My current personals ad on that one website:

I'm really really really enthusiastic about hot pink wristbands. You could say that I have a hot pink wristband infatuation. A fetish, if you will. I've devoted a good portion of my life to hot pink wristbands. I've even created a blog about hot pink wristbands; their uses, pictures of models wearing hot pink wristbands, wristband sizes, shapes, the materials used in their creation. And I assure you, they're 100% biodegradable and really, really fashionable.

If you haven't already figured it out already, this is all totally rubbish. Poppycock. Who has a hot pink wristband fetish? Nobody. I'm a blue wristband proponent to the core!

So, besides all that, why am I here? I think it's a good idea, from time to time, to waste bandwidth on a server by posting ridiculously worthless personal ads. Because, as most already know, I'm not, in the least, worth meeting. I rarely leave the house (in my case, an apartment). I have a job that barely pays the bills, and I absolutely love lasagna. That last part may seem OK, but most are apparently unaware of the violent, roving bands of lasagna killers in our fair town of Reno. It's an epidemic. So, to be perfectly blunt, I'm here just to vent about microwave ovens: they have vents, yes. But do they have souls?

I'm fractionally nuts about fractions. I'm also three fourths of a lunatic. But that's A-OK because I like cashews.

Oh, before I forget, I'm a lovable lump of a human that's slightly overweight, has an outrageously noticeable lisp, and I like to take long drives in a buckboard wagon. But only on Tuesdays. In reality, I don't have a lisp, merely a slight overbite. And anyway, if it's any of your business, I have a really cool car. So, to sum up (imagine me wildly gesticulating), I'm not worth dating. But I most certainly would like to start. I had this really cool dream last night about a woman in a red dress. Of course, at times, the dream morphed into me, actually, wearing the red dress, but I digress... The woman in the red dress was, quite literally, my dream girl. And not for the simple fact that she was in my dream. I tire of trying to make sense here. Dream. Girl. Must have. There.

Anyway, the dream was weird. I was, apparently, an actor in a Broadway play. I wasn't very good. Nobody had bothered to rehearse lines with me. But my date was the spectacularly dressed woman in red. Fabulous. I think I may be drunk. I was wearing a classically decent red vest and black suit ensemble. I rarely get to use that word. It's so gloriously French.

Anyway, if you wear a red dress and have brownish hair, you're my dream girl. I think she may have had blue, green, brown or, strangely, yellow eyes. I don't reckon she was wearing a hot pink wristband. Nobody's perfect. Red dresses. I've actually worn one. Don't let that bother you. I'm bothered enough about it for the both of us.

Snarflat.