The Friend Zone
(Twilight Zone music: Di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di, di-di-di-di-di-di-di) There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to a man seeking love. It is a dimension as easy to fall into, as it is impossible to crawl out of. It is the middle ground between fear and joy, between desperation and devotion, and it lies in the mind of an associate, rather than the heart of a lover. This is a dimension of insecurity; Its an area which we call…The Friend Zone. (buhd-oo-bud-up!)
Written By: Michael Hempen on 01/12/20
Featuring: The Ghost of Rod Serling
Brought to you by: Cous’n Hemp’n Entertainment
Episode 19: The Secret Language of a Douche
Ghost of Rod Serling: Hope belongs to Mr. Michael Hempen, male member of two complete strangers, newly met enrout across the internet super-highway on their way to destinations unknown. Soon, they will be subjected to a gift most humans never receive in a lifetime on this platform. For the briefest of moments, they will share an undeniable connection. The time is now, the place is a tiny category of a local website. What these wanderers don’t realize is that this website happens to lie on the outskirts of…The Friend Zone.
First I just want to thank everyone who commented and sent emails regarding the last episode of The Friend Zone: Legacy. ‘Legacy’ had, by far, the most views on this blog, and by far the most conversations were started because of it. I love talking to you all ,so please comment and reach out whenever you’d like.
Thanks again – Mike
Lately, I’ve taken to writing fake posts for the ‘Missed Connections’ category on Craigslist. I find the vagueries people use to convince themselves that fate exists to be laughable. And you can be damn sure that if I find something ridiculous, I’m going to exploit it for my own amusement. I mean, you have a better chance of a golden meteorite falling from the sky and landing lazily into your front shirt pocket, than you do of your intended missed connection target contacting you after reading “Saw you at Chiles, you looked me in the eye as you took my order, we are in love now, contact me if you read this.”
So I put up a post that read:
Corporeal Being for Corporeal Being
Saw you at a location, you were non-descript and average. You existed and were next to / on top of / or near a thing. You stood within the universe, and occurred right where I saw you.
You ambulated and seemed to have a pulse; others endured your happening. You are not a ghost.
Me: within 20 feet to 300 yards of varying eyesight, with or without binoculars.
Am circumspectly looking forward to your continued existence.
Because I didn’t announce my gender on this post, men took it upon themselves to send me upwards of thirty dick pics, along with such captivating headlines as “Ever fuck a ghost bitch?” I mean, what is going on with dudes? I don’t mind taking some penis shrapnel, but what a buncha Harvey Weinstein’s out there.
I suppose that most of the peni that flooded my inbox LOOKED like dicks…only smaller; it was as if I were looking at an average penis from really far away. Some were close ups, so they looked like forced perspective moon landing photos; some looked like the mushrooms that chased Mario around, and some looked like a bird’s nest with an itty-bitty bird egg in it. We’re not manscaping before we send a dick pic these days, fellas? I can only imagine the smells accumulating in these pants-fro’s; like old urine and milk. One guy had a straight up rash, and what looked like some Taco Bell hot sauce on his pecker.
(Note to self: start a dick pic photo service that offers professionally produced dick pics. We’ll have a manscaping station that offers pube-perms, pube-fades, and even merkins (look it up) for those going thin. Also, a self-fluff station with a wide variety of porn for the discerning pervert, a cleaning service with an electronic shoe buffer that really polishes the male member and gives it a nice sheen; a make-up station to cover those unsightly penile blemishes or rashes caused by over-spank (“Over-Spank” was my band’s name in high school, by the way.) Finally, we’ll offer a variety of filters such as “panting dog dick” or “freckle face bow tie dick”.
After our clients have paid an EXORBITANT amount of money for our service, we’ll send his new professionally produced dick pics directly to the police along with a confession (written by us and at our expense), ensuring a long stint in jail. We’ll even be sure to bribe the prison guards, so that these beautifully crafted dick pics can be shared with the most endearing of prison male-rapists. That’s OUR promise to our clients… intended victims. Note over.)
My point is, what happened to shame? I mean, without condoning, I get that these lonely pre-verts somehow get off on intimidating women, but what makes them think this Garbage Pail Kid lineup of dinguses are intimidating? And they’re just so confident in their absurdity. I mean, “Do you swallow?” – that’s not a clever opening line at all. How about “What’s your favorite bird? Is it…the swallow?” – I mean make an effort! What’s the end game here? Do these dopes expect a woman to be like: “Hey, this guy’s pretty right on…I DO like to swallow! I’m going to meet him in his Buffalo Bill basement and put some lotion in his basket.”
I’m sure all of these guys are Trump supporters, sitting in their mom’s basement surrounded by their Fox News action figure collection and stroking an oily 9mm handgun instead of their peckers, which would explain why not one dork that I received in my inbox appeared to be hard or even fluffed in any way.
In any case, I pointed all of this out and attached it to that post as an apology to women from all men and I received a cascade of responses from women telling me of the frequency of unsolicited dick pics that they receive daily (Unsolicited…like who solicits for dick pics?) Anyway, I was stunned, I mean, I shouldn’t be because guys are gross, but most of us can keep it concealed. I mean, just the thought of advertising some of the things I do alone, with a dick pic billboard, makes me writhe around in humiliation agony like John Hurt just before the Alien burst from his chest. No woman is looking for a picture of a dick, and no dick pic is more unwanted than mine own. This shit needs to be sprung on a willing participant as a surprise because advance screenings are only gonna be trolled, hard.
I started a dialogue with one woman who responded to my apology. It seemed to go pretty well. We began chatting through the Craigslist anonymous email server, and soon exchanged numbers and began texting. Our texts were coming at each other light speed, so we decided we needed to talk on the phone.
Let me just say that I pay for THREE dating websites, and I have yet to exchange phone numbers with one woman on any of these sites. In fact, although I’ve spoken with many women on the dating website messaging system, no conversations I’ve had have gone past three exchanges.
Since I started online dating, I’ve talked with 3 women on NON-PAY dating apps including Facebook Dating, and now I meet a woman on Craigslist of all places; and Craigslist doesn’t even have a ‘dating’ category anymore. Now, granted I’m not looking for just ‘hook-ups’, but I’m not dead either. Anyway, I’m on the verge of cancelling all three pay dating apps as of the end of January because, y’know: scams.
As I learned more about this woman from CL, let’s call her Charlotte, I really felt things were progressing well. I came to find out that she’s thirty-three and of mixed decent, which I only learned after she’d sent me a pic. I think she was operating under the assumption that I knew her heritage, which I did not, as she kept bringing up my whiteness. While discussing music, I told her I listen to Tupac, which is true. I was listening to Tupac as we talked on the phone. Her counter to that was that white boys always ‘channel’ Tupac. Which Ok, but it’s not like I was bragging, Tupac is just something I listen to.
For her part, Charlotte actually looks like Zoe Kravitz and she was quick to point out that she was surprised I know who that is. Y’know, what the fuck? We seem to be operating under an assumption here. I dated a twenty six year old black woman who looked like Zazie Beetz last year. One of the first things she told me when we started hanging out was that she doesn’t mind dating any race, but just don’t bring it up and be weird about it. I get what she was saying now.
I told Charlotte that our meeting was fortuitous, as I endeavor to be the Robert Deniro or Mick Jagger of the Midwest and date black women exclusively. My hope was that this would break the ice and put the ‘race’ thing to bed. Personality is my mainstay; I don’t care where you came from or what you believe beyond its inclusion in my getting to know you better and how it formed the personality that I’m engrossed in. And apparently, I have a thing for African-American celebrity women, whose name’s begin and end with a ‘Z’. Goals.
I sent Charlotte my pic (not a dick pic) and she laughed for twenty minutes LIKE Deniro in the theater in Cape Fear. She said I looked like Meatloaf. Luckily for me, my personality had already won her over before she saw my ugly mug, which is the IDEAL situation for me and why I have no luck on dating websites; women on dating websites see my pic BEFORE talking to me. I only work when I can get my foot in the door before the pics start flying. Maybe I should just put up a dick pic.
Charlotte and I talked on the phone for three hours that first night, until 2AM. I had to get up for work at 430AM, but the time flew and I couldn’t have cared at all, what time it was. It was me and Charlotte, ride or die on that first night; whatta woman.
And then, as I am wont to do…I fucked it up.
We texted throughout the next day, and I was just ‘off’. My timing was skewed, my jokes fell flat, and my questions were lame and boring. I could blame the lack of sleep, but this is a problem I seem to have when I try to approach women on dating websites. I know better than to just say “Hey” or “Hi” so I try to really read the profiles and ask engaging questions, but those 1st few interactions just sound very lame. “Hi, I see you’re a hairdresser. What got you into that?” Douchechills. I wouldn’t respond to me either. I’m like a TV show; you have to give me 3-4 episodes to see if I’m going to be any good.
Charlotte is into astrology, that’s not only her thing, but her profession. She has spiritual tattoos on her forehead, and she’s taking classes to get a license of some kind. I kept drawing parallels in my mind to how hot Lisa Bonet was in Angel Heart…which is kinda creepy now that I think about it because she’s Zoe Kravitz mom. Charlotte has clients, so the occult is how she makes a living. She has a vast knowledge of astrology, and although I know nothing about it other than that I’m a Leo, I tried to engage and ask her about this; I tried to skew the conversation towards her interest, but I only ended up insulting her, which wasn’t my intent but I’m a fucking dingbat.
I heard Ricky Gervais say on his podcast that there’s no such thing as an atheist because even if you don’t believe in a higher being, you truly don’t know for a fact, so at most you can only be agnostic. So, I’m agnostic. I don’t believe in a higher power and based on my own life, I don’t believe in fate. We make our own fate, there’s no invisible hand guiding me on a path or nudging me this way and that. If there were, then really? Fuck that hand; I’ve been through some shit. I’m responsible for that which befalls me, the end. And when people say ‘things happen for a reason’, I get pissed off because no they do not. That’s an elitist way of looking at their own good fortune because for every one person that something good happens to, there are a million who suffer horror and indignity on a daily basis because of the actions of others, and there’s no ‘reason’ behind their suffering. Random things happen and people attempt to assign a reason to those things. This is horseshit.
In any case, I don’t believe in astrology and crystal energy and divining sooths from sheep intestines or whatever, but I find the beliefs of others fascinating. You’ve got a right to believe whatever you want and live your best life, and as long as you don’t try to indoctrinate me, I’m only too happy to listen to how you came to your beliefs, and how they changed your life for the better. I’ve often said that I would love to go on a date with a Trump supporter as that would not only make for an interesting conversation, but a great blog and perhaps even some truly bi-partisan hate-fucking.
So, in trying to engage with Charlotte, I brought out the ‘Secret Language of Birthdays’; if you’re unfamiliar, it’s a great book that tells you the personality traits of people born on each day of the year. Whatever, it’s a fun party book. You’ll get one of two responses from people who read their birthday in this book: either “I can’t believe how accurate this is about me.” Or “This is nothing like me!” but then everyone they know is shaking their head like “Yes, that’s absolutely them.” behind their back. My birthday is 100% scarily accurate. My strenths are “Daring / Exciting / Magnetic” and my weaknesses are “Unstable / Flighty / Sexually Obsessive” I might take umbridge with ‘flighty’ but everything else is pretty dead on.
I showed Charlotte her page, and I got a new reaction. She was insulted, like HIGHLY insulted. “That’s not me, who the fuck wrote this, those aren’t my numbers, who the fuck do you think you are showing me something like this.” I mean, shit went downhill people. My first thought was “I think thou doth protest too much.”
You might think her reaction was a bit much, but after I thought about it, I realized she had every right to feel that way. I insulted her profession. Then I asked her to give me a personality profile as if she were a trained seal that I was asking to perform a trick. I felt like a dickhead. Last thing she said to me was “Yeah, def not doing that. I don’t even do that for my clients.” Rather than dig myself deeper, I just deleted her number and our convo. I’m not trying to engage because although that first night was amazing, I no longer know how to dialogue with her without feeling like a moron because I don’t know enough about her niche profession to carry on a relevant conversation. But, whatevs.
One of my favorite movies is 1978’s Superman. Little background on this movie for my younger readers. The original Superman movies, one and two, were written by Mario Puzo. Puzo, besides writing the novel ‘The Godfather’, helped Francis Ford Coppola write the screen play for both The Godfather 1 and The Godfather 2, which are considered two of the best movies ever made. So, that in mind, both Superman 1 and Superman 2, are chock full of some of the best writing in movie history and I still consider them the best comic book movies ever made because they so eloquently captured the essence of what Superman was to the American public at that time.
My favorite scene in Superman 1 is when Superman flies to Lois’ apartment to give her an interview. Granted, Margot Kidder is an odd choice for a Lois Lane, considering that at the time they could have used Mia Farrow, Susan Serandon, or even Teri Garr, who was the hottest female actress of the 70’s. But we got Kidder and even her drug use couldn’t ruin this scene as it was written out on the page.
Chris Reeves performance here is stunning, and every time I see it, I wish that I could flirt with a woman with such ease. He delivers his lines brilliantly, with an earnestness that is rare to see in a movie and even more rare in real life. At one point, they have this exchange:
Lois Lane: I mean, why are you here? There must be a reason.
Superman: Yes. I’m here to fight for truth, and justice, and the American way.
Lois Lane: [Laughs] You’re gonna end up fighting every elected official in this country!
Superman: I’m sure you don’t really mean that, Lois.
Lois Lane: I don’t believe this.
Superman: Lois, I never lie.
“Lois, I never lie.” Reeve’s looks at Kidder with all sincerity when he delivers that line, and it brings me to man-tears almost every time I see it because to ME, this is what sums up being a man; this is the bar.
(Here’s the whole interview scene…https://youtu.be/4KTwdr5aTT4)
Anyway, whenever I’ve spoken with a woman in the past, who I’m interested in, I try to channel the sincerity and authentic ease that Reeves so eloquently displayed in that scene. Not because I’m trying to ‘act’ but because that’s genuinely where I’m coming from when I speak with a woman whom I’m attracted to. I really attribute a lot of the successes I’ve had with women to that way of sincere flirting. That was the way in which I spoke with Charlotte on that first night, but for some reason I just couldn’t get back to that headspace.
I don’t know what happened to me; maybe it’s because I’ve been out of the game for seven years, maybe it’s because I’m older now, but I’m just not as good at engaging with women as I used to be. It used to be effortless, my thoughts were quick and succinct. I had captivating and interesting things to say. Now I think too much and I consider consequences before I speak; I’m convinced that’s what’s fucking me up. Not here of course; I feel like I can talk from the heart on my blog, because this person doesn’t exist. I can truly be myself here because there are no consequences. I feel like this is more of a character I play, a stranger trying to figure out who he really is. There are echoes of who I really am here, but you gotta know me to know me, Boo.
I also think that maybe the issue is messaging instead of talking. Without the gift of inflection, it’s hard to see the humor in some of the things I’d LIKE to say to women when I first message them; things that would inspire a laugh and a conversation if spoken in person or on the phone. So, I don’t say anything interesting. I make an innocuous and boring comment and women are like “What a drip.” and move the fuck on. And who can blame them? There are a ton of options now on the dating website buffet table, and I’m like, the sweaty and gelatinous beets at the end with no sneeze guard.
Much like the dick pics I received made me realize the aesthetic value of mine own dork, each woman I speak with infuses JUST a tad more confidence in me. My hope is that that confidence will get me back to that place of speaking to women like they’re real human beings who can engage in a real conversation about the stupid surroundings we all find ourselves in, rather than a Faberge Egg who needs to be handled with kid gloves lest they shatter at the mere mention of my ingenious observations.
SUCH a douche.
I recently had a reading and was told that I’m “Leo as fuck.” (Her words) “The Leoest Leo I’ve ever done a reading for.” – so I got THAT going for me.
Ghost of Rod Serling: Counterbalance, in the ‘Missed Connections’ category of Craigslist. A man permanently enslaved by the tyranny of fear and superstition, facing his future with a kind of helpless dread, trapped in a fate created at his own hand. A woman facing her future with confidence, having escaped one of the darker corners of…The Friend Zone.
More ‘Missed Connections’
Missed Connection 1:
Saw You at the Furniture Store…
Saw you at Darvin Furniture. You were swarmed by 60 heavily cologned, mustachio’d sales men, in off-the-rack paisly tweed suits. 20 broke off from the main herd when I walked in, and stampeded towards me like raging buffalo, waving clearence pamphlets in the air.
The song “Help!” by the Beatles began to play on the overhead speakers, and we ran through the store together, chased by the penny loafered throng as the music became our theme. Eventually they were joined by a man in a gorilla costume and a small dog that yipped incessantly.
We ran into a door on the left side of the store, only to come out a door on the right side of the store, we ran up the escalator, only to exit from the downstairs elevator; sometimes being chased, and sometimes chasing the salesmen with the small dog barking at our heals.
Eventually we hid under a bed, but the dog gave us away. We were caught. You were forced to buy a leather sofa that was on clearance due to it having an unidentifiable stain; I was made to buy a glass end table that had no glass top. It was just a pair of crazy metal legs in an X.
Sorry I couldn’t be more specific
if you remember this, please reach out. I’m thinking trade? Sofa for crazy ‘X’ thing?
Missed Connection 2:
CIA Ops Agent Looking for Former Asset for Redacted Hook-Up
███████ ███ CIA operative looking for ███ █████████ ███████ for ██████ █████ ███████ semi- ████████████████ hook ██ ███ booty-duty
You: ██████ hot dog stand █████ ███████ ██ terrorist ███ █████ █████████; delicious
Me: ████ ██████████ blue tie ███ ███ hog
Missed Connection 3:
Saw You at the Wizard Convention….WZ for WT
Ṣ̸̺̅̈́á̴̖̙̈́w̵̡͈͕̑̓ ̵̟̫̖̑̋y̶̨̼͗͗̒o̸͉͖̎͒̀ǔ̶̪͇̈́ͅ ̶͙͌a̸̺̐ţ̵̧̬̐̇͒ ̵̲̗̏t̸̨̰̻͂h̵͕̙͔̓̒͐ê̴̺̹ ̷̜͔̻̌w̴̨̜͂͠i̶̞̓͋͒ẕ̷̋͗͝a̸̺̅̓̈́ř̵̛̦̥͝ḍ̷̻̙͒̓̽ ̴̡̹͐c̷̻͙͘ő̵͓͒̓n̴̯̺̤̾v̷͕͕͈̍e̷̟̖̯̓̕͝ň̴͈͔ţ̷͍͚̋͠ȉ̶̪̈́ỏ̷̥̻̤̆n̸̡̅͠ ̷̪̈́͠a̷͉̚n̷̳͎̳̕͠d̸̻̓ ̴̮͉͋ḋ̸̲̓á̶͖̑ͅm̵͎͔̐̾̇n̴̘̈́́̂ ̸̖̼͎͌g̸̢̤͎̉͘į̶̗̋ŕ̷̘͂l̷̺̼̿̀,̷͚̘͆ ̸͔̇̋̊ ̶̫̥̈́̏ÿ̴̹́̎o̷̳̳̮͛u̴̢̬̎̉͝ ̷̣̈̈́ẃ̷̝̄̂e̵͍̯̰͆̍͂r̴̹̩̀e̴̟̓ ̶̺́w̷̱̕ḭ̶͛͜͜t̷̫̜͠c̵̲̮̈͝h̴̟͑̌̕y̴̘̏̈́͝ ̷̖̦̞̎̈́a̶̰̍̿͝f̵̬̏.̶̨̤͊̀ ̴̡̬̞̀L̸̲̺͋i̸̖̅k̶̩͍̽͜e̵̪͗̓ͅ ̶̹̥̺̈͋̈́ț̴͌̚o̸̬͓͝ ̶̞̱̟̏̃t̸̙͚̥́͂͝ȃ̸̢͇̝̽̌k̶̟̈̆͌é̵̞̮͈̑ ̷̞̞̺͛ẏ̵̢̯̐o̵̧̞̦͋̍͗ȗ̶̩̍ ̵̖̩̼̎͑o̸̢̞͎͘u̴͍̘̩͌̀ṭ̶͍͓̈́͛̔ ̵͔̹́̒̉ͅf̵̥͑͒́ọ̵͊r̵̛͓̾̄ ̵̧̟͌o̵̼̙̔̽̆ẃ̷̧̟l̵̜͆-̸̫̀ͅ ̸̺̃̓̈́ͅc̷͈̯͖̅̓͑h̷͙͈̤̽͌̔ẻ̵͕̦ẻ̵̝͎̅k̶͍̃͜ś̵̨͙ ̸̛̹a̷̟͋͝n̵̗̽̅̒d̶̡̳͔̾̔̔ ̷̡̘̲͝ŝ̶̻̘̜̆͂q̶̯̌u̷̠̜̒̾ĭ̵̲̬r̶̢̓͝r̵͈̜̜͐̍̍è̴͚̲l̶̠̪̞̈́̾-̴̫̹̳̏̐b̵͍͒̈́͂a̵̗̜͂̀č̴̝͕̽k̴̡͉̦͒ ̷̛̟̪̌͆s̶͕̠̋͋o̸̯̪̳͋͗m̸̨͚̺͛̍ĕ̴̫͎ ̸̫̙̾͜t̵̗͖̹͌̐̑į̵̣̜́m̵̨̜̀̆͐e̵̺̠̹͛;̷̺̔͐͝ ̷̮̟̅m̶͉̬͝a̵̪̳̾̑y̴̨͕̜̅̅ḃ̵̧̩e̵̮̅͌̉ ̸͍̭́͐w̸͔̒͜ë̶͙̭́ ̴̶̤̼̥̈́͊̀c̵̗͓̋͗̓o̴̧̥͌́̎ù̶̧͊l̴͇͓̮̿̄̚d̶͇̊̏̚ ̶̛͚͈̈́w̶̥͇̍̈́̇ͅa̵̟̝̔͜t̸̲̲̖̽̿́c̶̘̽͆h̸̩͔̻͗̋̌ ̶̛̘̆̑͜a̴̡̜̚ ̸̠͐͠f̴̟̲̃͜e̷͖͚̙͒̾͠w̸̞͋̚͜ ̷̱̹̮́̏è̵̛͍̋p̸̛̙̂̈́ḯ̸͉̝̈́̏ŝ̷̡ṏ̴̖͓́̈́d̷̡̬͊͠ȩ̶̉̃s̶̢̹̼͋̒̃ ̴̠̀o̶͉̬̤̔͗͒f̶̘͈̬̌́̔ ̴̼͒̎̀’̸̰̈́W̵̜̌î̷̮͔t̸̢̜̏c̵͚̀h̴̘͋̀́e̴̟̎̅r̴̗̃’̶̖͐̇̓ ̷͉̕ơ̸̧̲̩̐n̷̤̊̓ ̴̬̄͗Ņ̸̙͖́͗ë̶͔̚t̴̮̙̔̊͠f̸͖̩̅̈l̸͇͉̖͊̀͒ḭ̶̮͋x̸͓̋ ̶̸̡̱̦̓̌å̴̠͋͝ṅ̸̞̺͆d̷͔͙͝ ̶̥͔̦̽t̸̛̬̀ḫ̴͆ȩ̵̠́́͊ͅn̵̞̝̙̒̊̀ ̵͓̈́c̶̰͝a̷̡̼͊̈́͂s̴̻͙̈́̈́ṱ̸̿̕ ̵͓͜͝a̴͓̋͂̽ ̶̩̜̪̐͝͠s̴̮̭̓͆p̵͈̦̏́ę̴͈͈͝ľ̵̳̟̗̒̔ľ̵͔̯͆͛ ̴̢̹̊̕̚o̴̟͈͌͠ḟ̵̪ ̵̤̓̾p̴̧̫̀̇͌r̶̙̺̀̏ô̴̥̩̆t̶͔͈͓͠e̸͉̱̠̒̈c̸͔͊ț̷̝͒͛i̶̫̅o̷͈͔͗̈́̀ṅ̸̡͓̞̓̕ ̶̦͕̈͐ō̷͈͑̈́n̵̜̅͗̚ ̷̢̯̭͌̀͝m̴̝͕͆̿ý̶̧͎̣ ̴̥̮̟̋͝s̶̩̱̋̔ț̴̜̪̐̔͠a̶͙̰̺̋f̶͉̻́͂f̴͓̜̣̓.̵̘̀͂͊ ̵̳̤̅̓
̷̖̥̟̈̐͝Y̸̮͆̈́͘o̷̰̪̔̃̃u̴̗͖̹̍͒:̵̨̹̗͝ ̴̯͕̜̈́̚8̶̩͚͔̈́0̶͓͌7̴̢́̓ ̴̮͔̾y̴̡͒͂e̷̡̋̈́a̵̺̞͊̃͒r̷̲̆̃͠s̸͕̈́͆̕ ̴̻̯̳̚o̵̭͎̒̅̈l̸̢̼̖̀d̴͈̎ ̴̟͔̝̑̈́̕w̵͚̖̯̑̄̕ị̷͘̚͠t̵͙͝ȟ̵̛̤͝ ̵̻̺̺͆̋t̷̹̆h̷̘̺̥̄͗e̵̝̾̇͝ ̴͖̊̈́̕b̴̨̘̠̽̍ò̷̧̲͛d̸̢͐̎ÿ̸̡̫ ̸͙̪̠̿̐̕o̷̰̹̎͛f̷̨͎̹̒ ̸̢̃á̷̦̒ ̸̨̻͊̂7̸̣̈́̾͂3̷͉̮̗̅̔2̵̠͖̟̐ ̴̳̫͠ỵ̷̮̀̾e̶̋́͜ă̶̅͜͝r̷̥̞͕̿͌ ̷͇͋ó̶̳̰l̸̬̝͇̀͐̚d̸̨̂͘
̷͙͘M̸̨̧̟̓̈́͛e̵̥̤͒:̶̭̼̇͛̏ ̴͙͆͊͑b̷̳͙̝̌̏͘l̴̤͎͖̆a̷͉̅͠c̴̙̘̈́̈k̸̨̭̞̀̓̂ ̵̫̙̇r̶̘͎̈́ö̸̫́̐b̷̜͗̈́̚é̷̗,̴̯̌̈́́ ̷̳̟̦̽͠b̵̙̍͋̓ͅͅl̷̗̯͂a̴̱̗̽c̶̖̾̒̀k̴̻͐ ̵̧̹̇p̷͎͓̀͗̈́ͅo̸̡̨̝͆̉̚i̴̯̽n̷͕̹̹͊̚ẗ̶̫́y̸̥̕ ̶̭͘ḫ̷̈͑͂a̷̭̖͂̕͜t̶̫̄̈́ ̷̳͋w̴̞̌i̵̹̭͒̊͊t̵̮̅͝h̵̟̥̱͘͝ ̷̳̩͗͆͜š̵̞́t̶̼̰̀̈́ä̶͎́r̶̯̺̻̂̏̆ş̷͕̫͒͒ ̴̢̌̿ó̷͔̻̓͛ņ̴͌ͅ ̸̈́̂̕͜i̴̺̱̳͒͋͝t̵͓̞̟̂
̵̺̺̮͌L̸̡͎̃ȇ̸̡̏ṱ̷̢̝͗̍͋’̸̲̩͍̔s̴͎̔́͋ͅ ̷̭̺͂͗d̶͔̑̔o̷͎̻̭̎͆̓ ̸̜͍͊t̶̩̰̭́̄ḩ̴̦͇̂̅i̶͈̬̲͐̌s̴̫̄̚͝ ̷̯̼́ǧ̵̻i̵̮͓͓͋ȓ̶̫̬l̷̞̉͂ͅ
(Translation: Saw you at the wizard convention and damn girl, you were witchy af. Like to take you ouf for owl cheeks and squirrel-back sometime. Maybe we could watch an episode of ‘Witcher’ on Netflix and then cast a spell of protection on my staff.
You: 807 years old with the body of a 732 year old.
Me: Black robe, pointy hat with stars on it.
Let’s do this girl)
Activity Partner Wanted 1:
Definitely NOT a Double Entendre….
Looking for a female activity partner to help bring harmony back to my musical instrument.
I have an organ which is average in size. What it lacks in mass displacement, it makes up for in aesthetic allure. It can be played beautifully for 20-30 minutes. After a crescendo, it can be played again in an hour. My organ is 41 and I’m afraid it’s not as harmonious as it once was, but it still perfectly maintains its rigid form with no knicks or scratches.
My organ may be sheathed for protection, or it can be unsheathed if you’d like to place flowers on it. Tulips are preferred.