Hit Me Up


29 / N-A / Asexual / Single

New York, NY


My self summary

I am vile, rotten, stinking, maggot-ridden, worthless.

What I’m doing with my life

I’m the kind of filthy vermin that makes housewives scream and climb up on furniture. If you were to invite me over to meet your parents they would sooner try to shoo me out with a broom than speak to me. I’m no better than a swarm of arachnids that bite you while you sleep and feed on tiny drops of your blood, leaving itchy monuments of my parasitism behind.  I don’t usually stay very long in one place, because most cities and small towns have passed ordinances that require them to flush and pipe me away for sanitary reasons. The question is not “how compatible am I with you?” so much as “how much money and time are you willing to spend, or which professionals are you willing to hire, to evacuate me permanently from your life?”

I’m really good at

I’m no good for you. I clog your arteries and kill you. I make your cells mutate in places they shouldn’t divide. You have to take antibiotics to get rid of me, and if you stay with me for too long you have cut off the part of you that I made gangrenous. As if it isn’t bad enough that am I toxic for your health, I’m also a decomposing agent. I’m the kind of thing that makes dead people finally disappear to make room for everyone else, for all the pretty young people. I’m no better than worms, than the common fungus, and yet I’m even more pathetic than them, because I have arms and a face that I don’t even need.

The first things people usually notice about me

I haven’t brushed my teeth in nineteen years. Every time I attempt to pick up my toothbrush, I suddenly realize that no one will ever deign to kiss the putrid sewer pipe I call my mouth, and then I give up. Every day I don’t just makes my repulsive maw that much more filthy, discouraging me even more. It’s an awful cycle, albeit one not nearly as awful as myself.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

I am a huge Creed fan. I think Weathered gets an unfair bad rap, and I resent it when others suggest that it’s the main reason why the band split up. While I do agree that Human Clay is their undisputed masterpiece, I don’t agree with anyone’s assertion that Weathered is mediocre, or even good only as it is compared to Human Clay or My Own Prison. There are more than enough classic cuts on that album, like “My Sacrifice” and “One Last Breath,” to make the last Creed album a strong statement in its own right.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

I would say I’m disgustingly corpulent, but that would be disingenuous of me, for that would imply a unity of form that I simply don’t have. The truth is I am not even strictly speaking human. I am little more than a gelatinous being with a modicum of will power, and a fine array of skins to contain my non-Newtonian self. Every day I have to will my jelly-like body to sustain the proper shapes of arms and legs and a neck and head inside my skin wardrobe. I could never bring myself to love another, for if a relationship ever went so far between us to the point of copulation, the moment you would ask me to disrobe I would have no choice but to reveal my true form to you once and for all, and then probably die, having no epidermal vessel to contain my slime.

The six things I could never do without

I am a strict vegetarian, but I am also unable to feed on dead things. In order to gain sustenance, I have to slither my amoebic form over to the nearest organic farm and buy carrots, tomatoes, celery, broccoli, lettuce and onions, all in potted form. I then produce my food-dissolving bile and spit it onto the still-living flora, melt down plants, dirt, and ceramic pot all into a slimy bolus that my feeble protozoan digestive system won’t reject, and slurp up the whole thing en masse with my writhing drooling proboscis, assimilating their still-warm life force into my own repugnant metabolism.

I spend a lot of time thinking about

I am in unfathomable anguish. Every lucid moment of my life I spend lamenting the perversity and enormous absurdity of my continued existence. I am a mockery of Nature and of the God who willed Nature to be. I am less than the nothing that was before He created the heavens and the earth.

On a Friday night I am 

Every day I weep and wish with all my heart, if I have one, for my utter annihilation. The open window that promises a twelve-story drop to the concrete below taunts me with a breeze, and I have no legs to leap out. The gun glistens on my desk, and I have no hands to implement their welcome gifts of death; the sharpened razor lies beside it, and I have no arms to open and bleed out my lifeblood. The noose hangs above me, and I have no neck to let it stop my breath.  And yet, even if I were granted sweet oblivion, I would even then stay my suicidal appendages, for I am ever in terror of the dreams that may come, of that Pascalian horror of “what if I’m wrong?”

You should message me if

You’re a chill, totally cool NYC dude looking to make some new friends. Hit me up if you want to get some coffee or drinks, let’s take it slow and see where it goes!

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