What can I say? I suddenly feel like dating a nice, old fashioned, Chicago trixie.
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I'm talking about a clear-skinned, midwestern, size three, C-cup beauty with a thing for Amstel Light and nice straight teeth. She has a bachelors in something innocuous and irons her shirts before work.
She likes pretty shoes and designer jeans. She lives in a condo and never makes eye contact with anyone during those loathsome trips on the El (well, when she's not driving her Acura or Volkswagon to DSW). She's a shameless flirt at rooftop barbecues and owns at least or two pieces of jewelry from Tiffany's.
And so what? I'm tired of dating tattooed chicks with a thing for ironic clothes who work at shitty bars and spend Tuesday night bowling. I'm sick of hearing about the latest indy band and meeting their dopey, stoned friends who also happen to be in lame indy bands.
Fuck that. Fuck the ironic t-shirts and crappy underwear. I'm after a sweet, innocent trixie who's heart isn't black and who was more than $13.79 in her checking account. She's got some stellar lingerie and a healthy "slut in the bedroom" mentality that nobody would ever suspect at her work.
I'm all the fuck-up our relationship will ever need. I'm the bad boy. The artist. The eternal, hopeless intellect with the drinking hobby who inevitably stays out too late on weekdays. I'm the one who'll forget to call, but will make for it up by bringing you a wonderfully creative assortment of flowers that I scavenged from the ally behind the local florist.
I could be a fuck-wit chad but I disdain that type. You could date a fuckwit chad but you're sick and tired of passionless evenings, his boring friends, the same old shit, the lack of creativity, and his boring fat ass.
You'll like me because I have my masters degree and a creative career, yet I prefer cheap beer. I come from an affluent town on the east coast but I prefer my cruddy apartment in a not-so-exciting part of Chicago. I'm athletic, in great shape and well built, but I think softball teams are for pussies.
I write. I paint. I can fix your fucked-up shower door. I can change your oil. I can kill your spiders. But I'll never wear one of those goddamn striped shirts or wear a backwards baseball hat. I won't discuss Cubs stats. I won't watch most TV. And I've never seen any of the sequels to American Pie. I might get a second tattoo or get certified in welding just for fun. My folks are still married. My sisters have kids and husbands and live in the suburbs. My background probably isn't much different from yours.
But I've always chosen the "fuck you" Lincoln Park, Fuck you Starbucks, fuck you Crate and Barrel point of view, and decidedly spent my time at dive bars, with rough people, seeking the sureal experiences, living beneath my means, getting dirt beneath my fingernails, dating people I shouldn't, and living life as it should be–fully examined–but I've never given you trixies a chance.
Until now. So allow me to introduce myself.
I want to be the bad boy. I want you to be the good girl. Your girlfriends with their crappy boyfriends will secretly envy you. Their crappy boyfriends will secretly fear me. Our chemistry will sizzle as our opposite stations ignite a firestorm of passion, roaringly good sex, thoroughly interesting conversation, endless possibilities, long nights out or ass-kicking Scrabble games, and the potential for something long, smart and hot.
I'm white, Irish, live in Wicker Park, 5'10, great blue eyes, naturally straight teeth, with a penchant for writing too much.
So there you go. Your smart, well-educated, terminally dissatisfied, open-minded, rough around the edges, good hearted guy is waiting for you...and you're his classic, midwestern, upper-middle class beauty who's ready to take a chance. Send a picture. Or don't. I'm not sure how it works with you trixies.
But I can't wait to find out.