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
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?
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.
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??
Clement from paris
Man-shopper’s brain: Like that’s supposed to mean something to me?
(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.)
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.
Any email adress ?
Man-shopper’s brain: I’m totally going to regret doing this…
Man-shopper’s phone: email@example.com
What is your name young lady ?
Man-shopper’s brain: Umm… no. Just… NO.
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.
Did you receive it ?
Man-shopper’s brain: Jesus. The word “desperate” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Man-shopper’s brain: What the fuck?
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.
Good evening beauty
Man-shopper’s brain: Dude, if a brain could vomit…
Monday, 17 May 2010
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.
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:
Man-shopper’s brain: You’ve got to be kidding me.
And now we’re back to texting. This time, he breaks out the big guns:
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.
Oh. And one more thing.
Clément, if you’re reading this, go away.
No, really. Leave me alone.