Mr. Craigslist

Every once in while, a suitor arrives from the most random places.  Today’s idiot du jour first came to my attention when I received a random text out of the blue from an unfamiliar number.  To be perfectly frank, when I first read his text, the shock and panic that raced through my brain made my heart plunge through my big mess of internal organs and go “kerplunk” somewhere alongside my fallopian tubes.

I’ve reproduced the entirety of my interactions with Mr. Craigslist below, word for word, including his misspellings.  The transcript speaks for itself, so I’ll make no further introduction.

Sunday, 16 May 2010

19:13

hi

Are you man shopper ?

Man-shopper’s brain: Oh FUCK.

One of my past dates has discovered my blog.  My evil ways are finally catching up to me.

Oh FUCKityFUUCK.  What am I going to do??  I haven’t had time to draw up a plan of action for this scenario?  Will he be mean to me?

Wait, I’m brutal on my blog.  He’s probably curled up in fetal position in a mental institution somewhere because he read my write-up on his courtship skills.

Oh god, I could be in trouble.

Man-shopper’s phone: Who is this?

19:14

Seen you’re add on CL

Man-shopper’s brain: Shit.  I know that Ryan likes to joke about posting an advert in my name in the Craigslist personals section.  I can’t believe that she actually went through with it.  I swear, I’m going to kill her and steal her dog.

19:17

You said it’s hard to date a french boy can’t figure why: you’re pretty !!!

Man-shopper’s brain: I hate when people spout this kind of drivel.  Pretty girls who are also intelligent are single because they have the good sense to be discerning.  Just because we’re pretty doesn’t mean that we’ll date any dumb shit that asks us out.

Wait, Ryan would NEVER give some creep my phone number.  So who in bloody hell is this fool?

Man-shopper’s phone: Who is this??

19:18

Clement from paris

Man-shopper’s brain: Like that’s supposed to mean something to me?

Idiot.

(Side note: As it turns out, this guy came across my blog when I used my WordPress account to post pictures and descriptions of some items that I was selling on Craigslist.  Needless to say, I’m never going to do that again.)

19:23

Could be nice to meet you

Man-shopper’s brain: I’d rather eat glass.

Man-shopper’s phone: Hah. Send me a CV and a picture, and we’ll see.

19:41

Any email adress ?

Man-shopper’s brain: I’m totally going to regret doing this…

Man-shopper’s phone: manshopping.blog@gmail.com

19:44

What is your name young lady ?

Man-shopper’s brain: Umm… no.  Just… NO.

19:50

I sent a pic

Man-shopper’s brain: Wow.  I didn’t think that he’d actually take me seriously.  Let’s take a look at his picture… AAHHHH!  MY EYES!!!!  MY EYES ARE BURNING!  OH GOD CLOSE THE WINDOW AND MAKE IT STOP!

Maybe that’s too mean.  But he still looks like a creep.  I shudder.

20:05

Did you receive it ?

Man-shopper’s brain: Jesus.  The word “desperate” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

21: 16

Oui ?

Man-shopper’s brain: What the fuck?

21:26

Did you try to call me ?

Man-shopper’s brain: What. The. FUCK.

If I grew an extra hand, which reached around the back of my chair to open my purse, retrieve my phone, and dial his number while my two primary hands were using a knife and fork to cut through my confit de canard and potatoes… then perhaps calling him may have been possible.

But even then… NO.

What a sad, pathetic little creep.

21:40

Good evening beauty

Man-shopper’s brain: Dude, if a brain could vomit…

Monday, 17 May 2010

9:36

Bonjour beauté

Man-shopper’s brain: Has this shite ever worked on anyone?!

He really needs to have his head checked out.  Either that, or have it put through a blender.  At least blending his brain to bits would be an improvement on the current arrangement of his brain cells.

23:15

This time, instead of a text, I got this in my EMAIL inbox.  Are you ready for some MAJOR COURTSHIP?  Are you sure?  OK, here it is:

good evening…

Man-shopper’s brain: You’ve got to be kidding me.

23:42

And now we’re back to texting. This time, he breaks out the big guns:

Good nite

Man-shopper’s brain: GOOD GOD.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As you may have noticed from this transcript, Man-shopper’s phone was noticeably silent after a certain point.  Mr. Craigslist sent all these messages of his own accord, unprovoked by any encouragement on my part.

Furthermore, the man is, by all accounts, a colossal asstard.

He never even sent me his CV.  I wasn’t joking, dammit.  A girl’s got to have some sort of screening process for Craigslist creeps that accost her via text.

I wish that I could say more, but that pretty much sums it up.

NEXT!

Oh.  And one more thing.

Clément, if you’re reading this, go away.

No, really.  Leave me alone.

Forever.

Thank you.

Mr. Icky

A friend of mine has insisted that I talk about my disastrous entanglements with NON-frenchmen.  So, Martin, this is for you.  It’s not a recent story, but it’s still a notable one.

This was a while back when I was moving out of my first apartment.  I was selling  my stuff on Craigslist, and since I was in a hurry, I didn’t think before receiving random craigslisters alone in my apartment (I know.  I’m an imbecile.)

This was how I met Mr. Icky.

He had come to pick up his purchase, and we started chatting.  At some point, we touched upon the subject of “la bise,” the French practice of greeting people with kisses on both cheeks.  We discussed how, being both American, we were having trouble getting used to it.

He was a nice enough guy, but this was when I had to ask him to leave because I was expecting an important phone call.  I walked him to the door, and as I was waving him out, he turned to me and said,

“So may I kiss you?”

Since we had just been talking about the cheek-kissing tradition just 30 seconds earlier, I assumed that this was what he meant.  I thought that he had asked my permission because he was being considerate about how uncomfortable I was with having strangers kiss my cheeks.

Boy, was I a dumbass.  Obviously, that was NOT what he meant.

The next thing I know, this guy had his tongue shoved down my throat.

I felt so… VIOLATED.

And for the record, he was a terrible kisser.  I won’t get into details, but let’s just say that I’d rather eat glass than repeat that experience.  At the time, I almost vomited into his mouth.

The moral of this story is two-fold:

1. Don’t receive craigslisters alone in your apartment.
2. When he asks to kiss you, just say no and shove him out the door.

I know, I know, both of these truths are self-evident.  But at the time, I just assumed that he was a decent guy who was considerate of my comfort level with French greetings.  Totally my fault, I am the first to admit that I had a total brain fart moment.

But that does not change the fact that, while both parties were sober and NOT at a night club, he tongue-molested a girl he had known for twenty minutes.

ICKY.

Next, next and, please, God, please… NEXT!