Posting title: There has to be more. Why isn’t there more. Good fuck — there’s less, isn’t there? AKA “The Repost Blues.”
Age: a soul-sapping thirty-two
Location: the abyss/a Boston shed
First I couldn’t deal with the women who spelled “independence” with an “a.” I am so independant. You should also be independant because I like my girl time. Then I learned to live with it once some other ladies — not meatheads, mind you — started telling me they “work hard and play harder.” Adults. Doctors. Lawyers. Everyone save the academics and the would-be poets, who instead informed me they dressed all in black, thought the products sold at CVS wicked and corrupting, and went on about home altars. And wished to know if I had one. In one instance, for a loaner.
Weirdly, it is I who has become the scourge. I promise you, I couldn’t help myself. I know I ought to have been, if not mature, then at least disciplined enough not to write each and every one of them back, stating baldly that if this was what was out there, I’d prefer to have some lesser demon from Hades or just a common thug walk me round the back of my shed — where I am sitting now, using it as a kind of metaphysical hideout — and put me down. They keep having at my posting. Which I had to keep adding on to, or risk losing my reason because of the sheer, otherwise-unexpressed absurd horror of it all. It helps to air ones grievances. Downright Socratic, I think. Even when you’re airing them just to yourself, for the most part. But some website administrator erases my tidy introductory letter, flush with additional concerns, nearly as fast as it goes up. Or maybe it’s the public. I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps I’ve sparked an uprising, and simply because of my shed-borne plea for sanity. For my shed has an electrical outlet.
I felt like I began well, at least. Before the addenda. And the need for addenda. Baby.
Posting title: “Epiphanic. Romantic. We two could be as one. Etc.”
Location: Boston. Northern portion. Where I am hopeful.
Trying to meet someone well-rounded, who stands out a bit, in matters of wit, playfulness, intellectual curiosity, general sportiness, etc. This has proven more of a challenge than I would have liked to have thought. I'm big on spontaneity — or, at least, a lack of pretense and formality. More drawn to people with zest and spirit and wit and lasciviousness than those more likely to... drone.
I make my living taking photographs, which in turn encompasses a pretty broad range of interests: architecture, art, music, sports, politics, fashion, film, you name it, pretty much. Physically, I'm six one, fit, athletic... perhaps look more like someone heading off to play a hockey game rather than about to sit down with some Moholy-Nagy montages, though I'm likely to do both. Anyway. I seem to be on a run where I meet a lot of people who try to say something funny, can’t, and underscore their intentions with one of these horrible little “LOLs,” upon which I beg God or whomever to hit the apocalypse button. So, if you’re someone who can’t restrain yourself, we’re probably not the best of matches. Looking forward to hearing from anyone else.
Addendum: Please. No more people who tell me they're photographers and don't actually take pictures for anyone besides family and friends. I made gazpacho the other night. Very good, gazpacho. Nice and hearty. Alas, I have not officially attained the mantle of chef. And no, I cannot help you publish your treasured snapshots with Rolling Stone. As a Mary Kay sales woman asked me to do. Also, if you live in New Hampshire, and you have two kids, you've never used a comma in your life, and you're (I shall employ some finesse)... zaftig... well, that's not going to work. I am not sure why these people keep writing me. I mean, I'm sure it'll all work out for you, eventual love and happiness and everything. But probably with someone in New Hampshire. Excellent. To the woman who asked me to staple her clit with plastic staples... I will have to decline. Though I am now haunted by the very concept of plastic staples. What on earth are they more properly intended for?
Addendum II: Yes, people love the beach. Got it. But writing "I love the beach, and I can stay in and go out..." and leaving it at that suggests to me that there's little reason to have bothered writing at all. In this particular case. You can stay in or go out? How could you not do both? Unless you were, I don't know, held in some dungeon or other. And the people who say "I also hate art,” or "I think sports suck too" — what are you reading? And there's no need to send a picture. I see enough of them. Words will do. Words are good. But please be in reasonable shape.
Addendum III: Rape fantasy people: I cannot help you. Even if I wanted to. The risk is too great, for one thing. If an alleyway encounter/tryst/“acted”assault did sound like something I’d be up for, what of the legal ramifications? You might turn on me. And then where would I be?
Addendum IV: Apparently, there is some rule that one must declare that they love to laugh. As opposed to the people who hate it. I don't know, maybe there was once some fellow who proclaimed "fuck that, I absolutely hate to laugh.” Now, he'd probably have been fun to get a drink with, singular guy that he was. As for the people who have written and asked how I get through life without typing "LOL" — "it makes things shorter" (um....doesn't it make things longer by three letters?) — before announcing that they believe I am lying for surely I am a "closet loler"... I fully grant that when I am in hell, we will have an eternity to be together. So for now, let's just do our own thing. Ah. The spirit buckles. To the woman at the coffee shop on Salem Street in the North End, whom I end up sitting across from these past few days as I read some giant book on Impressionistic photography: I probably should just say something. The code word is "plastic.” No no no no. I go too far.
Colin Fleming's work has appeared in The Atlantic, The New Yorker, The Nation, The Weekly Standard, Slate, The New York Times Book Review, Spin, The New Criterion, The Guardian, The Village Voice, Film Comment, The Washington Post and many other publications. He has fiction forthcoming from The Hopkins Review, The Republic of Letters, Boulevard, TriQuarterly, The Southampton Review, and Gargoyle, and is completing his first novel, Drivel In Wormwood, and Dibs On Blood, a collection of short stories.