will you go out with me?
My name's Log. Hello there, and thanks for taking the time. I'm single. Can you believe that? Four years in a relationship, then it's over. Single again. Looking for love again. Crawling from pillar to post, taking any scraps of affection that are offered. Like a stray dog. More like a piece of shit from the stray dog's arse. It's not living, is it? Not really.
This is what I look like. I drew it last week. I drew it myself so you can see I am artistic. I could stop awake all night and draw you while you sleep, if you like. Then I'd have a picture of you to touch after you threw a fiver on the pillow and walked out on me, you loveless bastard.
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That's me on the left. As you can see I'm very upset because you have been shaded in and have a big question mark over your face. Unless you're not shaded in, and you're black. I don't even mind if you are black, I'm that desperate. We'd have to do something about the question mark though. |
How would I describe myself? Well, I'm pretty tall. I used to tell everyone I was six foot one. When I say I told everyone, I don't mean everyone. I mean, I didn't serve formal notice and take out a fucking advert in the papers. I just slipped it into conversation, nice and natural like.
For instance;
Someone Else : "Do you like the new Coldplay album?"
Me : "Speaking as a six foot one male, I haven't heard it yet."
Then I measured myself and found out that I wasn't even six foot nothing. I was five foot eleven and a half, and a bit. And a bit? What the fuck good is a bit? No good at all, quite evidently. Which is why he left me. Left me to run around the Stourbridge ring road looking for burly men.
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The girl who sits opposite me at work drew this. I think it makes me look a bit like a Space Captain George Michael. If I look a bit cross in the picture, it's perhaps because I'm dwelling on the universe of pain that my life has become. In a sense, I suppose, I am a Space Captain of my own infinite despair. Each week I find another uncharted sector of abject misery, and fly around in it for an hour. My claim to fame is that I was the number one search engine result for the phrase "Jesus Lives" in 1998. And I met Dale Winton outside the King's Arms on Poland Street. He didn't stop for long, he said it was too busy. I knew I'd driven him away, but I didn't make a scene. "That's right, Dale. You just waltz off like this never happened. Get in the big car and get your fat celebrity cock sucked by some dutch... some dutch... fucking... osteopath, I don't know. Just think of me when you're at the top. That's all I ask." That's what I would have said if I'd had another pint of the booze. Sometimes I think I should give up the booze, but it tastes so good. |
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As far as sex is concerned, I'll do anything you ask so long as you let me have a glass of water every now and then.
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This is a real photo of me. I am sat in a big fucking ladybird. I look pissed off here mainly because I wanted to be in the driving seat, even though I know the ladybird cannot really be steered. That's like my whole frigging life, that is. My friend is so happy. I don't think he realises how everything turns to shit. How life is a giant arsehole and when we die we'll all end up in it, just a pair of feet sticking out of a giant arsehole in the sky that you can only see when you're dead. And that's your lot. |
So, in summary; please go out with me. You don't have to put out or anything, I'll just have a wank while you're taking a shit. I'll be asleep before you've wiped your arse.
please
please email me on this address with a drawing of what your love looks like,
and if your picture is the best i will go on a date with you
so_cold@disappointment.com