the combination of exasperation & curiosity that leads to on-line ads.
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Okay, here's my deal: I'm 21. I'm female. I'm thin and fairly cute - at least fairly cute enough to get smiles and leers and ogles on a nearly-daily basis. I've been in the city for a good nine months since receiving my degree of competency in communications (feel free to laugh, and hard - I've been laughing for the last three years), and I've bar-hopped with the girls, shaken my thang, and swayed to some indie lust at local shows, but so far, no luck. Finally, I figured, if my co-workers can brave Craig's List looking for love or jobs or second-hand furniture, then so can I. I got the ottoman two weeks ago, and now all I need is a decent guy to complement it.
So here's me, condensed into a few lines of HTML: I'm sociable. I'm sane. I love to read and I love to debate. I'm a little irreverent, a little eccentric, and a little bit of a bleeding-heart softie even though you will never hear me admit it again. I love music - not just indie, not just rap, not just classical, but all of it. I adore children, and my poor old cat bears the brunt of my misdirected maternal leanings, but at 21, I have even less of a desire to breed or marry than your average bar-trolling Guido. I cook, I sing, and on Wednesdays I take judo classes. At least three hours each day, I'm riding the Muni, and unlike the vast majority of the people on there with me, I actually enjoy it - which means I don't look like I'm boiling over with rage or so fascinated with some indiscriminate spot on the wall that I can't look up to smile on occasion. I'm not bitchy or melodramatic or "looking to be spoiled by a good man." Really, I'm not.
You should be fairly intelligent, but I shouldn't have to be the person to bring it out in you - in other words, you should be able to hold a good conversation. You should have a job, and more importantly, you should love what you're doing. Or at least, if it falls short of your childhood dreams, you should be able to make me laugh telling me all your tales of workplace misery. You shouldn't be insulted when I laugh, either, because you can laugh at yourself as much as you can laugh at me. You should be honest - this includes telling me things that I would appreciate knowing - like say, if you had a wife. And that's another thing - you shouldn't have one. You should love to dance, even if you're not the best at it, 'cause I love grinding my little bootie. You shouldn't care what I do, where I live, what I drive, where I went to school, or how nice I might look draped against your arm on Saturday nights, because I won't be judging you by those standards. Still, truth be told, you should be good-looking enough that young, cute chicks would be physically attracted to you. And young, cute, money-hungry chicks don't count. You should be sympathetic to my faults, 'cause I've got a few of them and I'm pretty sure you do, too. You shouldn't try to impress me with your wealth, or your lack of it, either. In other words, Taco Bell is not the appropriate first-date dining experience. Most important of all, and this is the one requirement I absolutely cannot let you slide on: you should be willing to lie about how we met.
So send your picture and your quirky little introduction, and I'll respond in kind.