always used with file footage. 8A.)"The recent study" - This is a variation of the poll or useless statistics but with the appearance of a little more credibility because it comes from researchers in Belgium or a study by Southwest Delaware State University. You can almost always file this under well no shit. These profound discoveries may include: Drinking while using power tools increases your risk of an accident by up to 60% or studies have shown that children who consume soft drinks with caffeine were less likely to have a restful nights sleep. The recent study is always accompanied by file footage. 9.)"The idiot behind the reporter making faces" - Enough said 10.)"The cant go up north this 4th of July because of gas prices" - This one always gets me. Every summer surprise! , the price of gas goes up right before the holiday weekend. What does the news do? They go to a gas station and interview some loser through the window of his $35,000 F250. Will the high gas prices keep you home this weekend? (The thing is this idiot wasnt going anywhere anyway.) Just cant afford it, with gas this high I gotta stay home The reporter shakes his head with sympathy and asks will the kids be disappointed? yep says the driver Just once I want to see some reporter with the balls to say, look dumb-ass, with gas 20 cents a gallon higher than last year it will cost you a whopping $19 more to go up north this year!.why dont you buy one less 12 pack of Bud Lite or skip the fireworks run to Ohio and go up north! Luckily I am just old enough to remember the good ole days when we had a news anchor who would get loaded and challenge the Mayor of Detroit to a boxing match. God how I hate local news. webmaster@craigslist.org 2006-02-10T09:44:32-05:00 Copyright 2008, craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/132779530.html ten things I hate about local TV news text Free to a Good Home http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/94074271.html So I have this cat. Actually its my girlfriends cat. Actually we have two, a small grey tabby named T**** that is a blast to have around, and the other one. Its corpulent, bright orange and has medium length hair, so of course to me its name has only ever been Fat Bastard. (Im not kidding, this cat is obese enough that its gut leaves its own trail in the middle of its footprints after I vacuum the carpet, uniformly triangulating the food dish, the litter box, and the hammock it has steamrollered for itself in my underwear hamper) Fat Bastard has a problem. Its very existence revolves solely around consuming anything organic. I mean anything. We cant have real plants anymore, not even cactus. (My girlfriend didnt laugh when I, tired of the green vomit, suggested Poinsettias) We have all of the food stored in cupboards that have child locks on them. Opening the fridge involves holding a broom. (Id love to teach the fucker a lesson by trapping it in there for a little bit, but beyond the cessation of all sexual activity when my girlfriend finds out, Im pretty sure this thing is as well-insulated as a walrus and Id only open the door and discover carnage, not to mention fuzzy rage propelling itself to freedom with one of its signature exertion farts) We have a bungee cord holding the lid on the trash can, which also happens to be attached to the wall to prevent, as my girlfriend calls it, accidental tipping. Ordering pizza involves trapping it in a bedroom, then listening to it scratch furiously at the door as soon as it gets a whiff of oregano. It drinks pop. We cant walk away from the stove while preparing a meal, as even scalding hot pots and pans have proven no match for its powerful, powerful lust. I love bacon, yet its become contraband since the incident. (Which my girlfriend still somehow regards as my fault, as if I encouraged the fucking thing to snatch sizzling bacon right out of the pan, headfirst, then tear-ass around the house alternating between muted howling and ragged, gasping swallows.) It has, on a number of occasions, snarfed an entire pack of cigarettes. Christ, this cat has eaten soap that smelled like melon. It was entertaining at first, playing the Lets see what we can get in there game, but when this fucking beast blew right through wasabi, jalapenos, mustard, lemons, live grasshoppers, Skittles, and an extra-shot latte, I got the point. Im tired of having to treat simple food items like theyre plutonium. I miss having a bag of chips or a cold pizza on the coffee table while Im watching the game. Im fed up with having to wait to do laundry because the basement has been fouled by a particularly rank dump. Enough is enough. If you want her, shes yours. The girlfriend or the cat, its your call (Either way, you dont even have to get out of the car; Ill just unwrap a Kraft single and throw it in the backseat.) Please, help a guy out webmaster@craigslist.org 2005-08-29T10:33:54-04:00 Copyright 2008, craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/94074271.html Free to a Good Home text GIRLS CAN TELL http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/54963779.html First times are something else. Theyre these intimate, extraordinary occasions, marked only by the disposition of legend and marvel. Tiny miracles - beholden only to themselves - they can never be compared or judged. They are of our own inventions. And I stress inventions, because first times are discoveries. Theyre landmark revolutions. When we journey through a first time, doesnt it feel like were making history? Like, weve encountered and broke through the unknown? And sure, nobody likes the unknown, but when its all said and done, dont those first times make you feel special? Dont you wanna smile? I remember the first time I lit up a smoke. And the first time I clocked a kid in the face. I remember the first time I just said no to drugs. (And vaguely, the first time I said yes.) I remember the celebrated day I beat Super Mario Brothers Three - without any of the warp whistles. And the night I lifted fifty dollars from my mothers purse. I remember em all. And good or bad, I smile. I remember my first true love, Jenny Bannon. And how, since I was such a fuckin pussy, she had to ask me out. I remember our first date. And our first full, hard-on kiss. I remember that first quarrel. And the first time I provoked her eyes into tears. I remember the exact moment I fell in love with her. And the way she used to make me feel. And I smile. I remember our first fumblings at pre-marital sex. And how over a chaotic string of errors, we blundered into one. I remember the sloppiness of that winter twilight; the misguided innocence that gave rise to tense and unsure passion; the timid longings. I remember how each and every waking moment felt like a Greek tragedy. Yeah, that night worked itself into a complete disaster - yet, it somehow played itself off as being magically exotic. Fucked up, I know, but first times are like that. They can be flawed by incessant complications, and still manage to enchant the soul. You know, Jenny was my first time. Im serious. My first time, ever. I was a twenty-four year-old virgin; one of those late bloomers. And it was my very first time. And see, I smile. Then, I stop smiling. Because this is like a goddamn chain-reaction. As soon as I conjure up our first, Im faced with the last. Im faced with tonight. The night, when everything hit. You know, in the scheme of Love, thats all youre really allowed. Firsts and lasts. Theres no in-betweens. Well, theoretically there are, but its not like one can isolate deterioration. Shit, its like a silent infection. It rolls up, slowly proliferates in its preordained way, and the next thing you know, youre staring at tonight. And oh, how I remember tonight. For tonight, Im a fuckin machine. Im an indifferent calculation, one that processes the likes of brevity and efficiency. Its rather debasing. In place of passion, I exhale routine. Instead of longing, I occupy automation. Tonight, theres no originality or excitement - just predictable conventionality. Ive pinpointed our carnal movements down to the exact second. Hell, Im more than a fuckin machine. Im what you call artificial intelligence. Tonight, Im the living dead. But, dont let this drama king jerk one over on ya. Being dead aint all knocks. I do get to watch life pass me by. Which, if youve got the right view, is simply breathtaking. And its not like Im breakin a sweat over here. Goddamn dogs can play dead, so how hard do you think I got it? And nowadays, you neednt even bury the fact that youre dead. Cause, guess what? No one really cares. Newsflash. Kobie Bryant is cheating on his wife, Matt LeBlanc has his own spin-off, and all Justin Timberlake wants is to luv ya, babe. Fuck, with all that sorry shit juicing through your head, who possibly has the time to take in a broken heart? Who has the time to even notice? Face it, kids, in this day and age, you can die for the rest of your life without anyone givin up two fucks. Well, just as long as you can take the pain. You know, that unfettered suffering which accompanies death, dying and the such. You stomach the pain, and well, then youre untouchable. Conquer it, and on top of the world, you are. And okay, okay. I know what youre thinkin. Pain, death, deterioration, last times. Matt, what the fuck are you talking about? Check this out. People hate change. On the whole, we find warmth in stability. It seems that were attracted to order, to perpetual consistency. If you havent noticed, theres a motive behind why our society flocks to the exploits of apathy, monotony, and sloth. Its for the simple reason that these actions mandate no change. Instead, all they demand is maintenance. Now, its with the introduction of change that the forces of chaos, specifically those of the unknown, are allowed to roam free. And like I said, nobody likes the unknown. Nobody likes being held in the dark. Now, last times? Those are simple. A last time is just an ending. Endings breed new beginnings. And new beginnings? Well there rests your change that so many abhor. Come on, you ever endured the frustration of starting from scratch? Well, then youve felt the sting of a new beginning. So where am I? Ahhh, deterioration. In a relationship, deterioration is unspoken change. Look at the word. Youve a good thing going and then it deteriorates; it follows a downward spiral, changing everything in the relationship to shit. And most importantly, even though we dont consciously feel deterioration, it prophesizes of the break-up; the ending, the last time. And thus, it tells of that horrendous new beginning. This is why so many people take cover under the guise of death. They intuitively assume that within the process of deterioration, one can maintain. Thus, ultimately, banishing any change from their existence. Ever been roommates with a guy who just couldnt quit his job because Burger King needed him? Because how far would Microsoft get without their Employee of the Month? How far. Or ever had that friend whos an eighth year senior? Whose always fifteen credits shy of a diploma? Folks, these arent live broadcasts. These are the living dead. And the sad part is, you can maintain within deterioration. I know plenty of accountants and social workers that hate every second of their nine-to-five. Yet every morning, these dear and treasured individuals wake to an endless sleep. A dad heads off to work. A best friend puts a coat and tie on, over a fitted shirt. A playwright drives straight into gridlock. A ballerina preps herself to maam and yes sir her way though intrapersonal memos and teleconference calls. These fuckers cant stand a minute of their existence. One single minute. But in the back of their heads, nothing else fits right. Or seems so directly applied. For them, maintenance is the ultimate of all virtues, while failure is the definitive of all sins. Sure, they cant stand a minute of their lives, but what they cant stand more, is the idea of shaking off that safety net; of traveling through the unknown without guard or resistance. So, their days are of little consequence. To everyone else in the game, these chumps are meaningless. No ones seen, no ones heard. And all this, just for the sake of consistency. Just so one can remain the same. And it sucks, but thats their choice. Thats the boon of free will. When it amounts to employment and education, one owns the option to exercise self-rule. Shit, wasnt it Rush who said, If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice. And, come on, if Rush said it, its gotta be true. But, thats of employment and education. Thats not Love. See, regardless of what the commercials say, you are not your job or Alma Mater. You are not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fuckin khakis. You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. And youre definitely not your Special Edition Fight Club DVD box set. You are a succession of emotions, Love being one of the highest orders. You cant just tap out on Love and expect the fight over. What did I tell you about Fight Club? Love is bigger than that. Love is life. Love is truth. And it hath no fury, period. It doesnt get mad or livid. It doesnt get even. All it does is bring the pain. And this is where pain comes into play. This is why people take it on. Its not because theyre S & M freaks. Its because of a fundamentally American creed that asserts: if I can overcome my pain, I can ultimately command it, along with my life purpose. Its the dogma thats plastered over every Golds Gym and Stallone sequel. Its: no pain, no gain. But beware, for this aint your run-of-the-mill pain. If you plan on takin this beast, you best come correct. See, your average pain aims to physically harm or damage. But, this? This ones a completely different ballgame. This pain seeks out your sour endings - those foul conclusions taken to lock and key. It digs at those unruly last times, and once unearthed, summons upon the brothers of Penance and Contrition. This pain dines on the awkward endings of human frailty. It sows its seeds in funeral parlors and deathbeds. For fun, it parades through abortion clinics and divorce settlements. Simply put, this is the kind of pain that mind-fucks your most tender and sensitive failures - just because it can. This pain runs only onto itself. It retains no charm, yet is irresistible to all. It is inescapable, yet never does a soul openly embrace its command. When it hits and it always hits - it binds, shackling all ideals of proper decency and justice. This is pain of its own caste. Its undeniable and one of a kind. I joke around the subject and make laughs, but its far removed. Motherfuckers, this is pain. And tonight, its mine. So come, let me show you my pain. Let me show you the way we get by: · Allot seven seconds to her left ear, eighteen to her right. · Assign half a minute to that spot, two inches below her neck. · Wait for her to heave one of her good sighs. · Hold up for two seconds. · Run the right hand down the stomach, while the left moves up the back. · Fasten the right hand to her left. · Intertwine legs. · Offer two shallow breaths upon her cheek. · Insert. · In. Out. In. Out. · Repeat. · Repeat. · Repeat. · Repeat. · Repeat. You have no idea. This is my pain. This is my last time. As our cadavers coldly thrust back and forth, ominous corridors spring skyward, extending to the Heavens. Looming above us, these passages besiege our deformed unity with an endless course of avenues, each reflecting every notion we refuse to put into words. In a pastoral attempt to pull free, we associate copulation with autonomy. So, we fuck like its our job, praying for the path thatll fetch our salvation. But these walls, theyre forever running. They rope in our jackrabbit-like haste with ease. See, in these state of affairs, liberty will never be ours. This aint the Declaration of Independence. We do not have certain unalienable rights. Jen and I, were jailed to Loves will. Only it can decide when and where well be set free. As for the love birds? Well, we just receive roles, nothing more. So it begins. In hushed tones, self-absorbed contemplations stretch their feet. Remember those notions we refused to put into words? Well, like it or not, now theyre full-fledged questions. They whisper, "Do you really want to be here? How much longer this will take? When do you think shell let you go home?" I make efforts at blocking this interrogation, but its weighing-in with a might that crushes bones. Like I said, this is inescapable. But, beat the system, I will. Take the pain, I can. "Fuck the rules," I think. "Im Matt Singh. I have the will of a thousand men." Wrenching into a shadow of my former self, I focus all available concentration towards the situation at hand. However, the more I vie for control, the more I break into consciousness. Funny, but in front of the light, even the will of a million men can fold. And, just like that. This isnt happening, I think. Im probably just not in the mood. This has nothing to do with us. "Matt, youre not concentrating. If you just relax, itll all fall into place. Its been a stressful week, thats all. This has nothing to do with you." Jen grabs a hold of my mental hypocrisy. I mean, shes always known that something was wrong, but tonight? Tonight she knows theres something wrong. My self-inflicted reassurances quickly wither into haughty disclaimers. "I will not let this fall apart. I refuse. Im a motherfuckin machine. Im Matt Singh. Jenny, I love you. And I promised that Id never fail you. I intend on standing by that last part. This will not happen, baby. I will not fail you. Not tonight. Not ever." But its too late. For this will happen. I will fail her. It shall hit. And just to piss me off, itll hit tonight. Trust me, Ive no voice in these measures. They hail from a higher power and play their roles regardless of my desire. See, thats the bitch about committing yourself to Love. Once youre in, youre in. Once youve laid down your life, youre done. You have no voice. You cant just say, Hey, Love, this was nice and all, but I gotta jet. Phone me when things are lookin better. It doesnt work like that. When Love seizes your heart, all it leaves you with is naked vulnerability. And trust me, if Love wants to bring the pain, it will. If Love wills your relationship to snap, steel yourself for the fall. And if tonight, Love says your relationship is giving up the ghost, then its probably already dead. Unless you can break the cycle. Unless you can cheat Love. Jens eyes are transfixed onto mine. She wants a guarantee that I wont let this hit. But for Christs sake, I cant even reassure myself. How am I to deal with her? But, I do my best. With iron-high walls stretching as far as the eye can see, I close my own and counterfeit a solemn moan. Weirdly enough, this comforts most of the overt reservations in the room, including Jenny. In appreciation, Jen feels the necessity to press this travesty a step further. She murmurs a rather unconvincing, You feel so good. But, now its my turn to recognize the hypocrisy, since I know for a fact that I feel nothing. Nothing for this event, nothing for this night, and nothing for her. And thats when everything hits at once. What we need is just what we want. I go to sleep, but think that youre next to me. I go to sleep and think that youre next to me. And like that, the walls, they fall - break right into two. And kids, you better be payin attention, because these tough breaks? These aint the kind that get back together with stitches and glue. Plain and simple, Im screwed. Like I said, Ive no voice in these accords. Remember? Im the motherfuckin machine. All I get is a function. And tonight, my function is to recognize these walls for their merits. Tonight, its time to wake the hell up, pull the leaves from my mouth, and feel the pall. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain. Let it come on down. Theres no more fuckin around. The rules state that once the songs been song, you gotta accept the cost of whats been done. Whatever the cost, you gotta accept. You just gotta. So while making love to Jen, my best friend, I reveal. Looking down upon her naked body, I expose. "You know what? I feel nothing for you. Nothing. I dont even like being around you anymore. Baby, who are you? And who am I? What have I become? Am I one of those fools that plague his nights with insipid sex acts because hes too much of a pussy to say: Hey, I hate your fuckin guts?" Well folks, looks like I am, cause Im not changing a tune. Im weak when it comes to these matters. Id sooner break every rule of common decency than watch my girl endure grief. Even when I know my role. And since shes currently pulled off the you feel so good line, Im more than obligated to fill in the blanks. Theres only one way to harmonize with the you feel so good line. And, since were going through all the same lines, selling out to appease, I go to sleep in my bed of lies. I tell her I love her. She weakly smiles and for the first time in over six years, I start crying. You gotta love these second languages. They put everyone at disadvantage. How did we arrive here? How? They say that youre at your best when youve got the guns turned a hundred and eighty degrees; finding out if it adds all up right. Well, we were two faithful and dedicated lovers. We never slept around. No one ever took advantage. Or inflicted pain for a purpose. Outside of the regular boyfriend/girlfriend spats, we never fought. We were two good lovers who fashioned one good couple. Scratch that, we fashioned one great couple. So add all that up and Ill ask it again. How are we here? What brought us to this night? There was a time when we were absolute. When we held a connection, sovereign to all. My eyes were open and she was marching in. Shit, I was her shadow in the dark. I had her blood inside my heart. We wouldve done anything for each other. You name it, anything. I wouldve brought her cover when she was cold. Shed have brought me youth when I grew old. Hell, we were more than those a series of Clayton clichés. We were in love. This is why I dont fall in love. Because of shit like this. Fuck, I hate Love. I fuckin hate it. To me, it serves no real purpose apart from establishing the orthodox for pain. Come on, have you ever seen a story that ends happily ever after? Check out the newspapers. Turn on your MTV. In the end, someones always dying, disappearing or leaving. Someones always crying, agonizing, or suffering. Someones always heart-breaking, betraying, or shitting all over you. And even when youre two good lovers fashioned into one great couple. Even then you draw failure; you still attract the agony. That sort of torment is as tall as the territory. Kids, you fallin in love? Well, you better start stockpiling for the day you fall out. And whatever. I know what youre thinking. Youre thinking, heres good ol post-adolescent angst. What does Matt know about Love, anyways? All this kid needs is a little bit of the Holy Spirit. A little bit of the Faith. Fools. These days everyone croons about faith. They say, believing is hard, believing is art. The rest? To them, there is no rest. You start in with the believing and youre set. Never again shall you worry or ache. Matt, all you need is a little bit of the Faith. Fuck Faith. And fuck Britt. Believing aint the hard part. Thats just another proverbial Texan lie. Come on, take a good look around the North side. Youll see what it means to be standing on line. Camel Lights. Penthouse. Jack Daniels. Shit, you can buy Faith at your local Quik-E-Mart. For me, the problem was never believing. I believed in her - in us - so much. That was never hard. The hard part came after I placed faith, after I believed. It was realizing that Faith is actually finite. That trust, loyalty, assurances, even the goddamn belief... ...well, like it or not, they all deteriorate, follow their downward spiral, and eventually come to an end. The hard wasnt believing. The hard part was realizing that the endll come slow, and that love breaks your heart. And this may break the cycle, but you better believe in that. Believe or go fuck yourselves. Because Ive seen God. Ive been His dancing monkey, His fuckin invalid child. I entrusted my heart to His infinite compassion. I did it all. I placed faith and let my will fall asleep in His hands. And then one night, I woke up, and found myself making love to walls. Rock-solid barricades that blocked me from where I really wanted to be. Which, in this relationship, was anywhere but here. Making love to a wall. I mean, Id like to say that we were making love, but thatd require two consenting adults, overflowing with adoration. Id like to say that we were fuckin, but thatd imply lust, something this bed lost ages ago. I cant really find the words for this anticlimax. Is there even an expression out there that illustrates the art of sex via absolute shame and gutless insecurity? The best I can drum up is that were having intercourse or, I take that back. Were performing intercourse. Because thats all this is: a second-rate performance, a routine presentation of arms. One magnificent failure. And this wouldve been so much simpler if I hadnt dealt in Love. If this were anything but Love, I wouldve dumped Jen at the curb and ran like the little bitch I am. But, I cant do that to her. Shes my baby. Judas, I might not be in love with the girl, but that doesnt mean I dont love her. What it does mean is that Im a fuckin casualty. Thanks to Love, theres not a single bead of pleasure. Not even does the trite gratification of death remain. I dont know where Ive been, or why I even left, but now that Im back in the flesh, the magic has well-nigh disappeared. Not to worry, for soon enough, the truth will take flight. The pain will summon the brothers of Penance and Contrition and under our own devices we shall break. This is why Loves a bitch. Its all-knowing and omnipotent. You can fake it for only so long before it lays down its vengeance. Its just a matter of time before everything hits. Oh, unless, you can take the pain. Sure its a simple plan. All you gotta do is overwhelm the system. Litigate for that million; Purchase that winning lotto ticket. Manage the unmanageable by maintaining the unattainable. Pull off the American dream and never again shall you lose sleep over life, death or the like. Shit, youll have transcended! Youll have conquered Mother Nature. Its a simple plan. Beat the pain and Love will follow. Fuck! If only you could beat the pain. If only you could beat Gods plan. You can tell her you love her. You can tell him that he feels so good. Hell, you can talk it up all of the goddamn night, braggin the fact that you both got a right. Fight the good fight, I dont care. See where that gets you. Just remember. Remember this: when the walls break, it aint gonna be just a slap on the wrist. When it hits, itll be clear whos gonna fall prey to His myth. Come on, do you really think you can play dead for half your life and no onell notice? You really think you can outclass the Gods? What the fuck is this, the Odyssey? Yeah, maybe you can sucker mankind, but that aint no gonna get you no lollipops. Shit, havent youve heard? Were the dumbest creatures out there. For countless of centurys weve interacted with Nature. Countless! Yet, for some reason, we cant acknowledge our preordained roles. May it be the Grim Reaper or Love Almighty, we consistently think that were in control. Or, that we can beat the odds. And then, when it ultimately hits which it always does when it ultimately hits that we aint shit, we end up reveling in our resentment, blaspheming about how God should go fuck Himself. We never had the control. Shit, we never had anything. Love was the only constant element in this game. It regulated everything. It was everything. Like I said, love is life. Love is truth. And the truth, you say? Where does the truth fall in this whole mess? Well, the truth is that its not her. Nor is it I. The truth is that its simply our turn, our time. Were like spoiled milk, our date overdue. And instead of yielding to Loves fortitude, we are defying it by prolonging the inevitable. Now its just a matter of time. Thats all the truth is this time around. Thats all it amounts to. Two infantile lovers, trying to manage reality through their imagination. Two petrified and naïve children, residing within their memories of the good ol days. Foolishly hoping that someday, the act of evocation will re-establish those first times; those moments when everything was remarkably noble. But like I said, its just a matter of time - its almost measurable. Imagination aint kind on us tonight. Nor is the act of evocation. Oh, and those good ol days? Those noble moments? Well, youre definitely not gonna find em here - not tonight, not ever. Folks, in this entire charade, theyre the ones that are dead. And, stone cold. Nothing will ever bring them back to life. Hell, somebody set em in the past for a reason. Somebody higher than you. So stop fighting the truth and leave em be. Grieve, sure, but move on. Make new moments. Burn new failures. Feel it while you can. Feel it before its too late. But, enough of this preaching. Do what you want. This story aint about savin your soul. It aint about savin Jennys either. Sure, I can tell myself that this is for all concerneds health. I can dot that Is and cross my Ts, glorifying myself as the upright and principled storyteller. Or even better, I can fill it up, pour it down upon my insides, and carouse in my own transgressions; be the next Conor Oberst. Listen, Im not here to show you that Im right. And like hell, Im here to cry to you over my wrongs. You guys are nice and all and thanks for being such a great audience but, fuck, you can all go and take a walk. Yeah, I said all yall can go take a walk. Cause right now, I dont give two fucks about anyone. And savin souls? Well, that aint my trade. Hell, Im still tryin to figure out how to save my own. Not giving two fucks. Nice one, Matt. Isnt that how I got here in the first place? By not giving two fucks arent I just sending myself back from where I came? Judas, nothings changed, has it? Ive been talking for thirty minutes and, in this interim, nothings changed. Fuck. But, I cant think about that now. Dr. Leo Marvin was right. Its all about the baby steps. I shouldnt be worrying about the interim. Or about whats gone down. I should simply concentrate on tonight. Concentrate. I should conquer it and then move on to tomorrow. And then tomorrows tomorrow. Yeah, thats the ticket. Im gonna stop with all this worrying and analyzing and take each day for its net worth; breathe it in and out. · In. · Out. · Repeat. · Repeat. · Repeat. · Repeat. And it all ends with a new beginning. It ends by starting with tonight. So tonight, Im moving on now, if I like it or not. Tonight, within my deliverance, Im taking the first step: the picture is coming down. Im taking it off and throwing it out. And yeah, the picture is about what coulda been easier but, fuck it, I aint gonna win this war by standin on a straight line. Shit, the Man came around the motherfuckin Man upstairs. He came out just to make us moot. Just to say that Ive got nowhere to go. Shit, tell me something I dont know. Heres something. Tell me how Im supposed to get out of my girls arm. Tell me how Im supposed to get out of her. I mean, were still making love. You get that, dont you? This whole mess isnt about reflection. This isnt five months after the fact. This is tonight. The song isnt most of it hits at once. Its everything hits at once. And everything did. So, tell me. Tell me how Im supposed to get out of her. I guess this is what it means to fully grieve. So, I mourn. I mourn by faking the moment. I simulate that guileless flash when all treachery folds and extinguishes in a peak of desolate cum. "Just wait on that moment", I chant to myself. "Just wait, Matthew. Concentrate. Just a few more jerks and thisll all be over. Youre almost there. Just a few more pumps. Dont stop now. Youre gonna cum. Dont stop. Your moment, Matt, its gonna come." Luckily, that isnt too far from the truth. Itll be five weeks till we separate, seven till we make up, eight till we split for good, and a tense fifteen till we stop caring. But, that? Thats another time. Thats then and this is now. And like it or not, there are first times for everything, including tonight. See, tonight may be our last, but its also my first. Tonight, theres a moment when everything hits at once. When Ill hear the sounds of washing out at such a tender age. Tonight, Ill realize the way we get by. Smile, cause this is my first time. this is in or around around the way webmaster@craigslist.org 2005-01-09T01:53:22-05:00 Copyright 2008, craigslist.org http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/det/54963779.html GIRLS CAN TELL text